


A Bed of Thorns

by Nym



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Introspection, Jossed, Reflection, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Pace, Work In Progress, character driven, not abandoned just godawfully slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 134
Words: 715,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His price is her hand in marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Princess

**Author's Note:**

> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**
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> [Title Page Art By Valoscope](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/A-Bed-of-Thorns-Title-Page-322026637) \- now also in [beautiful colour!](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/A-Bed-of-Thorns-333500671)
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> See also the fabulous matching end page - [here](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/A-Bed-of-Thorns-End-Title-Page-385335631).  
> [](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/A-Bed-of-Thorns-Title-Page-322026637)  
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> 

The people danced. With war on the horizon, blood red and ever-threatening, the people danced and they sang, they spun and they weaved, they baked and they ate. Men talked of war and kept their weapons sharp. Those without weapons sharpened tools or sticks. No-one spoke of surrender, for to surrender was to die a merciless death. Babies were born. Elders passed from the world. The whole of life was lived in defiance of the looming thunderheads of war.

People married.

Belle had witnessed many weddings, both the sober blessings and the merry feasts. It had been inevitable that her turn would come; a suitor would be found, a dowry promised and a date set for the celebrations. With the threat of war, her father spoke quietly of duty and of necessity. Belle's hand in marriage for an alliance that might shelter their people from the worst that was to come. Belle's dowry and inheritance in return for the loyal service of a proven knight.

No-one spoke of love, not Belle and not her father. Sir Gaston spoke of it but in his stilted recitations Belle found neither flattery nor affection. For the love of her father and for her people she would do her duty, of course, but as the red haze of the war crept closer to their borders she wondered if any of them would even live to taste another wedding cup. The thought that she might never make her union with Sir Gaston was not among those that caused her grief.

Instead she feared for the people and fiercely admired their spirit and courage. She feared for her father who had grown sick with the responsibility of protecting them all from a war that was not and had never been theirs, but threatened nonetheless to sweep away their small fastness as it had so many others.

Too often they buried fallen sons and daughters of the town. Too often there was little enough brought home to bury, and so the final words were said instead over keepsakes or last letters when the bones had been lost to the ogres. It was said that ogres liked to gnaw the bones.

Belle wondered about the ogres, unable to imagine them or to find anyone among the returning fighters who would tell her more than she knew. They were like the tide, people said. Like the storm that sinks the ship and like the winter that smothers the pasture. One boy, scarred from ear to shoulder and drunk on the charitably given remedies, used the phrase 'like pissing in the wind' when he spoke of battle and was pulled away by comrades, scolding him for using such coarse words to their princess.

In truth, Belle was no princess. But it delighted the people to imagine themselves important enough to have a royal family of their own, just as it excited them that she would soon marry into a family one step away from the throne of the whole kingdom. Princess or not, she _was_ a gentlewoman, sheltered to a fault, and it took her some minutes of quiet reflection to work out what the scarred warrior had meant. That they might as well try to stem the returning tide with their bare hands, she decided; that they might as well plead with the white winter storms for mercy on the seed-crops as battle the ogres.

Her responsibility was to marry, to live in comfort far from the battle lines and to bear strong heirs. For the first time she was glad of it and then, lying in darkness with the shutters closed tight against the unholy red stain on the stars, she was ashamed to be so protected by her station. That man's scars, his rank and ragged despair—they could be her own but for the mere accident of birth.

Gaston never spoke of the war in her presence. He had distinguished himself, it was said; he was a swordsman with few equals and skilled on horseback. They spoke barely at all, in fact, but Belle watched him with the other men. She listened, often unseen from some corner where she sat pretending to be absorbed with a book or her needlework, the business of the moment too urgent for her father to remember to dismiss her before it was dealt with.

It seemed to Belle that her future husband was not a wise man. Not a clever man. He was proud and impatient. Handsome enough, but he never smiled and so his good looks were cold. Even her poor father could still make a moment for merriment as the bad news came and came, but Gaston stood aloof from the trials of others and fingered his sword hilt constantly, as though he could not wait to rejoin the battle and be done with talking.

One evening, less than a moon before she was to marry Gaston, Belle stitched a petal in her sampler and listened to the bad news and the strategy. Her father leaned heavily on the great table where a map was spread in place of their old feasts and games. Advisors came and went, the men waited and worried and always there was more bad news as the front lines grew nearer. If they lost the road to the sea then their army would be trapped with their backs to the cliffs and the ogres could pick off the survivors at their leisure.

"Ten thousand skilled fighters could not keep them back," her father said, a new stark truth that Belle had not heard uttered before. Everyone knew it, but no-one _said_ it. It froze her hands with her needle through the linen. It froze the council of war in a shocked silence that such words came from Sir Maurice of all men. Gaston scowled at nothing in particular, or perhaps at everything, but did not go quite so far as to direct the look at Belle's father.

"Ogres have been beaten back before," he declared.

"In songs! In stories!" Sir Maurice threw his hands wide and addressed the assembly. "And there's always some magic, or a great hero with a holy sword. Even in the songs the victory does not come through force of arms!"

The silence had a song of its own. Belle heard it as a counterpoint to the frightened pounding of her own blood; the shuffle of a boot, a cough, a snort from Gaston and the rasp of his gauntlet over the hilt of his sword.

"Then we need to find a hero." Belle started in her seat as all eyes searched her out; she had not meant to speak the thought aloud. Why had she? She flushed under the stares of the men yet resented their irritation. She was ignorant of the arts of war but she was not _ignorant_ , and her words had been a call to action in worthy opposition to her father's moment of naked despair. She lowered the sampler into her lap and sought for her father's face among the staring men. "Papa, if a hero with a holy sword or some magic are what's needed then we must find one."

"There are no heroes," Gaston said, flat disapproval in his tone. He had not noticed her presence until she spoke. "Only men who fight and die."

"You're wrong." Belle stood, slowly, feeling for the first time something cooler than indifference towards her betrothed. He spoke to her with such scorn, and why? For speaking her mind in a room full of _men?._ For saying what needed to be said? "There are dragonslayers, great warriors."

"Not within these borders, Belle." After his momentary shock at her interruption, her father spoke gently. "And even such a man cannot defeat the ogres. There are just too many of them and too few of us."

"Magic, then." Belle looked at no-one but her father. "Magic can do anything."

The serious men who had been scowling or tutting at her intrusion fell silent. She could feel their stares.

"A council of war is no place for a lady," Gaston announced. He strode to her side, took her arm and escorted her to the door. It was a courteous eviction, swift and final. Belle found herself outside in the passage with the memory of his short, courtly bow angering her more than the slamming of the great doors right in her face.

He was right; a council of war was no place for a lady if she wasn't allowed even to speak! Only concern for her father had drawn her there, but why should she not be allowed to know how the battles progressed? The ogres would not spare her for being a lady if they came beating down the doors. The ogres would not spare anyone. Did Gaston imagine that they would share his misplaced chivalry?

Sighing, Belle mounted the winding stairs to her rooms. In the midst of a war that had seen taxes paid in cloth for bandages rather than in silver, she still had women to sew her an exquisite silk-satin wedding dress. Used to her solitary pursuits, to books and quiet walks and the businesslike running of the household staff, Belle found herself suddenly at the centre of a riot of pre-nuptial activity. It all felt so removed from herself—the hoarding of silk and the exquisite lace-making, and so ridiculous when the battle lines were so close. And none of it was… Well, none of it was _her._

The garment hanging for her inspection this evening was a nightgown, the very last of her trousseau to be finished. She had refused all silken finery for the occasion of her wedding night, demanding instead a simple gown of cool cotton in which she could be comfortable. She saw no reason to paint herself with falsehoods once alone with her new husband and suspected, with the clench of anxiety that came upon her whenever her mind turned to married life, that Gaston would have no interest in her attire when he came to her bed. He looked at her so intensely when he thought she couldn't see him—a brooding and strange look that he certainly never gave her when her father was present. No, Gaston would find his new wife in modest cotton, and she would be comfortable while she waited for him.

The needlewomen had been busy with their art even so, embroidering chains of pale daisies at the collar and hem. It was exquisite work of the sort that made their province and their town wealthy before the wars came. Wealth meant little with their walls crumbling under attack, but the needlewomen were proud of their craft. So was Belle, and she could make room for a little beauty and frivolity in her rooms if it meant that the women's spirits were lifted.

She knelt in front of the ornate chest that housed her trousseau. Another just like it sat in the castle's strongroom, the coin and silverware of her dowry guarded by the men too badly maimed to return to the front lines. The chest before her held all that she would need for the duties of a wife, each piece sewn with the elaborate care that befit her station, yet none of it to the satisfaction of her future mother-in-law. The very first pieces had been sewn by her own mother, often with Belle upon her knee, while she spoke of princes, of the great romances, and of magic and of happily-ever-after.

Mama had died before the wars ever threatened their borders; before too many of the young ones volunteered to fight and never came home and long before clean white cloth put one in mind of bandages and shrouds instead of finely sewn objects of beauty. Mama would have wept for the fallen and the wounded, Belle thought, holding a handkerchief and recalling how her mother would sing as she stitched.

 _"You will sew and you will dance, little one,"_ she'd said, when Belle asked why the great locked chest was at the foot of her bed, the pretty contents forbidden to her. _"You'll need these things when you catch a fine husband. You will rock your babes and love your husband, to be his comfort and his strength."_

When Belle had spoken excitedly of the adventures from her story books, of the world beyond their province that she would one day see for herself, and of adventures real or imagined, her mother had only smiled.

Remembering her with the softened sorrow of many years gone, Belle supposed that the smile had been a sad one.

~+~

The night soon came when the ogres breached the outer walls.

Only an advance party, her father said, clutching Belle tightly by the hand as if afraid to lose her in the chaos of the following dawn. Only a dozen ogres. The town could repair and refortify before the main assault. There was a little time yet.

The market square had become a gathering place, a hospital, and a mortuary all at once. The healers worked on the living, the priests spoke words over the dead. Belle stood behind her father as he spoke to the people, his voice tight with grief but carrying clear across the square so that everyone there could hear him.

"It has been decided in Council," he told them, "to send for one who can help us. The price of his protection may be all that we can afford and more. I may need to ask much of you all."

"Who can help us?" It was Dimitri the Blacksmith who spoke up. He had lost his arm in the very first battle and spoke now for the townspeople, a man they trusted to seek the best for everyone and to remain calm enough to see clearly. Even he sounded shaken today, and he kept his two youngest children close to him in the jostling crowd.

"We have sent for Rumpelstiltskin," her father answered. The gasps seemed to draw all the air out of the place. Mothers gathered their children closer, aghast. Dimitri's jaw dropped. "It is said that he never breaks a deal," Sir Maurice called over the rising whispers. "If we deal fairly with him then we have nothing to fear from him."

Belle had heard the name, the stories. Everyone had. Rumpelstiltskin was the monster with which nurses cautioned wayward children, the sorcerer who carried off babes in the night and soured the very ground upon which he trod. Belle knew that she had been the one to urge them to seek magical aid, but that? _Him?_ She caught Sir Gaston's eye and for once they were in silent accord. This was no promise of salvation that Maurice brought to his people but the last, faint hope in utter desperation.

As if emboldened by her understanding, Gaston stepped forward to her father's side and faced the crowd with his fist tight on the hilt of his sword.

"He may not answer our summons. He may not accept our offer of payment. We must still be ready to fight when the ogres come in numbers. They will come soon."

Fear of something more immediately terrifying than the legendary Dark One returned the crowd to grave silence. Belle saw her father's half glance of disapproval at her betrothed; they'd come to reassure the people, to offer them the hope of rescue. Belle understood that, even if she doubted the wisdom of summoning such a one to their aid.

"We will be ready to fight," her father said, managing to sound as if he thought his future son had spoken wisely and true when, in truth, Belle suspected that he wished to cuff the boy. "Today we must repair the outer walls. Leave the houses as they are. If your home has a roof, give shelter to those who have none. Sleep tonight in the castle if you've nowhere else to go. We _need_ our outer walls."

The crowd dispersed and Belle, too afraid to be left with nothing to do and the opportunity to reflect, caught up the huddled maidservants with a gesture and led them towards the makeshift encampment of the wounded and the dying. She was no healer, no nurse, but Dimitri's wife squeezed her hand in welcome, then showed her how to wash the used bandages with lye soap and salt so that the dried blood would come clean. The drying strips of cloth fluttered in the breeze like faded banners.

For the first time, no-one came to pull Belle back to her gentle pursuits safe within the castle walls. Nothing was safe within those walls, for fire and falling masonry had reached even that far.

For that one day even the nobles of the Council helped to repair the fortifications. Even Sir Maurice laboured with his hands, smiling grimly as he mixed mortar and carried it uncomplaining to the masons on the scaffolds. Even Gaston, proud Sir Gaston whose home was far away and safe yet, carried stone and returned to the castle as darkness fell with blisters on his palms and his stern face smeared with dust.

It was the first time and the last time that Belle thought she might learn to love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 6 December 2015]


	2. Bride Price

The walls held through the night.

Belle slept a little as the small hours crept towards dawn, her body tired and sore from unfamiliar labour and her heart sick with dread. Sleeping to the sounds of battle had become an everyday thing in recent months, but never so close before. Never so fraught with the possibility of defeat and death.

At dawn she found her father asleep in the great hall, slumped sideways in his chair of office with his sheathed sword across his knees. Other men sat and stared into empty space or rested with their eyes shut. The sense of exhaustion and despair pervaded even the crumbling walls. That alone brought tears to her eyes, although the tears were not for herself and, knowing them to be quite useless, Belle blinked them away before kissing her sleeping father's brow.

"Belle." She was sorry to have woken him. For a moment, as sleep fell away from him and he blinked at the new light, he looked like the man who had laughed every day and loved her mother. "Has he come?"

"No, Papa." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I sent the cooks to see to the men on the walls, Papa. If we want breakfast we'll all have to go to them."

"Good." Blinking sleep from his eyes, Sir Maurice patted her hand, then squeezed it. "You're a good girl, my Belle. I spoke with Gaston when he returned from the walls. If Rumpelstiltskin has not come by noon, if he refuses to help us, then Gaston will take you away from here. Before it's too late."

Shock mercifully stilled her tongue for several heartbeats—long enough to think before she spoke.

"No," she said, when time to think had reduced a petulant outburst to a simple, quavering statement of fact. "He isn't my husband yet. I won't go with him, I won't leave you."

"Belle!"

"Papa, if Sir Gaston wants to take me away before you are safe then he will have to drag me across his horse. This is my home, these are my people. If he wants to be one of us then let him fight with us. If he wants to go then he goes alone." From the corner of her eye, Belle caught the approving nods of the waking Councilmen. "And Rumpelstiltskin will come. I know it."

She regretted her defiance when she saw her father's pain. His fear for her safety was a burden that she could remove... but for how long? Ogres respected no border and if their homeland fell then there would be a new front line, and then another and still another until all the kingdoms fell. Nowhere was truly safe.

The men of the Council made their way to the walls, where the castle cooks and the townswomen were stirring great vats of grain porridge. There had been a time when they feared that siege and starvation would be the end of them so they had prepared well and had food enough for weeks more. Weeks that they did not have. Knowing this without being told, the castle's cooks had distributed honey, sugars, dried fruits and spices; the rich foods that Belle had known all her life now suddenly without station as everyone ladled their share from the same steaming cauldrons and sweetened it with whatever they pleased.

Children ran about in glee at this sweet bounty and, for just a few minutes under the gentle rising sun, their elders found the space in their hearts for a smile.

Once she had eaten—once she and her father and the Councilmen had allowed everyone to _see_ them eat the hearty meal that not one of them could easily stomach—Belle helped to feed the wounded. She had no other duties, no skills that could be better used elsewhere, and was left to help the weakest and the slowest, until Gaston found her there under the canopies of the sick rooms and pulled her to her feet with a roughness that shocked those watching. It shocked Belle.

"I gave your father my word that you would be saved," he grated, civility barely a gloss over his rage. Belle had never see him less remote from her, nor more sincere in his sentiments. "Do you think me a coward looking to flee this fight? I gave him my word! We ride at noon."

"No." She shook her arm free of his grasp, rubbing at the pain. "My place is here."

"You are to be my wife."

"But today I'm only a daughter." Her pride took a softer edge than his and Belle could see their future written plain in his dark, hooded gaze. What battles they would have, her stubbornness against his pride, with the confines of the royal court trapping her from every side into a dutiful marriage. The prospect horrified her, suddenly and utterly. To leave Papa's side for that? To live out that life knowing that she was the only one spared, and for no better reason than that she was suitable to bear a Duke's grandsons? No. No, that wasn't how things ended. "Rumpelstiltskin will come," she said, almost through clenched teeth.

"We will not hold the lines for another night," Gaston hissed, with sense enough to lean down towards her ear so that only Belle and the dying could hear his words. "Tonight the town will fall. If he does not come—"

"He'll come. He must."

"Why must he? And even if he came, is it worth being indebted to the Dark One? Is anything worth that?"

Belle had no answer for him. She felt foolish and small under his accusing glare, with him standing so much taller than she did.

"They say that he always comes when he is called," she managed, remembering her old nurse Alys, a toothless and always-smiling old woman who knew everything and spoke little except to tell old riddles and stories. She'd spoken of Rumpelstiltskin; the laughing, ancient demon who could spin gold from straw and who fathered the nightmares of the blameless. They said that he was drawn to desperation like a wasp to jam. "So he will come."

It sounded foolish even to her own ears, such childlike trust in legends, but Belle saw the nods from the women nursing the wounded; smiles from the men on the bloodstained pallets. This was what it meant to lead a people— _this._ To have strength and hope as well as to be prepared for the very worst that might befall them. To stand beside them as the end came if it came to that. To ease a fear when there was nothing else left to do.

One day, Gaston would be the keeper of his father's vast estates, his power second only to that of King George himself, and Belle was supposed to love him and be his strength.

Watching him storm away from her with his back held rigid, Belle wondered just how strong she would need to be to manage that.

~+~

Noon came and went.

Half fearing that Gaston would indeed throw her across his horse and ride away with her against all protests, Belle went to her room and changed into her finest dress as the sun peaked in the sky.

Few men would dare force their way past an outraged lady-in-waiting to reach a lady's private chamber and, as if sensing her intentions or sharing her fears, the women of the castle gathered around her there on various pretences. They brushed and curled her hair, laced Belle into the fine bodice of her betrothal gown and changed her bedsheets. Her room was swept and dusted in a busy, determined and, above all, _female_ silence. But Gaston never came for her; her father did not summon her nor send men to take her against her will, and no cry went up from the watchmen on the walls that their saviour might be approaching.

"My Lady." Her own maid, Lotte, approached with her mother's necklace in the palm of her hand. Belle had seldom worn it, for it was more precious to her than any mere decoration; she had treasured it instead among the few keepsakes she had of her mother, tucked in a silver box. But Lotte knew her better than anyone, and knew that she would want her mother's memory close to her heart now. "I thought..."

"Yes." Belle stole a glance towards the horizon. For a few hours in the middle of the day the red sky was less ominous, less obvious. The ogres came at night. "Thank you." She turned and lifted her hair so that Lotte could fasten the fine gold chain at her nape. "Has everyone visited their family today?" She looked from face to face, from woman to woman, and saw only nods. They would tell her if anything was needed. They always did, safe in the knowledge that the castle's master looked to the needs of those who served him. In these troubled times, they looked to the master's daughter instead, and knew that she spoke with his authority in all matters concerning the running of the castle.

"He still hasn't come, my Lady." Lotte's voice quavered. They were all afraid, every one of them, but Lotte could never hide her feelings. Sorrow or joy, she was always bursting. In fear, she was trembling and hush-voiced. "The Spinner."

"Why do they call him that, do you think?" Belle turned to her mirror and fingered the jewel at her throat. _My tear of joy_ , her mother had called it. Belle's father had given it to her to mark the occasion of Belle's own birth, not knowing that there would be no sons to follow her. "Does he really spin straw into gold?"

"We shouldn't speak of him," the kitchen maid Aya clucked, glancing around as if she expected Rumpelstiltskin to appear in the very room with them. "It's folly to tempt him, so I was told. Better the ogres."

"No!" Belle turned on the woman, aghast. "Better that we face what is to come knowing that we did everything possible to save ourselves from our fate. If Rumpelstiltskin can—"

"Can what, child?" The voice, a _man's_ voice in the place occupied so exclusively by the castle's womenfolk, brought gasps and yelps from them all as they looked for the intruder. Belle spun to face the speaker while Lotte clutched at her and trying to pull her away towards the door. Belle wrenched her arm free and faced the man.

He was in shadow before the window, his hands spread at his sides in a pacifying gesture.

"How did you get in here?" Belle demanded, her head racing to keep ahead of her heart which had risen in her breast, buoyed by fright and not a little anger.

"You called my name." His voice was strange and grating; mockery and a childish slyness that combined to chill the blood. "Thrice." He displayed three fingers with a dramatic flourish. "And here I am."

"Rumpelstiltskin?"

"There you go again. Don't wear it out." He approached with slow, exaggerated steps, his dark eyes scanning the faces of the women who'd crowded around their mistress. "The rest of you should probably run away," he suggested, shooing them with a delicate wave of one hand.

"M-my Lady," Lotte stammered, pulling again at Belle's arm.

"Yes, go. All of you, go, quickly," Belle said, her eyes never leaving Rumpelstiltskin. "Tell my father that he has come."

They ran, Lotte's quiet sob of misery reaching Belle's ears over the clatter of hobnails on the stairs.

Rumpelstiltskin bowed, a sweeping bow that combined the most courtly manners with the deepest mockery.

"My Lady."

"Sir." Belle's knees quivered as she made a slow curtsey. "Th-thank you for answering our plea."

"This?" He shook out a small scroll that had not been in his hand a moment before, letting it hang open so that she could see her father's writing and the seal of the Council. "No, dearie, I came because you called my name."

"But I..."

"Three times, you called my name. Don't deny it." He waggled a finger at her. His skin was so strange, dark and textured, almost reptilian, and so unlike that of a mortal man. Was it true, then, that he was a demon trapped in the mortal realms? She shivered, the horror of it crawling down her spine and raising the small hairs on her forearms.

"I don't..." She swallowed. He was watching her, waiting upon her answer with keen-eyed eagerness. His name? But... yes, hadn't she said his name to quiet Aya's foolishness? And to Gaston when he raged at her? And... oh, gods, yes, she had spoken the name three times today, each time _willing_ the Spinner into their midst with all the desperation of her plight. Their plight. "I spoke _of_ you," she admitted, choosing each word with urgent care. Still he watched her, poised and expectant, her father's message dangling from his outstretched hand. "I wanted to believe that you would come."

"And here I am." His smile was a terrible thing, his teeth crooked and stained while his eyes stayed as hard as flint. They were not the eyes of a man. She could feel his magic, the same way she could feel blazing sunlight upon her skin or a breeze tickling her hair. "At your service."

"T-thank you, then," she managed to say, her mouth growing more dry by the moment. "Thank you so much for coming, but my father is the one who—"

"Offers me gold." Rumpelstiltskin regarded the document in his hand with disdain, wrinkling his nose at it. "But, you see, I _make_ gold," he reminded her with smug satisfaction.

"How?" It was an unthinking question, a reaction born of fright and of her own, old, dreadful habit of questioning when the time was wrong for questions.

"What?" Rumpelstiltskin forgot his arrogant stance for a moment and simply frowned at her, the hand holding the scroll dropping sightly. He looked as if she had suddenly sprouted horns, upset all his intentions with that single foolish—no, that _rational, obvious_ —question. His composure returned quickly and with it his displeasure. "No, gold won't do at all." He circled her with those same deliberate, strutting steps. Belle closed her eyes while he was behind her, willing herself to be still. It felt as though he could see right through her skin to examine her very soul.

"But you can help us?"

"Yes, I can protect your little town." He leaned close to her ear, making her jump and gasp at how quickly he moved. Fast as a snake strike. "For a price."

There were already boots thundering on the stairs as Rumpelstiltskin completed his circuit and stood facing her once more. His sly smile had returned, all trace of his annoyance vanished.

Something—some _one_ , she realised, hearing the cursing—crashed into her door and failed utterly to move it. Rumpelstiltskin's smile broadened and he let out a high-pitched giggle that was horrible, infantile, offensive.

"That'll be your handsome prince," he suggested. "Scream if you like, I won't be offended. He'll so enjoy rescuing you from the monster."

"Belle!" Her father's voice, ragged with fear, accompanied sudden, frantic pounding on her door. "Belle!"

"Shall I let him in?" Without waiting for her answer, Rumpelstiltskin waved his hand towards the door and men spilled into the room, swords drawn and faces flushed, panting. Gaston was among them, favouring his shoulder and wild-eyed with fury. He waved his sword towards them, staring from one to the other in incomprehension. Perhaps he had indeed expected to find her hysterical and helpless in the clutches of the intruder. Belle straightened herself a little more.

"Papa," she said, the rational, level voice coming again from the same place that had birthed her impertinent question about spinning gold. It stood remote from her terror, and apart from her near physical perception of the power that Rumpelstiltskin wore about him like a smothering cloak. "He has come to bargain, just as we asked."

Sir Maurice tore his gaze from her and fixed it on the smiling Rumpelstiltskin.

"My daughter—"

"Is my price," Rumpelstiltskin said, each word clear and clipped. Belle had never fainted, not once in her whole life, but she suddenly had an idea of how it would feel to do so. Her vision swam, her breath stuck in her chest. "Yes, yes, your daughter for my bride. That'll do nicely."

"No!" Belle's father was at her side in a moment and Gaston stood between her and the creature a heartbeat later, his sword wavering only slightly at Rumpelstiltskin's throat.

"The young lady is engaged," Gaston declared, coolly. "To me."

"Lucky her," the demon sneered, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his palm. "Well, I won't leave you empty handed. I'm sure her dowry will make you very happy." His eyes never left Belle's father. "You have great need of my protection. I have no need of gold. It's her or no deal."

"Get out," her father gasped, grey-faced, all reason fled in the face of his disgust. "Leave!"

"As you wish." Rumpelstiltskin sauntered towards the door, the armed men parting before him without so much as raising a blade. He tossed the scroll back over his shoulder as he reached the doorway.

"No, wait!" Belle ducked beneath the arm that Gaston put out to stop her, touched her father's arm in passing, and met Rumpelstiltskin as he turned back to face her. His thin smile was calm and carefree and a trace of mirth lingered about his strange, reptilian eyes. He and her father had both spoken about her as if she wasn't standing there between the two of them! If it was her hand in marriage that Rumpelstiltskin wanted then it was going to be _her_ choice. "My hand for our protection?" she asked, holding his gaze and looking for any sign of deception. "In return for all that we have asked?"

His eyes narrowed. He studied hers in return, searching for she knew not what.

"Yes."

Belle believed him. Perhaps it was that he said the word so quietly, for her ears alone, when the rest had all been the exaggeration of theatre. Perhaps it was the way his eyes narrowed in puzzlement—almost as if he had never truly expected her to take the offer seriously. Belle believed him.

"Then I will marry him," she said, forcing her voice to carry so that everyone could hear it. That was important; these men must be witness to every word so that no-one could dispute the matter later. She had never pledged herself to Gaston; she had only ever acquiesced to the betrothal, silent, and played her part in the necessary politics of survival. Her word, her own free and public acceptance of an offer of marriage, was binding. Only Rumpelstiltskin could release her from it now. "I will marry Rumpelstiltskin in return for his help."

Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands with glee as her father cried out in dismay and Gaston... Sir Gaston _forbade_ her! In that moment each of the men appalled her; her father for finding limits to the extent of his duty, Gaston for commanding her when she was not his to command, and Rumpelstiltskin for laughing like a child who'd snatched up a new toy.

"No-one decides my fate but me," she told them. Hadn't she been bartered to Gaston's family in return for help in protecting their corner of the kingdom? Wasn't this just the same? Wasn't this _hers_ to give, not theirs? "It's a fair price and I will pay it gladly if he helps us defeat the ogres."

"It's forever, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin warned, his face close to her face and something new—curiosity, Belle thought—replacing the smug pleasure at the scene he had caused. "This of all contracts cannot be broken." For a moment, Belle thought that he was tempting her — no, that he was _encouraging_ her to reconsider.

"My family, my friends. They will all live?"

"You have my word."

Yes, she believed him.

The world turned on that moment and Belle's fear became remote. She could see the truth of his words, and how his cruel amusement had softened to a kind of grudging fascination with her defiant decision. It couldn't possibly matter to Rumpelstiltskin whether her people lived or died. It could hardly matter to him whether Belle accepted or refused him, but he would save them if she would meet his price.

The fate of her people, perhaps of all the kingdoms, hung upon her word.

"Then you have mine. I will be your wife."

"Deal!" Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands together and bounced on his heels. His glee changed the texture of the magic that filled the room; now it sang, glinted and cut instead of smothering. Belle could breathe again and everything became sharp.

"No, Belle, you cannot do this," her father called, but he sounded broken. He had taught her about duty, and he'd taught her well. What he would not ask of her for all the world he could not stop her giving freely. He would not. Not if the grief and the shame of this killed him by lingering inches. "Belle, please! You cannot give yourself to this..." his eyes found Rumpelstiltskin and his mouth twisted in disgust. "This _beast_."

The Dark One gasped, feigning dismay at the insult.

Belle went and touched her father's chest, looking up at his stricken expression.

"Papa," she said, sadly. "This is not so high a price." One woman for a whole people. It could have been a newborn babe, she knew. The Spinner could have demanded anything, anyone else, and they would not have paid his price—they would have stood their ground and been slaughtered. She glimpsed the look of hurt incomprehension on Gaston's face, then, and spoke to both of them. "Gaston. It's been decided."

"You know, she's right. The deal is struck." Belle shivered and swallowed hard as Rumpelstiltskin's hand caught her waist, his breath tickling her curls. She hadn't heard him move. His touch was as gentle as could be, but his voice dripped with spite. "Oh, congratulations on your little war," he beamed at them all. "I do hope we're going to have a big party!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 6 December 2015]


	3. Ceremony

No holy man could be found who would bless the marriage vows. That caused a ripple of panic amongst the important men of the Council, but Belle merely shrugged to herself and kept silent while the debate went on around her. The cleric, the prayers, the exchange of rings and even the vows themselves were merely tradition. The law was clear; her promise had already been given. If Rumpelstiltskin made his promise before witnesses then it was done. A marriage, never to be broken. Even her father's blessing was a formality now.

Sir Maurice kept glancing at her without quite ever meeting her eyes. One moment she would see anger in his face and the next pain, grief, then shame and a terror to great to be spoken of. Belle grieved for him more than for herself, and when her courage wavered she set her mind to thinking about what her marriage to Sir Gaston would have brought her instead; a future that frightened her almost as much as the one she had brought upon herself now.

Almost as much.

She became impatient when the debate rolled on and on, going nowhere. As if she would break her word whatever they decided. As if she would break her word while Rumpelstiltskin was out on their city walls, a lone silhouette in the moonlight, keeping his.

The sun had already set and the ogres had never come.

No-one objected when she left the chamber. No-one stopped her on her way to the castle's outer doors. No-one spoke to her, but Belle heard the shocked whispers once people thought her beyond their hearing. Still dressed in her golden gown that left her shoulders bare, she felt the stares and hurried on out into the darkness. Ahead of her was the makeshift hospital of cloth canopies, the healers still busy among the crowded pallets. She tried to tell herself that there was the reason that no-one celebrated tonight; too many wounded and too many dead. She didn't manage to make herself believe it.

Hearing her name called back inside the castle, Belle lifted her skirts and almost ran across the cobbles to hide herself deeper in the growing darkness. She sought out her new betrothed and found him standing perfectly still atop the northern watchtower, one hand resting on the wall, staring out into the darkness.

If Rumpelstiltskin noticed her standing below then he gave no sign of it. Belle could not guess what he was doing on their behalf, for he stood quite still upon the northern watchtower, one hand resting on the battlements. In her fear she had expected screams and acrid smoke, the stench of terrible death; she might even have pitied the ogres for what she had brought upon them. Instead there was a silence, a long and heavy silence that had spread out from their battered walls since dusk, obliterating the low and ever-present sounds of the encampments. The deep red glow in the sky that had fed her nightmares these past weeks had quite gone.

Belle breathed a soft sigh of relief, only to suck in a breath and tense herself again when Lotte called her name from the castle doors. She tried to pull herself deeper into the shadow of the crumbling wall, upset to realise that she did not want to speak to Lotte or to anyone lest their horror of what she had done infect her.

"She can't see you, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin's voice drifted down to her, warped strangely by the sucking silence that he had wrought beyond the walls. "Come on up and see what you've bought."

He did not command her and neither was it a suggestion. Somehow, Belle understood that he spoke with the calm certainty that she would wish to do just as he said. And he was right. Whatever lay ahead of her as the demon's bride, whatever kind of a fearful future she had plunged herself into, wouldn't it all seem better if she could just know that it had all been worth it?

Slowly, glancing back to where Lotte stood hugging herself in the pool of torchlight just outside the castle, Belle made her way to the steps of the watch tower. Half the steps had fallen away in the final attack and so her soft shoes slipped on the gravel that littered the remaining stairs, forcing her to reach for the rope that had been slung to aid the now-perilous climb. At the top, where the step was barely the width of her slippered foot let alone a man's boot, Rumpelstiltskin's outstretched hand awaited her. Taking it, chilled by the thought of touching his skin, Belle allowed him to help her up to the safety of the parapet.

"We can't have you falling to your death, my Lady," he said, singsong and soft, releasing her the moment her feet were upon reliable stone. Belle found herself staring at her own hand, so startled had she been to find his skin warm to the touch. "Come, now. See the fruits of your bargain."

She was truly afraid to look in the direction of his outstretched arm and, for a few heartbeats, she understood Lotte's persistent sobbing. This man, this dark creature, was capable of doing anything. Everything. Her mind supplied too many guesses as to what the specific something might be in this case, and since the reality could surely be no worse than the carnage of her imagination, Belle looked.

Where for months there had been the churned mud and ruin of troop encampments she now saw only fields. Empty, without crops or livestock or the barns and buildings that had once spread gently away from the walls of her home town to the river mouth and beyond, but at peace. Healed.

She gasped, hand at her throat, and fingered her mother's necklace while she stared at what Rumpelstiltskin had done.

"Pleased?" He was suddenly close to her, his face beside her own, his word delivered with a gust of warm breath against her ear. Belle's startled intake of breath earned a sound from him, not quite a giggle, not quite a whine, and clearly one of delight at provoking a reaction.

"Th—the men?" she managed, her voice only slightly higher than usual.

"Out of harm's way."

"The ogres?"

"Removed."

"What have you… I mean, what will stop them coming back?"

"Long experience with me," he answered with a snarl. Even as Belle tensed with fright at having angered him, Rumpelstiltskin became quiet again. He leaned so close that his lips almost touched her ear as. "I've discovered that even ogres are capable of learning. Eventually." Quiet, yes, but the way he spoke was anything but pleasant. Belle shuddered, forcing herself by sheer effort of will not to hug herself and curl inward.

"Thank you." She rested her hands on the rough stone and breathed in the crisp night air. "For mending the land. It's so much more than we asked for."

Suddenly he was gone from her side, back in the far corner of the lookout with his back towards her and his shoulders hunched.

"Consider it my wedding gift to you."

"Thank you." She didn't know what else to say to him. His price for this was a steep one for Belle to pay, yet nothing compared to the sacrifices of the wounded and the fallen. If he was going to be fair—even generous—in his dealings with her then she would do as much in return. Nervously, she tried to offer him a smile, but his back was still turned.

She stayed there a while, not because she needed his leave to go nor because she feared the dangerous descent by the broken steps but because she found that she preferred his quiet strangeness to the sense of bitter mourning at the castle. Rumpelstiltskin appeared to forget about her and stared out at the fields, his forefingers tapping a rapid rhythm on the parapet.

After a while, sound returned to the wider world, easing a hitherto unrecognised pressure in Belle's head. It felt as though a bubble had burst between her ears, uncomfortable, but it returned to her the awareness of the gusting wind, of the cries of the night creatures, of the distant thunder of the sea. So softly that she might have missed it had she not been revelling in the return of every sound, she heard the slow and controlled exhalation of the man who stood there with her, as though some great effort had just ceased.

"You should go," he said, eventually. Belle had been watching shadows far off; she thought she could make out figures trudging towards the town from every direction. Survivors, returning, no doubt bewildered by the changing landscape and the end of battle. By finding that they were alive when they had expected to be dead. "There's a wedding to prepare for." The singsong voice had returned and with it the hint of a sneer. "And then we've a long journey ahead."

~+~

By morning, Belle's maid and lifelong companion was a lost cause. Hysterical with grief for her mistress and pleading nonsense about her running away to hide in the forest, Lotte wept a huge dark tear-stain on Belle's shoulder before the healer found the time to come and dose her with enough poppy to put her to sleep. She would miss the wedding day, leaving Belle to fend for herself with her toilet and dressing, but everyone agreed that it was for the best. Belle wanted to be brave, but every one of Lotte's hearty sobs had brought her nearer to hysteria of her own.

Afraid to be alone yet unwilling to put Lotte's duties onto any of the castle's other servants, Belle sent a message pleading for Elena, the wife of Dimitri the blacksmith, to come to the castle and help her prepare for the ceremony.

"He didn't leave the walls all night," Elena told her, neatly if inexpertly pinning up Belle's hair into a high, braided style that would support the simple silver tiara. "Everyone saw him there. Pacing back and forth he was. Never slept a wink, never spoke a word. They say your father sent out food and wine and he never touched any of it. But the soldiers are all coming home. What was he doing?"

"All that we asked," Belle answered, picturing Rumpelstiltskin there watching while the confused soldiers straggled back in search of orders. "And more."

"We want no more from that one, my Lady," Elena said, quietly. "Our debt is to you now. You've saved us, and all here know it."

Elena was a sensible woman with a kind heart and a cool head to match her husband's. She shed no tears as she laced Belle into the white gown that had been made with such care for her wedding to Gaston.

It was tight in the bodice but it flattered her to be laced so firmly. The seamstresses had persuaded her to let them emphasise her shape, particularly the swell of her small breasts above the panel of finest white lace work. The skirt was too heavy, too ornate and too stiffened with reed to allow her any comfort, but Belle nodded when Elena turned her to the mirror to see her reflection. Uncomfortable or not, heavy or not, absurd or not, the dress made her look for all the world a bride.

Rumpelstiltskin's bride. Belle stared at herself, hardly comprehending what she saw there. It felt as though she might wake up at any moment and find that this had just been another disturbed dream; that the ogres were battering at the gates after all.

"I tied the lover's knot, Princess," Elena said, plucking at the lacing of her dress and causing Belle to try and look over her own shoulder, which in turn made them both giggle. It was a welcome moment of relief from the joyless mood of the occasion, and Belle squeezed the woman's hand, grateful.

"I'm no Princess, Mistress Elena," she said, gently. The older woman had not called her that, in earnest or in jest, since Belle's first womanhood. She had been at Elena's house that day and remembered the motherly warmth when she went into the kitchen and drew Elena down so that she could whisper in her ear that her blood had come. "I still don't feel like a woman," she admitted, small voiced.

"No lover either," Elena answered, and then contrived to have several copper hairpins clamped between her pursed lips for some time while she tidied the looser tresses around the nape of Belle's neck. Was she worried that she had teased a little too far?

"Why the lover's knot, then?" Belle asked, just grateful to be having a conversation to keep herself from dwelling on her fears. She awaited an answer until Elena gave in and removed the pins from her mouth.

"Well, it's traditional, that's why," she said, smoothing the skirts over Belle's hips before meeting her gaze in the looking glass. She looked doubtful for a moment, then pushed on with a breezy determination. "And it slows a bridegroom down, if you see what I mean. Gives you a bit more time to get to know him first."

"Oh..." Belle thought of the hand that had grasped hers with such strength, helping her to manage the treacherous steps. She thought of it pulling tonight at a cunning knot of corded satin, tied with mischief and tradition in mind, and of what would surely be on _his_ mind, and her knees went weak. Elena caught her bare shoulders and landed her neatly on the dressing stool with no harm done.

"There now," she said, stroking Belle's cheek and drawing back the soft ringlets that framed her face. "Whatever they say about him he walks like a man, so I say he's mostly a man in the ways that matter. Men aren't difficult, Princess. Don't you fret, now, and I'll tell you what you need to know, if you want to know it."

Belle looked at her hands. She knew a little of what to expect on her wedding night, but was Rumpelstiltskin even a man? Suppose that Elena was wrong about that? His skin was all pebbled, coarse, and seemed to change colour or sparkle with the shifting light, and his eyes… And she was going to have to let him touch her as no-one else ever had or ever would. She shut her eyes, tight.

"How often do men want to... you know?"

"All the time, near as I can tell," Elena scoffed, but not without a twinkle in her eye. "How often you let them and how often they can manage it, that's another story. Like I said, men aren't difficult. Talk to him while he's all tangled up in knots, you'll see." She plucked again at the fastenings. "And if he treats you wrong, you tell that knight of yours, Sir Gaston. He's fit to kill him as it is."

Belle put her hand to her mouth, eyes opening wide again. She'd forgotten about Gaston in the hurry of the preparations.

"Where is he?"

"He rode in just as I got here. He'd been out with your father and the rest, inspecting the land. The soil is good."

Belle nodded. His wedding gift, Rumpelstiltskin had said. Land that could be worked as soon as spring came—that was a gift indeed. Had it been a kindness?

"Is, I mean was Dimitri kind to you, Elena? The first time?"

"Always." Elena squeezed her shoulders and held her gaze in the mirror. "But I wanted him from the minute I set eyes on him, and that's different. Things go easier then. You'll have to learn, and if he's a fool you'll have to teach him next."

Belle nodded, grateful for the advice even if she wasn't sure it would be wise to follow it. Rumpelstiltskin might or might not be a man but she was certain that he was no fool, just as she was certain that Gaston's sword would be no match for his magic if he came charging to her rescue.

"I've put everything I'm taking into the chest," she said, commanding her body to let her rise and walk steadily to her bed, where her mother's necklace lay upon the pillow. "Everything I'll need to be a wife." Her hands shook but she fastened the chain herself, biting her bottom lip.

"We'll miss you, child," Elena said, her voice gone hoarse. "And we'll not forget what you've done today, I swear to you. No man riding into battle ever did more for his people than you do today. You remember it, come what may."

Belle nodded, unable to look at her in case she saw tears. She'd shed no tears of her own, even when Lotte fell to pieces, but now that the wedding was upon her she knew she couldn't bear the tears of others and still manage to choke down her terror.

"Time to be a bride, then," she said, firmly, and heard herself as if from a distance. "Will you tell my father that I'm ready?"

Her father met her at the foot of the stairs, his face ashen and his smile a ghost. She gripped his hand tightly.

"The mended land was his wedding gift to me, Papa," she told him, her voice low so that the townspeople who lined the long corridor in gloomy silence couldn't hear her. "He didn't have to do that."

"He didn't have to do any of this," was her father's curt reply. His anger cut her as deeply as had his pain. "It's to be the old ceremony. I give him your hand and he accepts you. The priests wouldn't come, the cowards." He sounded angry at them as well. At everything. His hand shook as much as hers as the beaten and soot-stained doors were opened, and the Councilmen rose from their seats to stand around in an awkward semi-circle.

Rumpelstiltskin stood before them, his smile lazy and wicked. He had added a long cloak of brocade and fur to his attire of leather and silk.

"I was starting to think you'd run away," he said, winking at Belle so suggestively that her father put an arm around her and drew her close.

"I gave you my word," Belle said, the strength crushed out of her voice between her father's hold on her and her rigid gown. "And here I am."

"Dark One. My Lord." Arnos the Councilman removed his velvet cap and approached Rumpelstiltskin with his head bowed. "We beg you for mercy."

"Mercy?" Rumpelstiltskin pulled an expression of exaggerated bewilderment. He flung his arms wide. "Come now—this is a wedding not an execution!"

"For my daughter," her father grated, clutching her so tightly to his side that Belle struggled to keep her feet. "You've no more need of her than of the gold we offered. I beg you to take the gold instead."

With slow, menacing steps, Rumpelstiltskin approached and faced Belle's father, who pushed her gently away to arm's length and stood his ground. Anger burned in the inhuman eyes but, more than that, it flowed around Belle and around her father like something she might reach out and touch. It turned Belle's skin to goose bumps.

"My _needs_ are none of your concern," he said, low and deadly, his eyes narrowed. "And my contract is with your daughter, not with you." He turned, his heel grinding in the fallen plaster dust that littered the floor. "What about you, do you plead for mercy?"

Belle looked at the floor. His anger was so cold.

"No. But please don't be angry with them for doing so."

"Very well, then. Sir Maurice, your daughter's hand if you please. I see that you've dispensed with droning priests and silly incense. Very wise." Again there was laughter in his words as he looked around the room in mock-consternation. "I take it that there isn't going to be a party?"

From the corner of her eye, not daring to turn and look, Belle saw her father battle with himself and clench a fist. She'd seen him strike another man only twice, but...

"Papa," she said, trying to sound calm but her voice wavering like a child's. She offered him her hand. "Please."

Sir Maurice swallowed, his expression sickly, and nodded.

It took but a moment, but it was witnessed and that was what mattered to the law. Belle's father kissed her knuckles, his grip almost crushing her fingers, and guided her hand towards Rumpelstiltskin's waiting one. The creature's skin seemed to glitter in the filtered sunbeams.

"My daughter's hand in marriage," Sir Maurice said, tonelessly, as though he spoke the words without any kind of recognition.

"I take her as my wife," Rumpelstiltskin answered brightly, and then Belle's small hand was clasped lightly between both his palms. His skin was dry and warm. "What is it they say? Until death?" He bared his crooked teeth at them all in a grin. "That could be a bit tricky on my end, but I'll certainly make the most her for as long as she lasts."

Belle heard her father's moan of grief. Down a narrowing tunnel of vision she saw Arnos take him by the arm to steady him.

Trembling from head to foot, concentrating on each step she took, Belle avoided every gaze and let Rumpelstiltskin guide her with his hand at her waist, the lightest of touches. They walked past the silent rows of townspeople and past Sir Gaston, whose hand remained on the hilt of his sword. The only sounds were made by their shoes on the flagstones, by those of the men silently following them, and by the whisper of the hem of Belle's wedding dress where it dragged the ground behind her.

A town stood silent.

A bride was helped into her carriage.

Her husband joined her there.

She had a long journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 6 December 2015]


	4. The Lover's Knot

They travelled all day without stopping.

Belle was hungry and so deeply weary that she could barely keep her eyes open, even though she was too afraid to close them while confined with Rumpelstiltskin. He sat beside her, quite still except that his hands were always in restless motion. Fascinated by the compulsive movement and too afraid to look at his face, she watched the way he rubbed his fingertips together, flexed and wiggled his fingers, cracked his knuckles, drummed a soundless rhythm upon his knees and, every so often, clasped both hands tightly together in an effort to keep them still. It never lasted for very long.

She awoke before she knew that she had been succumbing to sleep. Her head rested against the panelling, her neck at an awkward angle that left her with a stab of pain as she self-consciously returned to sitting bolt upright. She bit her lip and wondered whether to apologise to Rumpelstiltskin, but courage failed her. He made no comment.

It was a comfortable carriage, not particularly large but richly upholstered and cushioned. While she'd been dozing a tiny lantern had been lit and swung gently above them, filling the corners of the cramped space with shadows that danced with the motion of the wheels. It was a smoother ride than Belle had ever known and so quiet, so much so that she supposed it to be Rumpelstiltskin's magic at work, but the hours of sitting had made her wedding dress no more forgiving. She felt light-headed, wretchedly uncomfortable in the gown, and a call of nature was becoming too urgent to ignore for much longer.

For the first time, Belle turned herself so that she could look directly at her new husband. His elbow was propped in the small window, his temple resting upon his fist while he tapped his knee with one forefinger, over and over. He did not seem so terrible, seated and quiet.

"Sir?"

Rumpelstiltskin seemed startled, straightening himself quickly. Were it anyone else, Belle might have thought that she had alarmed him.

"Yes?"

"Will we be stopping soon? I need to stretch my legs."

"Very soon, yes."

Unable to fathom his expression, but reasonably certain that it was an unhappy one, Belle lowered her gaze to watch his hands again. He had produced a length of thick golden thread and had it wrapped around his fingers, woven into a cradle.

"They say that you turn straw into gold," she said, fearing the silence more than she feared to speak to him. The sooner she knew his intentions the sooner she could face up to her future as his bride. Silence had only allowed her room to imagine the worst. "Is that true?"

"Yes." He draw the length of thread between his left finger and thumb, smoothing it out, then crumpled it into a ball in his closed fist. When he opened his hand again, four tiny coins lay in his palm where the thread had been. At Belle's exclamation of delight, Rumpelstiltskin closed his fist again abruptly and dropped the coins into a leather purse at his belt. "An amusement," he said. Belle stole another quick glance at his face. He turned his head away quickly. "Nothing more."

Presently the carriage slowed and stopped on what felt like cobbles. A blaze of torchlight blinded Belle when she pulled aside the little curtain to peek out.

"Our lodgings," said Rumpelstiltskin, brightly. He stepped delicately over her mass of skirts and opened the door on her side, jumping down to land with barely a sound on the wet cobblestones. He offered his hand to help her step down and Belle hoped that he didn't notice how her own hand trembled, clammy and weak with fright in his strong, warm grip.

A fine drizzle met her bare face and shoulders, enough to blind her with droplets and make the bright torchlight even more dazzling. Instantly chilled and envying Rumpelstiltskin his thick cloak, Belle blinked the rain from her eyes. She could not make out what sort of a place they were in, but there were lit windows and the prospect of warmth just ahead of her across a cobbled yard.

Rumpelstiltskin took her by the arm, leading her towards the building. Before they were halfway across the yard a pair of sturdy double doors flew open and she realised that they were at a tavern; a coaching inn, to judge by the smell of stables nearby and the size of the buildings. A nervous bald man stood in the doorway, bobbing urgent half-bows to Rumpelstiltskin and trying extremely hard not to show any curiosity about Belle.

"My Lord." The man bowed lower. "A foul night. Welcome, welcome. And, uh, your lady."

Ignoring him, Rumpelstiltskin led Belle inside. The room was warmly lit and boasted an enormous fireplace. Every table was crowded with people dining or drinking amidst cheerful conversation. But silence spread outward from where Belle stood when they were noticed. Few dared to stare or even to look their way, but enough that Belle wondered how she must look; dismayed, damp and dishevelled in bridal white upon the arm of the Dark One—the most feared, the most powerful man in all the world.

"Show the lady to my chamber," Rumpelstiltskin commanded, depositing the four golden coins in the palm of the bobbing man without looking at him. "See that she has a meal, the very best, and that she is not disturbed by..." he looked around the silent room, causing heads to turn quickly away, "...revelry." He looked at her expectantly and Belle realised that, in the shock of the new and in her daze of weariness, she had been clutching his arm for support.

"Th—thank you," she managed, praying that her knees wouldn't turn to water the moment she let go. They didn't. She followed an older woman's beckoning gesture towards the back of the room. The silence and the stares battered at her as she passed and she was grateful for the quiet, cold passage beyond, and for the solid oak bannister to lean on while she climbed the stairs.

"Oh, my dear," the woman breathed, unlocking a door at the head of the second flight of stairs. "Oh, my dear." Her expression reminded Belle of the way Lotte had looked at her and of her father; that incomprehension, that pity and that horror. She felt the tears begin to prickle her eyes and her throat closing up for a sob.

"Thank you," she said, steadying her voice with the last of her strength. Then she pushed past the woman into the room and hastily shut the door, putting her back to it and clasping both hands over her mouth in case the sob got away from her. If she let herself start crying now then she was horribly afraid that she was never going to be able to stop.

She leaned against the wood, noting the details of the room in an effort to calm herself. It was a small room, a bedroom, but one furnished with good polished oak and expensive fabrics—not at all what she would have expected from a wayside inn. Candles were lit on every flat surface, many of them sheltering in faceted lanterns of coloured glass. A well-tended log fire burned low in a wide hearth, filling the room with a comforting orange glow. A round wooden bath tub steamed full of water before the fire, squashed into the space in front of two deep winged chairs and a small table. The table was piled with folded towels, each of their corners embroidered with a single black "R".

At the foot of a huge four-poster bed, Belle's trunk stood as though it had always belonged there.

She stayed where she was, hands pressed over her mouth until the threat of tears stopped trying to choke her and she began to breathe normally again. When the bald innkeeper knocked at the door to bring her the food, Belle was able to admit him with a wordless nod and thank him, quietly but in a steady voice, when he left again.

Well, there was a chamber pot peeking out from underneath the draperies of the bed. That met her most pressing need. The readiness of the room and the presence of her trunk suggested that Rumpelstiltskin's magic was at work here too, but only in the pursuit of their comfort. That was nothing to be frightened of at all... except that this was her wedding night and that, very soon, Rumpelstiltskin would come upstairs to join his new bride.

The bath water was not just warm, as she was used to, but hot to the touch when she trailed her hand in the tub. The meal he had sent up to her was simple but delicious and Belle ate as much as she could given her state of alarm. After a while, and with the aid of a cup of the sweet mead that accompanied the meat and potatoes, she felt a little more like herself.

She would have liked to bathe, and to change into her nightgown at least so that she could wait in comfort, but a moment or two of wriggling and twisting told her that there was no releasing herself from her own wedding dress, with or without Elena's traditional knots. Determined to make at least a little effort towards cleanliness after such a long journey, not to mention desperate to distract herself from thinking, Belle found a small cloth in her trunk and dipped it in the bath water to wash her face, hands and feet. It left her feeling a little more alert and certain of herself.

Next she laid out her nightgown at the foot of the bed, very carefully smoothing the fold lines with the warmth of her palm. Would he expect her to be waiting for him in the bed? That had been how it went whenever her imagination had run ahead to thoughts of her wedding night. She, bathed and fresh in her cotton gown and blushing from the teasing of her maids, waiting for Gaston to leave the festivities and join her there.

And what then?

Belle hugged herself, wishing for all the world that she could climb into the bed and go to sleep, but it would be a foolish thing to do while she was trapped in her own finery. If she could not manage to keep her dignity about her tonight then she would surely be lost.

The hem of her dress was muddied and wrinkled. She didn't know why that saddened her so.

She had become aware, slowly and gradually, of a rising noise from below. The sounds of the inn, she supposed, resuming after Rumpelstiltskin's appearance. She could hear coaches arriving or leaving and other guests tramping up and down the stairs, in and out of their rooms. Belle was grateful for all of it, the distraction of it, for it kept her from dwelling on the dreadful unknown while she sat on the bed, bare feet dangling, to wait for her husband.

A knock startled her out of the blank daydream and she jumped up, her nervous dread returning all at once.

"Come in," she called, her voice barely more than a squeak.

Rumpelstiltskin opened the door, admitting more of the noises that had kept her company since her meal. The chatter from below had become louder still, no doubt encouraged by his absence.

"I don't think they were enjoying my company," he said, feigning hurt surprise. The large iron key with which the woman had unlocked the door earlier now hung from his crooked index finger. He seemed taken aback by the sight of her. Belle could only imagine how she must look, for there was no mirror in the room. Even the glass in the windows refused to give a recognisable reflection against the night sky. "You disliked the bath?" he queried, and she could have sworn that he sounded uncertain of himself.

He closed the door and turned the key in the lock. The sound made Belle's insides lurch with renewed fright.

"It... the gown. It wasn't made for me to unfasten myself," she explained, gesturing as best she could behind her.

"Ah." Pocketing the key, Rumpelstiltskin watched her for a moment. Perhaps he never had to think of such trifles as clothing, Belle thought, desperate be thinking about anything other than what happened on a wedding night. "Then turn around, my Lady."

Hesitant, not quite willing to turn her back to him, Belle did as he asked. His closeness at her back shortened her breath and caused her to break out in prickly perspiration all over, then she stopped breathing altogether when he plucked cautiously at the fastenings behind her. After a moment he gave a more forceful tug and a noise of irritation.

"I'm sorry," Belle said, quickly. "The knot, it's our custom."

"A tangle is what it is," he replied, but lightly. "Ah, yes." Something loosened noticeably and Belle could breathe more easily. Slowly, his knuckles brushing against her back through the silk of her chemise, Rumpelstiltskin freed the laces until Belle was holding her bodice in place with both hands instead of fighting it for every breath. He briefly dangled the long white cord over her shoulder to demonstrate his victory over the lover's knot. "My Lady, you appear to be free."

"Thank you." Her gratitude was perfectly sincere; the stiff bodice had been crushing her. She felt stronger the moment that she was able properly to fill her lungs with air, the huge relief of it almost passing for joy on such a joyless day as this. But Rumpelstiltskin was still there behind her with his hands resting on the wide swell of her skirts.

"Tell me," he said, leaning nearer, his voice very light and quiet. "Are you a maiden? The truth, now, dearie. These things matter."

"I am," she declared. Behind her, Belle heard a sigh as his hands fell away. Yes, she was a maiden! As confused and as frightened as any other, no doubt, but what husband sighed about that? Wasn't that what he expected of her?!

"A pity," he said. A half glance told Belle that he was by the window, lifting the curtain aside to watch the rain.

"I don't understand," she said, too indignant to leave that unchallenged. If her virginity was supposed to be something so precious then shouldn't he be glad that it was intact? "Shouldn't I be a maiden?"

"A pity for you, child." He sounded as weary as Belle felt, almost glum, and the moment of fellow feeling softened both her fright and her outrage. "Make yourself comfortable. Bathe if you wish. I shan't peek." The playful singsong crept back as he spoke, but it lacked the spite she'd heard there back at home. He stayed at the window, one hand behind his back while the other held the curtain open a crack.

Belle unfastened her skirt and stepped out of it, shivering immediately as cooler air touched her skin through her underthings. The room was not uncomfortably cold but the bath seemed less appealing for her shivers, and she couldn't even think of bathing while he stood there! She twisted and wriggled quickly out of the rest of her things and pulled the nightgown over her head. It felt new and strange, too crisp, but so much nicer than the dress she'd worn all day. Alone, she would have laughed with relief and flopped back onto the mattress to enjoy the moment. Aware of Rumpelstiltskin by the window, she quietly laid her wedding dress across the trunk and began to unpin her hair.

Good as his word, Rumpelstiltskin didn't peek.

"You can look," she said after a while. It seemed an age before he turned to face her and even then his attention was elsewhere. On her discarded dress; the silver tiara in her hands; the untouched bath and the half eaten meal. His hands tangled themselves in writhing, living knots before him, playing cat's cradle with her laces as he had with the golden thread in the coach. So full of words yesterday and so smug with himself then, Rumpelstiltskin seemed to have been struck dumb now. Elena's advice came back to Belle as she put the hairpins into her mouth one by one to keep from losing them. _Talk to him while he's tangled up in knots, you'll see._ Slowly, Belle took the pins from her mouth and placed them in her lap with the tiara instead. "Is this where you live?"

His eyes widened with surprise but betrayed no displeasure.

"No. We've another day's journey to my estate." He took two steps towards her and stopped, his own words seeming to surprise him as much as hers had. He nodded as he spoke, hands fluttering meaninglessly in the air. "Your duties will be light. You will live in comfort and be well protected." Belle detected something hopeful in his words. Something sad.

"I will try to be a good wife, sir," she said.

His lips parted and he seemed about to speak, then shook his head and approached her, slowly. Belle was keenly aware of the sound that his heeled boots upon the floorboards and of the creak of his leathers as he moved; the sounds from the rest of the inn seemed more distant as she give her awareness entirely to him, to their conversation, and knew that Elena had been right. The lover's knot was more than a game. It served a purpose just as all traditions should. A little more time. A reason to exchange a few words. A tiny beginning with a stranger. But what came next?

Oh, Belle knew _what_ , but nothing had ever given her so much as a clue about the _how_. How did two perfect strangers begin to do _that?_ Was she supposed to know how to start? Was Rumpelstiltskin awaiting some unknown sign from her? She caught her lip between her teeth, letting the sharp little pain distract her from worried speculation. She had not dared let herself imagine tonight—not beyond this moment of greeting.

Hesitant, Rumpelstiltskin reached out with his right hand and touched her hair. The tresses hung limp and crushed from their braids. Belle could feel how badly she needed to use a brush and thought that she could only look a mess, but his fingers touched so gently, as if he strove to caress something so perfect that it ought not to be touched.

Their brief touches had reassured her that his strange-looking skin was neither cold nor as rough as it looked. Belle hoped that Elena had been right about more than the knot and that her new husband was a man, at least in the ways that mattered here and now. Her imagination refused to help her with the possible alternatives.

He smelled of leather, and faintly of the leaves in autumn and of dark forest soil. Magic clung to him, wrapped all about him, so much more powerful than any she'd ever known. Magic was everywhere in the world, but when visible it was always small magic, scarce and sparkling and precious. In him magic pooled and swirled, bottomless and dark. To be this near to him was to be caught up in its wake and to have him, Rumpelstiltskin, fill the world.

Slowly, his finger crooked beneath Belle's jaw, Rumpelstiltskin bent over until they were face to face. His eyes seemed darker than before and he did not blink.

"Tell me," he said, barely more than whispering, "that I disgust you, and I will leave our contract unfulfilled, my Lady. Do you understand what that means?"

Belle felt as though his close scrutiny might wear away her very skin, so hard did he stare at her. The contract unfulfilled. At her word, he would promise to leave her be. But had she not given him her word already?

Did he disgust her, this Rumpelstiltskin, who had given more than he promised in return for her hand? Who strutted and gloated for all to see, then fidgeted and hesitated when they were alone?

"You don't," she said, finding that there was no space left between them to speak anything but the truth. "You don't disgust me. You frighten me. You frighten everybody, and I think you want to."

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes and straightened again, his hands falling to his sides.

"Then our contract must be consummated. Such things... matter." He seemed anything but eager to claim his right to bed her now that he had wed her. That pierced her cruelly even as it eased her fear of being shut away with him. Why had he wanted her if he did not... _want_ her? To humble her father? To announce his power anew to her people? Had it been merely a passing whim of his, to sweep her away as his prize when he had no use for her?

Belle put the tiara and pins carefully on top of her folded dress and then, because Rumpelstiltskin did not move except to toy with the white cord that he still held, she made up her mind and got into bed. To sleep or to be a wife she knew not, but she was cold and tired and the bed was a good one.

He went to the fire and poured mead into the cup she had used earlier, then stood a while before putting it back on the tray untouched. Belle's eyes grew heavy while she watched him, but she blinked herself awake when he returned and, with great care, sat beside her on the bed. He did not look her in the eye this time.

"I can guarantee your pleasure, my Lady. If you wish."

"With magic?" Belle's voice was thick with drowsiness. She remembered the golden thread, and the coins with which he'd paid the innkeeper. "That's cheating."

He didn't seem to know what to say to that. It took him a long moment to muster a reply.

"Then I will be brief and see to it that you feel no pain. A wedding gift," he added, with the barest trace of his devil smile.

"Another one?" Belle pushed herself up onto her elbow as he lifted the blankets to join her, still wearing his leathers, boots and all.

"Am I not known for my generosity?"

Struggling to keep her eyes open, Belle found herself one moment beside a man clad all in stiff leather and the next beside a man in a silken night gown. Perhaps she had missed the magic as she blinked.

"No," she managed, slowly, her voice gravelly and unladylike. She was far too tired even to be truly startled at the transformation. "Not really." Of all the trials she might have imagined for her wedding night, it had never occurred to her that she might be so groggy, so overwhelmed and so confused that she didn't much care what he did to her as long as it was quickly followed by sleep.

She became more alert the moment he touched her, but her fear was more a memory of fear than real and she was already half in dreams. He didn't seem to mean her harm, whatever he had implied for her father's ears.

Rumpelstiltskin laid his open hand at her waist. No more than that, their heads resting a body's width apart on the pillows. A candle burned brightly behind him, leaving his features in deep shadow. His hand moved unsteadily from her waist to her arm, then to her shoulder, then to her cheek. He lingered there and his hand shook.

Was he afraid? Belle couldn't imagine being afraid of anything in his place, but shake he did as he brought himself nearer to her and, so softly, pressed his lips against hers.

Gaston had kissed her once, returning after a battle that had gone well. He had pushed his tongue against her lips and quite revolted her with his grasping hands, but Rumpelstiltskin did no more than brush lips with her and withdraw again. She might have expected his breath to be rank with those monstrous stained teeth, but he smelled only of herbs and strong spirits. He propped himself beside her and once more passed his hand down her arm, her waist, to her hip where his hand lingered and tightened until the trembling stopped.

All the candles in the lamps went out at once. There was still the orange glow of firelight but Belle couldn't see more than his curls outlined against it. His hand pulled at her nightgown, gathering it into a bundle at her thighs, and although he remained gentle Belle sensed an urgency in him that she knew too little about. It frightened her, but it was a fear of the unknown and not of the dark sorcerer who had become her husband.

Rumpelstiltskin's hand travelled up her thigh to burrow beneath the bunched nightgown. Belle had been sure that she would feel violated by her husband's first touch, by anyone touching her there, but she felt a curious distance from it all, as though she were dreaming already and merely watching herself, a dream-within-dream Belle, being touched by the monster who, so gentle in the dark, was no monster at all.

She knew the way of it, enough to open her legs when his hand went there to seek out the most private place. Her own hands had been there, sometimes curious and sometimes wicked with delight. She was prepared for the sensation of his warm skin against her outer petals and so yelped and jerked in shock when, instead of dry fingers, he touched her with an open palm that felt slick with something very, very cold.

He leapt back at her tiny cry, almost clear out of the bed and onto the floor.

"What is it?" he asked, with what sounded like equal measures of exasperation and alarm.

"Cold and wet!" So much for dignity!

"To save you discomfort," he answered, affronted, crouching near the foot of the bed like an animal at bay. The covers had come away with him and Belle tried in vain to pull them back over herself. "Are you so innocent as all that, girl?"

"My name is Belle," she answered him, fiercely. " _Belle._ And... no." She allowed her rational thoughts to address her wounded pride. He had offered her the gift. No pain. Of course there would need to be something to smooth the way if it wasn't going to hurt. He was being kind. She took a careful breath and moderated her tone. "No, I'm not. It's just cold, that's all, and you could have warned me."

"This," Rumpelstiltskin said, shuffling back to her and dragging the blankets with him, "is proving to be every bit as tiresome as I remember. Let's be done, shall we?"

The stuff was still wet on his hand when he took her by the elbows and laid her back. Belle thought that she could smell a hint of green plants in it, and perhaps some lavender or... She opened her legs for him at the nudge of his knee and he settled there above her, pressed to her from hip to chest and heavy against one thigh. His fingers found her again, spreading the substance that had transformed from cold and clammy to warm and pleasant in the moments they had spent at odds. He spread it everywhere and then—she felt her terrible blush as she realised what he was doing—he used it on himself as well.

And then it wasn't just his fingers. Belle's body fought him without consulting the part of her that had agreed, freely and truly, to become Rumpelstiltskin's wife. He was lodged between her legs so that attempting to clamp them shut only brought her feet to the backs of his knees, making him gasp aloud and surge towards her, rubbing that new... thing... against her moistened lips. It felt strange, sticky, new, cramped and wholly terrifying but it was not—Belle was very clear as Rumpelstiltskin regained his composure and drew back again breathing heavily—it was not unpleasant.

That he could easily have made it so, whether by cruelty or carelessness, was in her mind as he settled with her again, his face near her face and his hair brushing against her cheek. His hardness pushed at her opening and his fingers were there too, guiding himself in.

There was no pain—not if Belle narrowed her understanding of the word somewhat to exclude the feeling of being pushed and stretched in ways that her body surely couldn't match. Without his gift, she knew it would have been agony to have him inside her. She had to bite her lip again to stifle cries that were of surprise rather than protest; she knew that he had only just begun. But once inside her he went still and waited, finding her mouth again and, this time, dragging his lips across hers from one side to the other in a kiss that assured her he longed to do much more.

"This is enough," he breathed, the struggle for stillness making his voice shake, as hers had at their wedding. "We've done enough, my Lady. Enough to satisfy a contract. Shall I stop?"

"It seems a waste after all that," she said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage. When he tensed, surprised, Belle was appalled to find herself trying not to laugh. Laugh! With the Dark One in her like a dog down a rabbit hole! "I think we should finish what we started," she said, then fidgeted until her feet were once more planted on the bed, wider apart and, she hoped, more welcoming. It was certainly more comfortable.

His moan was almost too soft to make out, his whole body stiffening as she moved and then trembling when she was still again. He rocked his weight above her, driving himself deeper inside. That took her breath away but her body was no longer trying to keep him out and it seemed that she did, after all, have enough room for him inside her. He began to thrust into her, levering himself up on both arms and leaving Belle missing the warmth and weight of him. She lifted a hesitant hand to touch his face. He turned his head towards her touch, sighing raggedly, and left a damp kiss in the centre of her palm. He made no objection to her timid touches; first one hand in his hair and then the other behind his back, gripping his nightshirt tightly in her fist when the thrusting grew faster and more insistent.

It was not—most definitely _not_ —the nightmare she had half-feared it would be. Nor was it the sweetened dream of the romances she had loved to read, where every man was a prince to his lady and where a kiss could change the world. This was more than that. It was something _real_ , her husband taking her.

Rumpelstiltskin suddenly shivered all over, his movements faltering. A gulp escaped him followed by another noise that sounded like a man pressing his lips very tightly together to stop himself making any sound at all. And then he stopped, it stopped, Rumpelstiltskin taking himself out of her with as much care as he had entered. He left a dull ache behind him that faded quickly to almost nothing. He rolled away and lay on his back beside her, breathing hard. Belle could make out the reflection of the firelight in his unblinking eyes.

"And now I am your wife," she said, as much because she needed to hear the truth of it said aloud as to make conversation with him. If she turned it into words it made a sort of sense of the unknowable; of the future at this man's side that she could not begin to imagine.

"That you are." Rumpelstiltskin had his breath back, but the words were hushed. "The most..." he seemed to struggle for the word he wanted, "...everlasting of contracts."

Belle, too, struggled for words that would fit the moment. She was so tired, so out of sorts. So relieved and dismayed all at once.

"Thank you," she said, small-voiced. "For being kind to me."

He sat up, then, grunting the barest acknowledgement of her thanks. Perhaps it was a dismissal. Belle didn't know, only that conversation seemed lost and false in this quiet after-place and that their brief and awkward understanding had evaporated like the morning mist.

When he rose from the bed she heard the heels of his boots meet the floor and could make out that he was fully dressed once more, without her feeling even a whisper of his magic.

"I need not trouble your bed again," he said, striding quickly to the door and turning the key. "Rest well, my Lady." The door banged shut behind him. His footsteps on the stairs spoke clearly of his haste to be elsewhere.

Alone in the dark, Belle whispered her own name and then, at last, she let the tears come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 6 December 2015]


	5. A Gift of Gold

Belle slept late, not stirring until the innkeeper's wife shook her shoulder. The woman left quickly without saying a word. Groggy, Belle looked around the room as much as she was able without moving from her cosy spot. She could see a tray of food on the little table and a bathtub that once more steamed invitingly.

She had slept strangely—deeply but not enough to relieve her exhaustion. A nervous glance over her shoulder reassured Belle that she was alone before she sat up to face the new day. Rumpelstiltskin had not returned to her in the night. _Did_ he sleep? She had no idea, knowing only that he had been fresh and energetic after the sleepless night before the wedding. If he didn't sleep at all then at least that made some sense of his remark about not needing to trouble her bed again.

Overcoming her reluctance, Belle pushed away the bedclothes and sat up. The butterfly-stain of blood in the lap of her nightgown was a shock. She was not due her monthly visit for a little while yet. But before she even had time to be afraid, Belle remembered that she had read about the blood. In the old days, the bloodied sheets would even be shown in public to prove that the marriage was a true one. There had been dark hints hidden in the gossip of older girls about enduring the pain, but Belle had a low opinion of gossip and preferred to trust in books. She had never read of a girl bleeding to death on her wedding night and so had put the whole thing from her mind and forgotten about it until now.

Just now she was much more worried about the bedsheets and her spoiled nightdress. She had only a little discomfort this morning and the bleeding had quite stopped while she slept; the stain on her gown was dry. Nevertheless she felt soiled and strange so she gave in to the temptation of the bathtub with its luxuriously hot water.

Ordinarily, such hot water would have been a treat and a novelty. But up until now there had always been Lotte to shoo away anyone who might intrude while she was naked. Rumpelstiltskin had taken the key with him when he left but he hadn't locked the door. It did not seem likely that anyone would risk angering him by bursting in on his bride in her bath, but Belle much preferred not to take that chance. It would be even worse if _he_ came in while she had no clothes on! She bathed and dried herself as quickly as possible.

Yesterday's travel had been an ordeal in her binding dress, with her shoulders bare to the chill and her skirts so wide and stiff as to crowd Rumpelstiltskin to the far side of the seat. Today she chose her plainest dress to wear over her oldest, softest underclothes and a pair of thick woollen stockings. The white satin slippers that belonged with the wedding dress had been ruined by the brief walk across the wet and muddy yard last night. They had dried out overnight so Belle put them on rather than begin taking everything out of her trunk to find her leather boots. She put on her cloak over the rest then brushed out her hair with fierce strokes before pulling it back into a single, thick braid at the nape of her neck.

Breakfast was a platter of dried fruits, nuts and sliced cheeses. She had not realised how nervous she was until she tried to take a bite and found it difficult even to swallow. Much more welcome was the silver teapot and the cups of fine porcelain—two cups. She hoped that he might come and join her a while, her new husband, and immediately felt guilty when she also hoped that he would not. She did not understand why he had left her alone last night after they'd... after. Had it been her fault? Things had seemed to go... successfully, hadn't they?

Belle had supposed his busy thrusting to be pleasing to him, and that he had satisfied himself before he stopped. The sounds he'd made and those hasty kisses had let her think that he did not find the act as tiresome as he had claimed, but perhaps she'd misunderstood?

She regretted that she had been too overwrought to accept more advice from Elena when it had been offered. She and the blacksmith had nine children and always laughed together, so her advice would probably be sound. Belle hadn't known how to ask, nor even which questions to ask, and hadn't really wanted to talk about it at all. She hadn't wanted to _think_ about lying with the Dark One lest fearing the worst undid her determination to be brave. Now, the consummation of her marriage behind her and the fearful mystery of it reduced to mere fact, to a memory of his reluctance and his care, it seemed so odd that it needed to be kept a mystery at all.

Comforted by the tea, Belle rested her eyes and thought of home. Where would Papa be at this hour? There was so much to rebuild, and before they could even do that the money would need to be found. Had Gaston accepted the silver of her dowry as Rumpelstiltskin offered, or had he left it for her people? And what of Lotte? Suppose she was still crying with no-one to comfort her?

Would Rumpelstiltskin let her send a message home to let them know that she was safe and well? She suspected that he would rather they fear the very worst, having done all that he could to leave them with the worst possible impression. Poor Papa.

The knock at the door almost made her spill tea across her lap. But as before, Rumpelstiltskin waited for her to give him leave to enter. This time, Belle's voice was steady as she called out, but she could not hide that she was hoarse with tiredness and strain.

When she began to get up, Rumpelstiltskin waved her back into her seat. He was also dressed for travel, his cloak already damp from going outside and fine raindrops sparkling in his wavy hair. He stared at her with one hand still on the door latch.

"Good morning," Belle said, uncertainly. "There's still some tea left."

He nodded, leaving the door ajar behind him and stiffly taking the other seat while Belle poured. He accepted the cup in silence and wrapped both hands around it as though he appreciated the warmth, but did no more than inhale the fragrant steam.

"Have we far to go today?" she asked, determined that she would do what she could to lay her own fears to rest. Asking reasonable questions did not seem to anger him and Belle wanted to know the future she was facing. "To your estate?"

"It's quite far," he said, his voice taking on that higher pitch again and that odd singsong note, as though he played with every word as he spoke it aloud. As though he meant each statement to be taken for a riddle. "But magic speeds our way. We'll be there by tonight."

Belle could find nothing frightening about the still figure who sat beside her. His sharply contrasting moods had startled her, his appearance had disturbed her and his cruelty to her father had distressed her, but she could see little of that giggling, grimacing, mocking creature in him as he sat there staring into his teacup. He looked glum.

Perhaps he regretted his bargain? Belle supposed that she had been no great prize in his bed last night if she could not even be certain that he had been satisfied. Well, that would just serve him right for marrying a girl he knew nothing about, wouldn't it? He could have chosen the gold instead.

But Belle didn't want that feeble and bitter triumph. She wanted to find out who this man was and what he wanted of her; what sort of father he would be to their children. She wanted to know why he'd bargained for a provincial maiden if he preferred to enjoy a woman of the world. She wanted to know why he couldn't keep his hands from fidgeting for five minutes together, and why the moment he stopped prancing and play-acting he looked so very sad.

"They say that you live on a dark island surrounded by a vast lake with waters as black as midnight," she said, remembering one of the stories about him.

Rumpelstiltskin blinked slowly, cocking his head in thought.

"I do have a big fish pond," he allowed, brightly. "People tend to exaggerate a good story."

Belle tried to keep a straight face.

"A fish pond isn't as frightening as a vast lake of midnight, no."

"That depends on the fish," he shot back, and she saw the upwards quirk of his mouth for just a moment before he concealed it behind his teacup and at last took a small sip.

"Well, that's good. I'm far too tired for a long swim."

He looked at her then, turning in his chair and putting his cup back on the tray. Daylight added shades of green and gold to his unsettling eyes, but it was hard to remain unsettled when he wore an expression of mild concern.

"You slept poorly?"

"No," Belle said quickly, not wanting him to blame the other occupants of the inn for disturbing her. She had slept better than she had been able to in weeks, in spite of all the comings and goings on the stairs outside, but one night of rest wouldn't be enough to make up for the long strain of the war. She had forced herself to be brave and to think of others for so long now because of the war, and hidden her fear from everyone right up until the moment she climbed into Rumpelstiltskin's carriage. Now her home was safe, her father was safe, and she could pretend no longer that the effort hadn't exhausted her. "Did you sleep well, sir?" Her voice became timid before the sentence was spoken; she had not meant to sound so reproachful!

"I need very little rest." If her tone displeased him then he gave no sign of it. "You shall have all the sleep you need when we reach the Dark Castle. Comfort. A good life."

Abruptly, as if he felt that he had said far too much, Rumpelstiltskin rose and left the fireside. Watching him as she finished her tea, Belle realised that he was only a little taller than she was. Raw, pure power made him seem a giant to all the other senses, but when she truly looked at him—when his back was turned and she could see neither his strange complexion nor his startling eyes— he seemed only a man, slight and elegant. Belle turned back to the fire before he could catch her staring.

There was a rustle of cloth behind her.

"You bled, my Lady," he said.

She turned quickly, shocked, and saw that he was holding her soiled nightgown. Her face burned and she hurried to snatch it from him, but Rumpelstiltskin held her gently at bay with the barrier of his arm, the nightgown hanging at the far reach of his other hand.

"A powerful thing," he said, half smiling as he looked at the mirrored stain. "The blood of the marriage bed. A powerful thing."

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" Outraged, Belle made another grab for the gown. Rumpelstiltskin danced back beyond her reach, amused at her expense.

"I have a use for this, dearie," he said, wagging his finger at her.

"Don't be horrid," she spat, shocked at her own anger at this unwarranted humiliation. "It's just a stain and on new clothing too, and I'll probably never scrub it all the way out. It's a waste, that's all." She stuck out her hand, demanding the return of her property.

Rumpelstiltskin pouted.

"No need to be dainty," he crooned. "Here." He stroked his palm over the fabric, over the shameful stain, and it was gone. "There now. All is mended." He offered her the cloth with one of those twittering, high-pitched giggles. Belle snatched it and bundled it up in her arms, furious with him. Her blood was no man's business! How could he be so gracious one moment and so... so _beastly_ the next?

She hid her confusion and her tear-filled eyes by turning quickly to her trunk, stuffing the nightgown and her wedding things in carelessly and struggling to shut the lid on top of them.

"Child," said Rumpelstiltskin, suddenly standing too close behind her. She hadn't heard his footsteps. His voice was once again gentle, deeper, the way he had spoken to her in the dark. "Magic knows naught of shame. There's protection to be found in the blood of your innocence. I will use it to make you a gift."

Belle sobbed, except that it was a laugh as well, born more of frustration than hurt and more from exhaustion than shame. She turned back to face him, the tears rolling down her cheeks unheeded.

"Another one?"

Rumpelstiltskin looked away.

"Another one," he agreed, then struck a pose. "May I not shower my bride with gifts?"

"Please don't mock me," she choked. "Please. I paid your price."

Rumpelstiltskin produced a silken handkerchief from nowhere and offered it to her, dangling it delicately from his fingertips. His long fingernails were black, ugly against the white silk. Belle took it ungraciously and dabbed at her cheeks, sniffing. She felt utterly foolish now that he seemed sorry for upsetting her. What was blood on a piece of cloth? What was the point of shame when he had been inside her? What was it to her if he wanted to steal a stain?

"You're tired," he said, gallantly refusing the return of his handkerchief with a raised hand. "Overwrought. Understandable. We shall leave when you are ready and tonight you will sleep in peace, you have my word."

Overwrought! She hadn't been! Five minutes ago she had been full of courage, determined to search for common ground with this husband of hers. Now she felt damp, sullen and foolish, and worst of all that she needed to begin all over again to understand him.

At least she knew that he kept his word. It was something to cling to.

"I'm ready now."

Rumpelstiltskin gave her the slightest of bows and then walked stiffly to the door.

She followed him from the room, down the stairs and back through the busy tavern. There were more stares and Belle knew that once they had driven away there would be new stories to exaggerate. Stories about Rumpelstiltskin and his pale, tear-stained young bride.

Why _had_ he brought her to an inn if he had a castle of his own?

"Do they keep the room just for you?" she asked as they stepped out into the driving sleet, feeling that she should make some effort to mend the quarrel even if she had not been the one to start it. She was unused to quarrelling with anyone, and it was no way to begin her marriage.

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin did not sound angry or impatient. Belle couldn't decide what sort of a mood he was in. He was closed and quiet again as they crossed to the waiting coach, just as he had been during the long journey yesterday. She wondered if he minded the stories that would be spun from their visit here—those stories about the Dark One's wedding night. They would not be kind stories. And for all that Belle had wept her heart out last night and appeared with blotchy eyes this morning, they would not be true.

She registered Rumpelstiltskin's driver for the first time; a tall figure swathed in a black cloak and deep hood trimmed with silver to match the harness of the four black horses. Driver and horses were all far too still. Had they waited there all night, impervious to the cold and the rain?

Rumpelstiltskin allowed her to clamber into the coach unaided and to choose her seat. He once again sat himself beside her. As the carriage began to move Belle wondered if he sat beside her because sitting across from her would mean that they were forced to look at one another.

After a while, he offered her a small silver flask.

"A nip to keep out the cold?"

"No... thank you." She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he drank deeply himself. She could smell the spirits—strong stuff, the same as had been on his breath last night. Had he steadied his nerves before he came to her bed? The idea melted her a little and reassured her hugely. "You might have asked me for my nightgown," she said quietly. "Told me what you wanted with it."

He put his hand over his heart, exaggerating a look of dismay into something grotesque. 

"Does my wife reproach me?" he asked of the world.

"She does, sir." She pretended not to notice his behaviour. She was no longer angry with him—she had never found it possible to hold on to ill-feeling for very long nor to sulk to any real effect the way some of her friends could. But she did not understand how the sinister creature who had taunted her father and Gaston so viciously about her fate could be the same man who had healed their lands, nor how the man who had trembled and hesitated in their first embrace could be the one who teased her for her shame when she bled. "I do. You didn't need to be unkind."

"Then the remedy is a gift," he said brightly, as though it were a simple and inarguable truth. From beneath the cushioned seat he brought a wooden chest, no more than a rough box with a latch. He set it on the opposite seat and lifted the lid.

"...straw?" Belle stared, unable to imagine why a man with all the magic of the world at his command would keep a box of neatly bundled straw in his carriage.

He smiled faintly, reaching into the box and she recognised the tools of the spinner's art, the spindle and the distaff. The distaff was already dressed with a white fibre that looked more like the finest wool than anything one might make from humble straw, and the spindle was half wound with thread of pure gold. Rumpelstiltskin shrugged off his cloak and began to spin.

"I thought that you used a wheel," she said, quite taken out of herself as she watched him work. He did so with a practised economy of movement, his fingers deft in the twist and delicate with the draw. "They say that you use a wheel."

"Oh, yes." He spoke so softly, seemed so completely absorbed as he watched the spindle, that Belle couldn't bring herself to disturb him with more questions.

For all that she stared and marvelled, paying close attention because the thing was so beautiful to watch, Belle could never quite see the moment when his magic worked—when the smooth white thread that he had so carefully drawn out actually became pure gold upon the spindle.

When the spindle was full, Rumpelstiltskin set aside the distaff and broke off a length of the gold thread. Belle wanted to touch it, to see whether it felt like metal or like thread, but Rumpelstiltskin was busy again. For a while he played with it in his hands, testing and smoothing it, twisting and crumpling it, as if trying to know the golden thread as intimately and as carefully as he had known her in the darkness. Then, satisfied, he wrapped the thread around and around his smallest left finger and made a fist, his other hand covering the fist.

When he opened his hands again he wore a ring on his finger. It was a narrow band of pure, polished gold and yet, as she leaned closer to admire this new marvel, Belle saw the warming tint of iron too.

No. Her realisation came quietly and simply. The tint of _blood._

Rumpelstiltskin slid the ring from his finger and inspected it, turning it this way and that, and then he turned himself stiffly to face her. He tried and failed to look her in the eye.

"My Lady," he said, solemnly, opening his hand and reaching for her left. Belle gave it, hesitantly, and stared while he slipped the band onto her ring finger. "Your innocence protects you while you wear this. It might even be more use to you this way." He lifted her hand to the level of her chest and then, hesitating a moment, bent to kiss it. His breath was warm against her skin and his hair tickled her wrist, making her shiver. He lingered for just a moment with his lips against the back of her knuckles, eyes closed, just as he had last night when he kissed her open palm. "I return to you what is yours."

"Thank you," she said, bewildered and charmed and flattered all at once. She squeezed his hand to show him her sincerity. The gift had touched her deeply, healing something that he had broken with his thoughtless teasing earlier, and he looked so uncertain as he drew away. She had accused him of being sordid when _this_ had been his motive all along? Oh dear... "It's a beautiful gift. Thank you."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, clearly far more chagrined by her thanks than he had been by her scolding, and returned to his spinning.

Belle continued to watch him until the distaff lay idle and Rumpelstiltskin held another spindle fully wound with golden thread, tossing it idly from hand to hand as he gazed out of the window.

They did not speak again, but the silence was an easier one than before.

It was long past nightfall before the road beneath the wheels became cobbles again, their pace slowing. Belle drew the curtain aside and tried to see where they were, but there were no bright lights of welcome this time and the coach did not stop. She glimpsed a few faces, frozen and staring as they passed, and realised that they were going through a small town.

"Is this your home?" she asked, hopefully. She longed to be out of the coach and free to move. She longed to see her new home before she burst from not knowing.

"My fiefdom," Rumpelstiltskin said, spreading his hands and smiling, pleased with himself. "From here to the river, from here to the mountains. The castle isn't far now."

The cobbles ended abruptly and there were no more faces outside, just the dark road again and the looming darkness of the forest beyond. So he really did live in a castle. And he really did spin straw into gold. Belle took a shy peek at her new ring.

A new home awaited her; a new life with her strange new husband. Belle was so nervous that her mouth went dry, but she felt excitement too, and hope. The terrible stories about Rumpelstiltskin might be wrong, just as the tale told of their wedding night at the inn would be all wrong. The truth of it was theirs alone, and they had made a beginning together.

She rubbed her finger over the band of gold and innocence and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 11 December 2015]


	6. Dust

They called it the Dark Castle, but at first sight it seemed more imposing than sinister. Belle could see that the building was very large and that it lacked any major fortifications on this side that met the road. The rest was lost to her in the darkness and the blinding snow. The storm had worsened gradually as they drove closer to the castle, the snow falling hard and thick and coating everything in moonlit white.

Rumpelstiltskin gave his hand to steady her as she stepped from the carriage into knee-deep snow, her slippers not suited to even the briefest walk in such weather. She was damp and frozen after only a few shuffling steps on the straight path that took them from tall gates up to the castle's doors. The wind was bitter enough that she had to pull herself deeper into the hood of her cloak as she hurried to keep up with Rumpelstiltskin.

There hadn't been any lake of black midnight, she knew that much.

Tall double doors at the head of a short flight of shallow steps opened at Rumpelstiltskin's approach. He stopped to wait for her then caught her at the waist and hurried her inside. Belle tried not to be too frightened when, standing in a darkened hall of marble, the doors slammed shut behind her.

The place felt chilled from disuse, adding to her shivers. Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers to bring sudden light from the heavy iron candelabra. Belle did her best to compose her features, pushing back her hood. She didn't want to look afraid.

"Come," Rumpelstiltskin said, striding ahead of her towards a wide staircase while Belle looked around her in an effort to get her bearings. She had never been inside so large a building, nor one so finely constructed. There were several doors and two staircases leading from just this one entrance hall alone. Candles and torches came to life to light Rumpelstiltskin's passage. Glancing back just before she turned the corner of the first flight of stairs Belle saw that those lights left behind them did not fade again.

They took a smaller and narrower staircase from the second floor, winding counter-clockwise for three turns until they reached a narrow landing, and then Rumpelstiltskin stopped and waited for her to catch up with him.

"Your rooms," he said, standing aside gallantly and opening the door with a mere flick of his wrist.

He had promised her comfort, but what he showed her now was _luxury_. Belle took a few steps into the large room, which held a grander bed than she had ever seen, draped with tapestries that could be closed all around for warmth. One unbroken carpet of the finest wool covered most of the floor. A wide, tall window directly opposite the door, so delicately leaded that for one moment she believed it to be a single piece of glass, gave a view of the building storm outside. Two doors led off to her left, one on either side of the bed. Her old trunk was waiting for her at the foot of it, just as it had been at the inn.

"My rooms?" she asked, turning in a slow circle before returning to face him, awestruck.

"You were expecting a dungeon?" He flashed his teeth in that sardonic smile of his, but Belle thought that she saw some hint of true humour there. She remembered another name that she had heard for him: _The Man With Two Faces_. It seemed to her that Rumpelstiltskin had not two faces but many. Too many to count.

"Of course not." Belle returned to him and studied his face in the candlelight. "It's lovely." Her scrutiny seemed to discomfit him. He nodded curtly, turning to leave the same way they had come.

"I shall send you a meal presently. Good night, then."

Belle found her voice before he made the first turn of the descent. "Good night," she called, weakly. Rumpelstiltskin broke stride, half glancing back, but didn't stop. Belle listened until she could no longer hear his footsteps on the stairs, affronted at this unexpected abandonment.

Belle had thought... well, she had thought that at least part of this first evening would be spent in his company, perhaps being shown the rest of the castle and introduced to the other inhabitants. Then again she was shivering with cold, her skirts and stockings were wet and she was hungry and weary from the road. Perhaps he was only trying to be kind?

Slowly, Belle closed the door. A key was in the lock, permitting her to lock herself away from the world if she chose. It was a choice that had never been hers in her father's house; should she need privacy then Lotte or another woman saw to it that she was not disturbed, but to be alone—to be able to shut out even her husband if she wanted to—was a novel and startling freedom.

She turned the key simply because she could. It wasn't in her mind to keep Rumpelstiltskin or anyone else out, but there _were_ things that she would prefer to be able to do in complete privacy. One of those was to sit on the edge of the bed and remove her ruined slippers and her soggy stockings.

The carpet felt wonderfully thick and warm beneath her chilled feet. Belle spent a few moments at the fire to warm her hands then went to try the two doors in the opposite wall. The one to the right of the bed opened onto a small, simply-furnished room with a couch, a small table with two chairs and an assortment of shelves and bookcases. All were empty, but Belle could quite clearly picture herself sitting beneath the window with a favourite book. She smiled, touched and surprised yet again by her new husband's consideration.

The second room had no window and was small, the walls undecorated. It held a great copper bathtub and a basin on a stand, a stool for a chamber pot and a stack of the thickest, largest and softest towels she had ever seen. Her own bath at home had been a tin thing, small and cramped, that had taken Lotte and two companions a good hour to fill to the depth of Belle's hips, carrying the water up to her rooms in kettles they'd first heated down in the kitchens. Often, Belle had simply done as the maids did and chased the menfolk from the kitchens after the evening meal, bathing behind a screen in front of the big kitchen fire and sharing the water with two or three others.

How many maids and kettles would it take to fill _this_ tub? The rim stood as high as her thigh and it was nearly long enough for someone Belle's size to lie down in. But she remembered the room at the inn, the water that had been scalding hot and waiting for her when she woke up, and guessed that Rumpelstiltskin had his own ways of managing such matters.

With his great magic, was there anything that he _couldn't_ do?

She'd expected a knock at the door to announce someone bringing her the promised meal. She would have welcomed it and been glad of a little company, perhaps a kitchen maid. Someone less forbidding than her husband, anyway. Someone with whom she could talk and smile, and ask her questions about this place without treading on eggshells. But the smell of meat led her back to the sitting room and there the meal waited on the table that had been empty not a minute earlier; a plate with a silver cover, a stemmed glass, a jug of mead and another of good, clear water.

Belle sighed. His magic amazed her, even thrilled her, but she really would have liked somebody to talk to. But there would be time enough for that. Her whole lifetime, in fact. Resolute, she sat down to eat.

It was a good meal—a rich fowl in a sauce of fruits and wine, and very welcome when she had eaten so little for days. Comfortably full and warmed from the inside, she took her chair and a cup of water through the bedchamber and sat beside the fire to warm her toes and dry out the hem of her skirts.

She hadn't imagined that his castle would be so big! Was she equal to the task of running such a vast household? How many rooms must there be? How many servants? Belle had grown up within fortified walls, protected and well provided for, but the living accommodation there had been quite simple, tucked into the spaces that could be spared while the castle played its essential part in the life and safety of the whole town. Her new home was a palace and stood distant from the little town they had passed through on the way. Something told her that the people there did not take refuge within Rumpelstiltskin's walls when danger threatened.

Feeling lost and homesick, Belle went to her trunk and lifted the lid to search out something familiar for comfort. She had forgotten how carelessly she'd stuffed in her wedding dress on top of everything and smoothed it out guiltily, draping the skirt and petticoats over the carved wooden foot-board of the bed. There was a wardrobe in the corner by the window; she ought at least to unpack her things and hang them to air.

Sorting out her clothing occupied her for some time, even though it didn't take up very much of the space in the wardrobe. She could see no use at present for the household linens of her trousseau. Those could stay in the trunk, safe in case they were needed, along with her keepsakes and hair ribbons. Those were all gaudy things, girlhood things, save for the delicate teardrop pendant that she had worn since before Rumpelstiltskin came, and now removed to be put away safely in its tiny silver box.

At last, head swimming with fatigue, Belle changed into her crumpled nightgown and spread her damp clothing in front of the fire to dry properly.

The bed was very comfortable, springing pleasingly under her as she wriggled beneath the sheets. Once her warmth began to spread Belle was comfortable, ready for sleep, yet she lay awake in spite of herself, her thoughts refusing to quiet. So much had happened in so little time. She missed her father and her friends desperately now that she had a moment to herself. Her father's grief and anger haunted her, as did Lotte's sobbing and even Gaston's accusing, bewildered glare.

After a while she remembered that she had locked the door and went to turn the key, scurrying back to the warmth of the bed as soon as she had done so. Would he come to her bed? He had said that he need not, but that didn't mean that he _would_ not. She found herself waiting, even wondering what she might do differently this time, but he didn't arrive and her eyelids grew heavy.

Just as she reached the edge of sleep she did hear Rumpelstiltskin's boots upon the stairs. He stopped outside her door for a few moments, perhaps listening, before continuing on, upwards and out of her hearing.

Belle slept a second night alone.

~+~

The new day brought a worsening of the storm that had already left snow blanketing the world for as far as Belle could see from her window. The thick-falling snow was driven by violent winds from a black sky so that even in daylight it was difficult to learn much about where she was. On high ground, she thought, and there were trees as far as the eye could see, but the snow was deceptive. It was a lonely place, she could tell that much.

She chose her warmest clothes again, the things she had dried in front of the fire and which had the benefit of already being warm through, and left her room to find out about her new home.

Creeping down the stairs made Belle felt like a naughty child, but Rumpelstiltskin had not forbidden her to leave her rooms nor to explore the castle. It was reasonable to assume that anyone she met would already know of her arrival. Word got about when a lord took a bride. But she didn't meet a single soul on her journey downstairs; nor could she hear voices anywhere nearby. The silence was so deep as to be unnerving, in fact. She found herself back in the hall of marble, where the candles still burned. They had not burned down during the night, and she was sure of her assessment without knowing how she was so sure. These were not fresh candles replacing the old, but the same candles from last night. They just hadn't melted.

As she looked around her at the choice of closed and rather forbidding doors, Belle heard footsteps behind her on the stairs. She spun about, alarmed, to find Rumpelstiltskin regarding her from the third step, his expression grave.

Now she really did feel like a naughty child caught sneaking where she shouldn't be!

"I wondered where to find you," she said, uncertainly. "This place is huge. Why is there no-one else about?"

"There's just us, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin danced lightly down the final few steps to stand at her side. "This way."

He led her across the hall to a pair of doors which opened smoothly to let him pass. It was a long room, perhaps a ballroom, and a blaze of rich colour in contrast to either the stark marble hallway or the muted warmth of her bedchamber. Belle tried to look around her without letting Rumpelstiltskin get too far ahead of her. She suspected that he could turn a corner and lose her entirely in a place as big as this!

And in a place as big as this...

"Just us?"

"That's right." He stopped beside a large and inviting fire which seemed, like everything else in the castle, to anticipate his whims or to stand ready for his return. The flames were dancing and the room was already warm. A single leather armchair sat facing the fire. A single chair was at the head of a long and brightly polished oak table. An assortment of objects, all of them a mystery to Belle, occupied pedestals around the walls and seemed a peculiar addition to the opulence. She studied all of it, but her gaze was drawn most of all to the spinning wheel at the far corner, and to the baskets of straw that waited beside it. So it _was_ true.

Rumpelstiltskin followed her gaze and cleared his throat as if uncomfortable that she had noticed.

"The castle will see to your needs," he said. "No need for servants here."

"But..." Belle continued to stare around her, bewildered, and said the first thing that came into her head. "But everything's dusty!"

"Dust never harmed anyone," he declared, looking offended.

"But... look, you put all these things on display, like they're important, and they're all covered in dust!" Belle moved to the nearest, a golden curved bow with a delicate silver arrow, and ran her finger across the plinth. It came away grey with dust and soot.

"Madam," Rumpelstiltskin said, "if you object to dust then by all means find a duster." Rather stiffly, he walked to his spinning wheel, drew out the squat three legged stool, sat and took up his thread.

Belle clenched her jaw. "Is the whole castle like this?"

"Most likely." He was looking anywhere but at Belle; she would have sworn, were he any other man, that she had embarrassed him.

"And you've no servants."

"None."

"But now you've a wife." Belle put her hands on her hips. "And I suppose I'm to cook, clean and care for you, and your castle as well?"

"You may do as you please, my Lady." He looked up from his work. "But you're no servant. You need not lift a finger and your needs will be met."

"Except the dust," she answered.

"Except for dust," he agreed. "They do call it the Dark Castle. Dust and cobwebs—it's rather expected."

Belle's exasperation was rapidly becoming something much lighter. She thought that she could see the light of merriment in the crinkle of his eyes as well. She tried to hide her smile by looking down at her hands.

"Then, what are my duties?"

"Hmm?" Rumpelstiltskin had returned his attention to his spinning, a cloud of white fibre in his hand.

"You said that my duties would be light." Belle went to him, slowly, and watched him over the top of the biggest wheel she had ever seen. "What are they then, if I've no household to manage and only dust to worry about?"

"You may..." Rumpelstiltskin frowned slightly. Belle noticed how worn the rim of the wheel looked. It was the wear of many, many years of patient use. "You may bring me my tea. Bring me straw when I'm spinning at the wheel. Clean and dust if it pleases you."

"How long have you been alone here?" The dust was on everything but not thickly layered. His home had not fallen into ruin. It had merely succumbed to the kind of blindness to slow change that came with long familiarity.

"A long time." He seemed to force the lightness into his voice. "A lifetime." His brows knit slightly, his lips pursing. "You've a whole castle to explore, dearie. Away you go."

"Right." Belle was hungry and intended to find the kitchens. As delicious as a magical meal might be, she preferred to know that her food came from cooking pots. And then she would find a duster, she decided, if only because the subject of dust appeared to open the door to conversation with her husband. "May I go anywhere I like?"

"If a door will not open for you at a touch, do not try to pass," he said as she turned to go. "And, child?"

Gritting her teeth at his refusal to use her name, Belle turned. Rumpelstiltskin's expression had changed, grown dark and terrible, somehow accusing, and his eyes seemed almost completely ink-black. It was as though he had drawn the battering winter storm inside himself.

"Yes?" The sight of him like that had transformed her intended snap of irritation into a squeak of fright.

"Never _ever_ try to leave this castle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 20 December 2015]


	7. Bread and Butter

It took Belle most of the day to realise that she hadn't seen a single mirror anywhere in Rumpelstiltskin's castle.

Her explorations took her all over the central building, into rooms both lived-in and seemingly forgotten, but it was only later when she caught her own reflection in a silvered teapot that she realised. Not one mirror. Not even in her own room, although it was furnished with everything else she might reasonably wish for.

The glimpse in the teapot showed her that her hair was a disgrace, lank and escaping in careless wisps from the braid that she had tied all the way back at the inn. Reluctantly, she untied it and did her best to comb it through with her fingers. Magic might see to the filling of the pantry, to the shine of the silverware, to the lighting of the rooms and to the fireplaces, but it seemed that it did not extend to keeping her clean and presentable.

She was more than glad of that. Rumpelstiltskin's magic had been so dark and tangible this morning as to terrify her.

Her hands shook slightly as she carried the tea tray into the great room where she had left her husband. He had truly frightened her with his admonition about not leaving the castle, so much that she had been only too glad to go away and spend her day getting to know her new home. But as evening fell, and as she made a solitary meal of bread and cheese in the castle's vast kitchen, Belle knew that she longed for company more than she wished to avoid facing her fear. She'd married him. She could hardly avoid him for the rest of her life. And there was nobody else here to talk to.

Besides, Rumpelstiltskin hadn't harmed her, nor even threatened her really, and he _had_ asked her to bring him tea.

He was there at his spinning wheel in the corner nearest the kitchen door, just as she had left him. Had he spent a whole day there? No, Belle decided, seeing that he had changed his clothing in the meanwhile, but he appeared to return to his spinning when he had nothing else to occupy his hands. She wondered why, for she had seen chests, drawers, _rooms_ full of finely spun gold thread, as well as all manner of other valuables about the place. Whatever his reason, he did not spin for the want of gold.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," Rumpelstiltskin said mildly. Belle eased the heavy tray onto the table before she answered him. She hoped that the rattling of crockery hadn't made her nervousness too obvious.

"You sent me away," she answered primly. She hadn't meant to take such a cool tone with him! But he _had_ frightened her earlier, and for what reason? Why should he fear her leaving his castle? She was his wife, she had given her word on that and, besides, wherever would she go? "But I brought you tea because you said that I might."

"So I did." She could feel him watching her as he took his seat at the head of the table. It was long enough and sturdy enough for a feast to satisfy two dozen, yet his was the only chair. "And how do you like my castle?"

Belle glanced distractedly at Rumpelstiltskin as she poured the tea. He had steepled his hands, fingertip to fingertip, and watched her over the top of them, his eyes alight with curiosity.

"It's very big," she said, making her best effort to sound friendly. "I don't think I'll ever learn my way around." Carefully, she carried the cup to him and placed it on the table in front of him. She was unable to keep her hands from trembling as she did so, but at least she hadn't dropped it. "But," she went on, with false and desperate cheer, "I think I can find my way back to my room."

"How goes the battle with the dust?" He spoke to keep her from leaving immediately, Belle was certain of it. For some reason that quieted her fear and she dared to look at him properly. Eyes that were no longer storm-black watched her over the rim of a dainty porcelain cup. He had changed his hard leather coat for a high-collared waistcoat over a silken shirt with full sleeves, and for the moment looked more a refined gentleman than a terrible monster.

"I got lost trying to find a duster," Belle admitted, smiling with the confession. It hadn't been very long before she'd forgotten that she'd been looking for one. The chests full of gold thread had taken her breath away. "But tomorrow the dust won't know what hit it."

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head slightly, but his incredulity was a mild thing. Anything seemed mild next to that terrible look he had given her earlier.

"Is there no tea left in the pot?" He gestured lazily to the tray, where she had left it at the other end of the table. "You brought another cup, did you not?"

"...yes." Not knowing what he required, what he preferred, she had brought everything. Milk and sugar, spoon and tongs, cups and saucers. Bread plates. Why had she brought bread plates? She had barely been able to manage the tray! "Should I join you?"

"As you wish."

Belle fetched herself a cup, aware again of how he watched her. When she looked again, his head was tilted to one side and his expression was one of fascination.

She blushed. To cover her embarrassment, she left her tea cup beside his and, with a great effort, brought the big heavy chair from the fireplace so that she could sit at the table.

Rumpelstiltskin's watchful fascination did not waver. He could have conjured her a hundred chairs, she supposed. Had he been so long without mortal company that he had forgotten that such things could be achieved with two strong hands and a clear head?

The chair was too low for the table. Belle seated herself as delicately as possible on the arm rest then drew her cup towards her.

"Why do you have no mirrors?" she asked, because his quiet scrutiny made her feel odd.

"There are mirrors. You will leave them covered." It was no answer, but Belle sensed that he would not be drawn further on the subject. His command this time had not been harsh, and still he watched her from behind his teacup.

"All right." Lost for anything else to say to him, Belle drank her tea and kept her gaze on the cup, on the liquid, where she could just barely make out her distorted reflection.

"Are you well?"

"What?" He had startled her out of a daze, a blank daydream that had been her escape from the mild embarrassment of not knowing what to say. Belle saw that he had finished his drink and put down the cup. "Yes, thank you. Quite well," she said, puzzled.

"You are... quite unhurt?" He shifted in his seat, his hands beginning their compulsive dance around one another.

"I don't..." But even as Belle made to say that she did not understand his meaning she realised why he looked so uncomfortable, and why his gaze had fixed itself so hard upon the table top all of a sudden. "Yes," she said, not knowing why he would ask but grateful for his tenderness in doing so. "Yes, of course."

He had been so gentle, so careful of her; how could he doubt it?

At her reply, Rumpelstiltskin nodded, clasping his hands tightly in his lap to still them.

"That's good. Good." At once, he was on his feet and striding away from her, back to his spinning she thought, but he did not take his place on the little stool, instead standing with his back to Belle and his hand upon the great wheel. "Have you all that you need?"

It was a clear dismissal and Belle found herself unexpectedly crestfallen at the prospect of leaving. She had begun to think, for a moment as he spoke so kindly, that she might ask him... that she might apologise for anything she might have done wrong when they consummated their marriage. It gnawed at her that she might have failed in some way that, innocent as she was, she couldn't begin to guess at. And there was no-one else to ask, even if she would dream of asking them. Only Rumpelstiltskin knew what had passed between them and what had been the matter with it.

She didn't dare ask him a question like that now—not when he so plainly wanted her to go away.

"Yes," she said, slipping from her hard perch to the ground and smoothing down her skirts. "Thank you." Belle meant to go, she truly did, but something held her in place. The set of his shoulders, or the sound of his voice, or her own need for understanding—something made it impossible to simply walk away without another word. "Even you must sleep," she said, timidly. "Sometimes."

He gripped the rim of the wheel, nodding tightly without looking at her.

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Good night, then," she said, hardly daring that much. There was no sign that he was irritated by the question. He only wanted her to leave him alone with his spinning wheel and his thoughts.

"Good night, my Lady."

~+~

Belle woke early from dreams of home and of a war that was over. It had ended so suddenly that a part of her struggled to believe in it, but here she was in a strange bedroom in a dark castle waking up to her third morning as a bride—the price paid for the terrible war to end. Her dreams had left her with a lingering, quiet sorrow that plucked at her growing homesickness and made her heart ache.

The storm had broken in the night and the brighter sky lifted her spirits somewhat when she threw back the curtains. Across the rooftops and turrets of the castle she could see pristine snow, thick and glaring white beneath a cold and empty blue sky. Cheered by the sight, Belle went to bathe and to see what could be done with her hair. She'd brought with her none of the lotions and herbs that Lotte hoarded so jealously on her behalf, but simply soaking in the hot water with her hair floating around her head made Belle feel much better.

The copper bathtub filled up at her touch as if she'd spoken a magic spell. That troubled her while she watched the water rise, for she felt that the castle must be watching her—that perhaps even Rumpelstiltskin himself was watching her—and so she hesitated to take off her nightgown. But that was stupid, she decided, impatient with herself. Rumpelstiltskin had turned his back while she undressed at the inn and tried none of his mischief to take a peek at her. He'd extinguished all the light in the room when he came to her bed and hadn't asked her to uncover any more of herself than the deed required. He had passed over the opportunity to gaze upon her then and he could have come to her these two nights since for another chance, so he hardly needed to watch her in secret now. He was hardly like to watch her in case she decided to have a _bath_. And what could her nakedness matter to a castle?

Refreshed, her hair brushed through and left loose to dry, Belle made her way back to the kitchen, one floor beneath the great room where Rumpelstiltskin had his wheel.

She saw no sign of him until mid-morning when, having brushed and swept all traces of dust from the kitchen, Belle thought to offer him tea as she made some for herself. After some reflection, she cut two slices from the fresh loaf that had awaited her in the pantry and spread them with golden butter. It was not, she had to confess, a dainty meal; her slices were shaped like mason's wedges, too thick to bite at one extreme and too thin to take the butter knife at the other, but she had eaten the very same herself for breakfast. It tasted no worse for her ineptitude with the knife.

As before, she found Rumpelstiltskin seated at his spinning wheel. His hands were full with one of the neatly cut bundles of fresh straw, a basket of them across his knees. He looked up as she entered, the corners of his mouth lifting in the slightest hint of a smile.

"Good morning," Belle said, unable to contain her new good cheer. Her husband might be a sombre and frightening figure whose eyes sometimes filled with storm-clouds, but the blue sky beyond her window and the deliciously hot bath had returned her to her normal good humour. "How is my husband today?"

He opened his mouth but failed to answer, and Belle smiled helplessly as she carried the heavy tray to the table. She remembered Aya's anxious admonition about calling the attention of the Spinner, and almost laughed. Startled by a small kindness, Rumpelstiltskin behaved much more like a shy little boy than a dreadful demon.

She took her time in pouring two cups of tea, sweetening her own with a lump of sugar. She placed the plate of buttered bread beside his cup at the head of the table, keeping herself busy with the tray while Rumpelstiltskin walked past her to take up his place.

"You've no need to serve me," he said, a little pained, fingering the bread uncertainly. Belle took up her perch on the arm of the stolen fireside chair. He had not moved it back after she left him.

"What else am I to do? Dust isn't very interesting for long. Or don't you eat?"

"I do." Rumpelstiltskin picked up a piece of bread, turning it this way and that before taking a small, cautious bite.

"I know it's only bread and butter," Belle said, leaning slightly towards him as she picked up her teacup, "but I'll learn, you'll see."

His non-committal grunt only encouraged her helpless smile. He obviously wasn't used to keeping company with anyone, but he did not dismiss her as he had before. They drank their tea in silence and then he returned to his spinning wheel, to the basket of bundled straw, and Belle watched carefully from her place at the table. As when the soft thread became gold upon the spindle, she could not persuade her eyes to catch the precise moment when, his fingers drawing gently up the length of two or three straws, it became the creamy white fibre that later worked into thread.

Magic need have no sense to it, Belle knew, but she did wonder at his occupation. Why straw? And why gold? Surely he could, if the mood took him, transform pebbles into emeralds or cobwebs into silk cloth? And, deft as he was at the wheel, surely he could spin wool for cloth, the very finest imaginable, and so much more useful than endless gold?

She puzzled over this for some time, lowering herself into the deep leather of the armchair and watching him long after he seemed to have forgotten about her presence. While his hands were busy with the fibres and threads, his expression was unchanging—intent, sober and distant. The changing moods that so animated him, unpredictable as clouds skipping across a breezy sky, left him completely as he spun.

After a long while, Belle stirred herself and gathered the tea things and the uneaten bread back onto the tray. Still he did not send her away, so she wandered closer to watch him work. He had accumulated a full basket of the lofty white stuff which she longed to touch. She had watched spinners at work before, of course, but even the finest wool was never so pure and light as that.

Her nearness seemed to distract him, to disturb his peace, so Belle went to the window and worked her way behind one of the heavy curtains. With the exception of her own rooms the castle was shrouded by such draperies and by thick shutters, keeping out all natural light except where a panel of age-worn stained glass broke the monotony. It kept the place warm no doubt, but Belle was used to the daylight upon her face and stayed where she was, gazing at the blue sky until she could bear the chill behind the curtain no longer.

Just as she peeked out, Rumpelstiltskin leapt swiftly to his feet, abandoning his basket and striding towards the doors. Belle only glimpsed his expression as he passed her, but it was sharp and hard and she was extremely glad that it did not appear to be directed at her. 

Hearing the outer doors being opened, Belle hurried after him and stood by the table in the marble hall, watching her husband walk out into the piled-up snow as though it were no obstacle to him at all. Shivering and hugging her arms to keep warm, she watched him all the way to the end of the straight path to the iron gates, which opened at his impatient gesture.

She felt no great urge to follow him into the cold and the deep snow, never mind his warning about not leaving the castle. Although still, beautiful and bright the day was so bitterly cold. That seemed not to trouble Rumpelstiltskin in the slightest, and it left Belle wondering if even the snow, even the very chill in the air, moved hastily aside to let the Dark One pass by.

At the gates, Rumpelstiltskin bent down and collected several things into his arms. Baskets, Belle saw as he began the return journey, the gates clanging shut behind him and showering snow and icicles from the ironwork.

He stamped snow from his boots on the last step before bringing the things inside, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. Belle couldn't help the way her heart quickened with fright as, once again, the outer doors slammed shut with such forbidding finality.

"Is something wrong?" She looked at the baskets he was holding, some clutched to his chest and some hanging from his arms. There were many, and she hurried to help him unburden himself, arranging the arrivals upon the gleaming table.

"I think not." Rumpelstiltskin pulled away one of the rough cloths that covered the baskets and Belle did likewise for the rest. "Gifts for you, I believe," he said, tautly. 

"I don't understand." Belle tried to comprehend what she was seeing. In each of the baskets, nestled in bundled straw or scrunched up cloth, she saw glazed pots, glass bottles, rolled cloths tied with string and simple decorations woven cleverly from straw. She saw spools of coloured thread, patterned ribbons, creamy lace, and fruits, loaves and pastries. "For me?"

"It seems the people of the town welcome you, mistress," Rumpelstiltskin said, suddenly too close beside her and with his voice grown soft. He was almost touching her, his arm just a whisper away from hers as he picked up a tiny doll made of bundled, twisted straw.

"Oh." Belle shook her head, lifting and replacing a few of the things that seemed, suddenly, as precious to her as jewels. More. "Oh." Tears stung her eyes and she looked up at her husband, at his uneasy smile.

"Something from every household, if I'm any judge," he said. "To welcome my bride."

"And they came all this way in the snow!" Belle caught at his arm, not realising that she had done so until he stared at her grasping hand. "But that's miles! And these things are..." she gestured helplessly, still pulling at his unresisting arm. It was clear to her that the humblest of the gifts, the straw dolls and the fragile cornucopias stuffed with fresh holly and mistletoe, must have been crafted by those who had nothing of material value to give.

"So it seems." Rumpelstiltskin cleared his throat, unable to hold her gaze. "Their kindness to you will not be forgotten," he said, very quietly. "You have my word."

"Thank you." Belle stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed his cheek before she could think better of it. Her tearful delight over the gifts needed expression, and he was her husband, and for just that moment she felt bold enough. Her smile wouldn't fade as Rumpelstiltskin backed away from her, nodding awkwardly. He looked as though she had _bitten_ him rather than chastely kissed him.

He retreated to his spinning wheel in some haste, and Belle set about exploring her new treasures with her heart full of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 20 December 2015]


	8. Sated

As night fell and the wind once again began to howl around the castle, Belle finished putting away the preserves and honey that she had found in the baskets. Little enough in the castle belonged to her, and it delighted her to place her own things on the kitchen shelves where she could see them.

The fresh pastries were to be their supper, she decided; she was not sure that the castle's magic would keep them fresh and, although they had arrived very cold and were only now warming, she did not want them to spoil and go to waste. The fruits she placed into a bowl of the finest cut glass and gave pride of place upon the rugged kitchen table.

Very much to her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin descended to the kitchens to find her before she could think of taking him his share of the pastries. He stood just inside the doors, hands folded behind his back, and looked around at his now sparkling kitchen, at the new decorations, nodding to himself. For just one moment, Belle thought that he was going to turn on his heel and leave again.

"Shall we eat here?" she asked, lifting the plate of pastries hopefully. "It's lovely and warm near the fire."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, somewhat warily, and joined her at the kitchen table. He left one chair empty between them, perhaps nervous that Belle might try to kiss his cheek again without some barrier. The thought made her smile, but she had been smiling all day and couldn't help it.

She offered him first pick of the pastries and he took one, delicately, looking at it as though he didn't recognise it.

Belle bit into her own choice, a curly, sweet and flaky confection of nuts and honey. It was delicious, and it dropped crumbs into her lap.

"The gifts are for you too, you know," she said, when Rumpelstiltskin hadn't moved to take a bite as she was finishing her first pastry. "Jams and oils, pickled eggs, honey..."

"They are for you," he answered, but finally began to eat. Food seemed to hold no particular interest for him. He had more time for his cups of tea, and Belle remembered that she had found a pouch of dried chamomile flowers in one of the baskets.

He watched her carefully as she prepared them in the silver teapot, struggling to pour the water from the enormous iron kettle.

"You'll injure yourself," he said, uncertainly, but Belle shook her head and finished what she was doing, returning the kettle to its hook beside the fire. "I do not wish you to think of yourself as a kitchen maid," he pressed. "You are my wife."

"I like the kitchen," Belle told him. She did. It was a cosy place once the fire was roaring, and since he clearly had no interest in it, it seemed a place that she could make her own. "Should your wife be too proud to fetch and carry?"

"Many would be." Rumpelstiltskin had begun fidgeting in his chair. "I had not thought how you would occupy yourself," he confessed.

"That's because you're a man," Belle teased, leaning across the space between them. "Men never think how a woman is supposed to occupy herself when he isn't looking. Well, I've never had to cook and clean. I like it."

It was true; she had found a quiet cheerfulness in the dusting and sweeping of the kitchen. Such work kept her hands busy while her mind was free to think of other things.

"A smaller kettle, then," Rumpelstiltskin said, weakly. Belle couldn't help but glance over her shoulder at the fireplace. Yes, the kettle was now much smaller, as was the cooking pot. He avoided her eyes.

He seemed heartened when Belle poured him a cup of the chamomile tea, taking it from her with a thin smile of thanks.

"So," Belle said, drawing out the chair that sat between them so that she could turn her own chair to face him. "You didn't want a wife to cook and care for you, or to tidy up your house, or to manage your servants. You didn't want my dowry because you make gold all the time. What did you mean to do with me?"

"Why," he said, his voice small behind his teacup, "your task is to be lovely. Nothing more." He drank, slowly, then held the cup between his palms, rolling it from side to side. "There are far worse bargains, my dear."

Belle knew enough to know that. She had seen other girls, her own age and younger, married before she even became betrothed to Gaston. In some she had seen love blossom and the joy of children; in others she had seen the spirit crushed by a loss of freedom that Belle hadn't understood well enough to fear. It was as though a part of them had withered and died in the face of their duty, instead of finding joy.

They drank their tea in silence, Rumpelstiltskin holding out his cup so that she could pour again. The chamomile was very fine indeed. A kind gift, like all the others.

"Sir," Belle said, wishing to ask while he seemed more at ease in her company, "may I ask you--" But fear overtook her, and shame as well, and her face grew hot as the words died on her tongue. "Never mind."

"Ask, child," he said, spreading his hands, then steepling them in front of him and watching his own fingers lace together.

"What did I do to displease you? On our wedding night?" The question was not unreasonable, but Belle's thoughts ran away with her tongue now that she had dared ask it. Oh dear! "I've tried to think, but I know so little about... about matters. Please tell me what I did wrong?"

She caught her breath as her tongue, mercifully, fell still. Her face burned with embarrassment and her heart skipped with anxiety, but Rumpelstiltskin shook his head.

"You did nothing to displease me." His voice seemed strained. "You did nothing wrong."

Belle had expected any answer but that, and struggled to collect her thoughts enough to understand.

"But you don't want me?" Could that be the whole of it - that he no more wanted her for his bed than he had wanted her to fetch and dust; than he had wanted her dowry?

"I would spare you," he snapped, his chair grinding across the flagstones as he stood. "That is all. To bed this--" he swept his hands up and down, indicating his own form with sarcastic elegance "--is not among your duties."

Belle gasped, stung for her own part but, more than that, horrified for him.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she said, almost knocking over her own chair as she jumped up, scurrying to put herself in his path as he tried to leave. "I am your _wife!_ " He froze rather than try to pass her, his expression black and hunted. Bitter like the cold.

After a moment - an endless moment during which Belle's terrified heart seemed to try to beat its way out of her chest - Rumpelstiltskin reached out to take her by the chin. His hand was gentle enough, but he held her quite still, studying her eyes with the intensity of a hawk scanning the ground for mice.

"They weep for you in the town," he crooned, bringing his face nearer to hers. "The poor wee thing they saw in my carriage as we passed by. My lovely bride. They send you gifts to console you for having this monster be so cruel to you in your bed."

"Well, how would they know?" she demanded, indignantly, her words muffled somewhat by his hold on her chin. "They weren't there, were they?"

Rumpelstiltskin blinked and then, somehow, they were both laughing, with Belle unsure which of them started it. His mad giggle wove around her relieved and broken laughter for some moments, during which he released her chin.

Their stubborn set-to had deserved to be laughed at, but Belle still ached in her heart for the rest of it; that she had thought herself at fault when he thought only of her. That he thought himself so foul that he would choose to spare her.

"Sir," she said, when all danger of more laughter had passed and she could choose her words with care. "You were no monster to me. You were kind and gentle and gave me an opportunity to refuse you, and I think few brides are so fortunate as that."

He had turned his face away, breathing harshly as she spoke. Belle caught him by the hand, and squeezed. After a moment, looking down at their joined hands with his expression stricken, Rumpelstiltskin returned the gentle pressure. Because she had dared so much already, Belle once again rose on tiptoes to kiss her husband on the cheek.

She was only a little surprised when he turned his head, and returned her kiss with another against her lips. She closed her eyes, wanting to remember the sensation properly this time, but it was too elusive. Just a brush of sweetness and then it was gone and Belle felt shy.

"Do they really weep for me?" she asked, stepping back and dropping his hand. Rumpelstiltskin didn't move.

"I don't know," he said, hardly a whisper. "Very likely."

"Wouldn't you rather think that they wish us happiness?" Belle took one of the little cornucopias down from a shelf. She had seen them before, at every market and festival, but the thing was wonderful to her all the same - the simple wonder of not knowing how the delicate spiral of straw had been made. The precious wonder of knowing that it had been made for her. "I would."

"Then we shall choose to believe it, my Lady." His voice stronger, his back straighter, Rumpelstiltskin nodded to her and left the kitchen.

At once, Belle's knees went weak and she sat down hard on the table's edge. She had spoken like that to her husband, to _Rumpelstiltskin!_ But there had been profit in it, no matter how it embarrassed her to remember her boldness. She could still feel where his lips had touched hers.

It took her some time, and another cup of the chamomile, to calm herself enough to sit still. She picked slowly at another of the pastries, the nervous flutter in her stomach having destroyed her appetite. She had all but demanded that he come to her! It was not how she had expected things to go with her husband - with any husband.

Belle had always known, since girlhood, that boys - men - found her appealing. Her father had known it and, long before Belle knew why, she had found herself always with a female companion when out of his sight. Later, when she had known the reasons why she must guard her virtue, she had been able to convince her father that she was to be trusted, and only Gaston had ever attempted to entice her to betray that trust, with that disgusting wet kiss. But other men had _looked_ at her, and Belle had noticed the way she affected them.

How could she have known that she might need to make her husband feel welcome to that which was his by right? And how was Rumpelstiltskin to know that she valued so many other things above mere appearance?

Rumpelstiltskin had said that she was lovely. It only struck her as she cleared away the plates and put the last few pastries into the larder. He had said that she was lovely, a compliment higher in Belle's estimation than any of Gaston's stilted declarations about her beauty.

She took her time over washing and putting away the tea things, thoughtful as she worked. On her wedding night, she had been too afraid to think of more than obedience to him; too thankful that he did not hurt her to think of how she could show him kindness in return. And yet - she blushed a little to remember it - when she had touched his face as he took her, he had kissed her palm with such... yes, surely it had been gratitude?

When the plates sparkled and the table was free of crumbs, Belle took a deep breath and made her way upstairs. Rumpelstiltskin was not at his spinning wheel in the long room, nor did she pass him on her way up to her own rooms. She was a little bit glad of that, for her blushes had not entirely faded yet, nor had her shock at how brazenly she had spoken to her husband.

At the same time, the smile that had been with her the whole day was still with her as she locked her bedroom door. Two of the baskets were on her bed, full of cloths and fripperies, herbs and lotions. Female things, all, and Belle was glad of them, for in her haste she had not thought to bring all that she needed for her own comfort. Her hair felt heavy and her skin dry, and the women of the town had given her what she needed to remedy both. She could clean her teeth again with the pot of coarse salt, soot and sage; rinse her hair with lemons and sweet herbs, and soften her skin with fragrant oils in her bathwater. All that Lotte had managed for her, Belle suddenly needed to manage for herself, for they were things that Rumpelstiltskin's magic would not take into account.

His instruction to leave all mirrors covered still puzzled her. Whatever he thought of his peculiar appearance, he wore the finest clothing and so possessed at least a _little_ vanity. Belle had thought herself modest, her beauty of no more interest to her than any other of her qualities, but it was difficult, without a mirror, to be certain that she even looked respectable and clean. 

She took what she would need for the morning from the baskets to the wash room and then, with great care, placed the baskets upon the table in her little sitting room. Knowing that her thick hair would not dry by morning if she washed it now, Belle carefully brushed it instead and tied it into a soft braid at the nape of her neck. She had the vague idea that men preferred to see a woman's hair loose, to touch it, and remembered how Rumpelstiltskin had brushed his fingers against her hair at the inn. Hardly a touch at all, as though he didn't quite dare.

Well, he could surely untie a ribbon if he chose to, just as he had loosened the knot of her wedding gown.

Belle bit her lip as that memory slid through her mind. Her memory of her wedding night was in pieces, each sharp and bright, and each prone to come upon her suddenly when she was thinking of something else. His questions, his touches, his trembling. His leaving.

Her new nightgown was crumpled from use, now, and more comfortable against her skin. Belle sat by the fire for a while, her feet tucked beneath her and a shawl across her lap. She was waiting for her husband's footsteps, and waiting in turn for the shame of that to leave her alone. It was not quite a yearning, but she had liked his kiss, in the kitchen, and kept thinking of his mouth against her palm on their wedding night. That silent expression, in the dark, of something that her husband guarded against by day.

When she began to yawn and the fire to burn low, Belle blew out all but one of the candles. She unlocked her door, once again delighting in the small freedom of it, and wriggled to the middle of her bed where it was easiest to get warm.

On the coldest winter nights, at home, Belle had shared her bed with Lotte for warmth, and with any number of the castle's cats when Lotte was too sleepy to chase them away. In a bed built for one, that had been cosy soon enough. It was less easy to warm a huge bed alone, even in a warm room, and as she half-dreamed, Belle wondered if it would be better to ask her husband for a cat, or for some magic that would warm her feet instead.

It must have been an hour, or longer, before Belle heard his footsteps; descending from above, from wherever he habitually went after dark. She had not explored the levels above, and had no idea of what might occupy him there in the long hours of night, if he slept as little as he'd led her to believe.

Belle held her breath as he reached the landing and stopped outside her door.

All the blind fear of her wedding night came back, unexpected and unwelcome, but it was moderated by a little knowledge, now, and she was able to steady her breathing as Rumpelstiltskin lifted the latch and came into her room.

The single remaining candle seemed to alarm him, and he waited in the doorway with his hand upon the latch, staring first at the flame and then at Belle. He made a weak effort at a smile.

"I thought you'd be sleeping," he said, as Belle sat up in bed.

"I'm not tired," she said, taking a lesson from him and watching her own hands as she folded them in her lap. "Just a bit cold."

"Hmm." At last, Rumpelstiltskin entered properly and closed the door behind him. The flames in the grate rose slightly as he approached her bed. He seated himself at the very edge, and Belle saw that he had discarded his high-collared waistcoat since she saw him in the kitchen. He looked less imposing without it, softer in silk than he did in leather and brocade. "So," he said, softly, a lilt in his voice that reminded her of all that he was, "you'd have me be a husband to you, in spite of all."

Belle had no answer that was both brief and truthful. She offered him her hand, instead, and reluctantly left the warm place that she had made at the centre of the bed to sit nearer to him. Rumpelstiltskin held her hand, loosely, his head bowed so that his hair hid his face from her.

"Did you want a wife who wouldn't?" she asked, sadly. "Just another decoration for one of your dusty pedestals?" Shaking her head, Belle placed her other hand on his shoulder. "Do you regret asking for me, now that I'm here?"

As Belle had not answered his question, so Rumpelstiltskin did not answer hers. She heard him swallow, and he seemed so small at the centre of his whirlwind of magic. So hard to reach, when he was so near to her.

His hand tightened around hers and Belle felt something small and solid pressing against her palm. She opened her hand to look at what he had given her - a tiny glass bottle, sealed with wax, that seemed to hold smouldering embers but was quite cold to the touch.

"For pleasure," he said, gruffly. "I can give you that much."

Belle stared at the bottle, distracted by the beauty of the living substance inside.

"Do... do you use this?"

He laughed, almost silently, with no trace of his unnerving giggle.

"Few men would need my potions to help them enjoy you, my dear. A woman's pleasure is... more elusive." He turned his head until he could see the bottle in her palm, and touched it with his fingertips. "I've made many a good deal for such as this."

Belle closed her hand around the bottle, smiling.

"A woman told me that men aren't difficult. Is that what she meant?"

"Almost certainly." He smiled too, though with as much chagrin as humour.

"I don't need this if you don't," she told him, as tempted as she was by sheer curiosity. She offered the bottle back to him, but he held up his hand.

"Keep it," he said. "It is a small thing."

"And your _price_ , sir?"

He flinched, and Belle regretted her teasing, but he named his price.

"A kiss, then." He met her as she leaned to oblige him, her smile refusing to be banished, and he lingered for a long moment with his lips against hers, his eyes closed. He seemed to sigh, as he sat back again. "A fair price," he said, nodding with careful composure. "And be cautious, my Lady. You would be unwise to drink the potion unless you plan on being sated at some length, shortly thereafter."

Belle sensed mischief in the warning, but committed it to memory nevertheless. She had no intention of drinking his potion, but she would enjoy having the glowing thing among her possessions, with all its mysterious possibilities. His choice of words, too, she took to heart. _Sated?_.

"Put this on top of my trunk for me?" she pressed the bottle back into his hand. "And come to bed?"

Belle wriggled back to her warm spot as he obeyed her, trying to find a place where her feet didn't encounter cold sheets. Rumpelstiltskin set down her bottle on the trunk with exaggerated care, and she could hear that he breathed faster as he returned to the bed.

As before, he did away with all the light in the room save for the fire. As before, when he reached her side after the awkward journey across the large bed to find her, he wore a nightshirt of fine silk instead of his clothing.

"Am I too bold?" she asked him, because the darkness made it much easier to give voice to such fragile thoughts.

"No," he answered, still gruff but gentle as well. Facing her, he sought her hand and brought it to his lips. "If everyone could be as wise, so young..." his voice changed, and it was the mischief-maker beside her, momentarily delighted with his own cleverness. "Well, I'd be out of a job, wouldn't I? That'd be a pity."

Laughter had never featured in Belle's hazy imaginings of the marriage bed. She could barely have imagined the dark and brooding Gaston laughing at all, for that matter. But how better to put someone at their ease than to laugh with them? Her fear had quite gone, for all that it was his queer giggle meeting her incredulous snigger. As exhaustion had given her a kind of peace on her wedding night, so laughter did for her now.

"There, now," Rumpelstiltskin said, when they were still. He touched her face, trailing his long nails against her skin so gently, and Belle realised that he must be able to see her, much better than she could see him in the dark. "There's pleasure, eh?" His fingertips moved along her jaw, then down her throat to the collar of her nightgown. He trembled, but not so much as before, and Belle lay still, comfortable in her warm patch and her pillows, while his hand explored her.

It was not the businesslike touch of their wedding night, when he had kept his oath to be brief about it. He ran his palm across her chest, finding her left breast and then her right, making her draw in a sharp breath and tighten for a moment. She had never known that her breasts were more than ornaments, waiting for her first child to find a proper use. When he touched her there something tightened in the small of her back, and she could not lie still as long as he continued doing it. He squeezed one through her nightdress, his breathing shallow and loud beside her.

Belle felt an ache when, with one more squeeze, Rumpelstiltskin moved his hand lower and caught her by the waist, drawing her towards him as he rolled towards her. The result was a kiss, but not like any kiss Belle had known; not the warm, sweet brushes that she had shared with her husband, nor the grotesque invasion that Gaston had attempted. Rumpelstiltskin's lips plucked at hers, and as she gasped... oh, he teased her inner lip with his tongue before smothering her mouth with his own, clutching her body close.

She tried to meet him, but they seemed to be at cross purposes and he moved his demanding mouth to her jaw instead, then her throat and even her shoulder.

This, she thought, overwhelmed and too busy to be frightened by it, was something that needed to be _sated_ \- this urgency, this appetite for her that saw his hand grasping her thigh, his thumb pushing insistently until she let him in between.

The stuff he painted her with was as warm as his hand, this time, and Belle shivered with enjoyment. She had felt such a thing before, at her own touch, but it had been a pale shadow of how it felt to have his hand there, exploring her rather than merely preparing her. There was the palm of his hand, stroking down from her tight curls to her most inner place, and then his fingers on the return journey, his knuckles skimming her and his fingertips spreading her.

She bit her lip and tried, tried so hard to be still for him and obedient to him, but it was a torment.

Belle wished that he would stop it, that he would put himself in her so that the blunt sensation of being filled up would soothe the unbearable ones of being teased with slippery fingers.

And then... then he did stop it, his hand going to her knee and resting there, and Belle felt bereft. He came over her, between her knees like before, but kissed her gently instead of entering. It was more than she could bear and a sound escaped her desperate attempts to stay silent, a keening sound that startled him and embarrassed her.

"What is it?" Breathless, his face beside hers, he was quite still.

Now that her husband wasn't touching her all over, Belle could think clearly again. She reached up for him.

"It's nothing," she promised. "Just new." She held his face between her hands, lightly, and felt the sweat and the trembling. The softness of his hair where it touched her hands. How could she explain to him about the contrary sensations he'd given her? She hadn't the words, nor the breath, and her husband was trembling and waiting for her.

Belle lifted herself and tried to kiss him, a clumsy mess of a kiss, but he seemed excited by it so she did it again, her hands going to his back and then, as low as she could reach and finding bare skin, she urged him to her.

It was not so difficult to take him inside her, this time, and Rumpelstiltskin did not wait and consult with her as he had before. He pushed deeper, deeper, until they could not join more fully without merging, bodily, and slid his hands beneath her, settling close. It was like being touched _everywhere_ all at once; his thighs between hers, his hips and belly against hers, his chest rubbing her breasts and his mouth, whenever they managed to be still enough and find each other, covering hers, wet and hungry.

Belle had never felt so... yes, that was it, she had never _felt_ so. He rocked gently above her, his hands curling beneath her shoulders so that his nails dug into her skin, but even the small pain of that became a part of the desperate puzzle of sensation. Belle was lost.

This time, she knew it when he was satisfied; his tender rocking became incoherent jerking and his hands became fists beneath her. His breath gusted against her throat and he made strangled sounds, while his convulsive movements grew shorter and shallower in her and then ceased as he slid out of her, hot and very wet.

 _Sated_ , she thought, stroking his hair very gently and not minding his weight, close above her and warmer than any blanket. She explored the word with her mind, attaching it to the idea of this boneless, panting stillness in her husband. _Sated._

It was a nice word.

Rumpelstiltskin did not pull himself away from her, as he had before. Instead, a little awkwardly but with great strength, he reversed their positions; he below, her above him, and skimmed his hands down her back, smoothing down her nightgown to restore some dignity to her bare backside. They had lost the bedclothes completely - she could feel them around her ankles.

Oh, gods, she was _dripping_ on him! Was it more blood? She scrambled away from him, pulling her nightgown between her legs to stem the flow and squeaking a mortified apology, but he caught her before she could leave the bed and drew her back with him.

"No, dearie, it's not that," he said, holding her only until she was still, then letting her be. "Hush, now. It's a messy business."

"Oh." Small-voiced, Belle let him draw her head to his shoulder. His silk was warm and soft beneath her cheek. His hand caressed her hair and then - she smiled, in spite of her embarrassment at her own ignorance - he plucked the ribbon from the end of her plait of hair and slowly smoothed her tresses free across her back. "You must think me such a child," she said, cross with herself and, in all honesty, with him. She felt out of sorts, now, and wrong in herself, and it had been so _nice_ when they were busy doing it.

"Belle," he said, his voice deep and soft, soothing her. "You're no child."


	9. A Particular Need

Belle had an uneasy sleep, and woke before dawn to find herself alone in her bed, the bedclothes twisted all about her. She had not truly expected that her husband would stay beside her; stillness did not seem to be in his nature and, leaving, he had whispered that he should not keep her awake.

She wondered if he'd spent the long hours of the night spinning yet more straw into gold.

By mid-morning, Belle had not seen any sign of Rumpelstiltskin. He had not been at his spinning wheel when she took him tea, so, curious and concerned, Belle set off upwards to look for him. She was certain that she had heard him climb the stairs again after he left her, so it was as good a direction as any.

Only one turn of the staircase above her own room, Belle was faced with half a dozen choices of direction. A long passage, several doors, the continuation of the staircase upwards or, at the far end of the passage, what looked like the narrower stairs of a turret. She had been unable to get much of an idea of the layout of the castle, but she first tried the door that appeared to be the one directly above her own.

The room was empty and full of thick dust that swirled up when she opened the door. Coughing, waving her hand in front of her face to ward off the dust, Belle moved on to the next. Three more doors revealed empty rooms before she found herself at the last, an awkwardly angled door at the foot of the narrower, spiral staircase. This one, she noticed, had no layer of dust beneath the door. It would not open for her, and Belle remembered Rumpelstiltskin warning her not to force a door that resisted her. It was the first that had.

Naturally, this made her itch to know what lay beyond it, but obedience won out over curiosity. She took the stairs, instead. As slim as she was, there was barely room to flex her arms to lift her skirts as she climbed; it made her elbows graze against the stones.

Belle knew that she had found him before she reached the top of the staircase; she could hear footsteps, and Rumpelstiltskin met her at the top, his hands behind his back and his expression sober.

"There you are," she said, slightly out of breath after the twisting climb.

"Here I am," he agreed, mildly, and stood aside. It was a roughly circular room with a wooden floor and wooden arches above. Belle saw the evidence of tremendous activity everywhere she looked - books lying open, quills in ink pots; tables laden with bottles, jars, pouches and strange things made of glass. The walls were all but hidden by tall bookcases, each filled with books. A spinning wheel sat close to a low window, which was open to the bitter cold morning. None of the windows were covered and the room was _freezing_. "Are you well, my Lady?"

"Yes, thank you." Belle had felt much better after a bath, her hair properly clean and her skin plump and soft again. She could not remember the dreams that had disturbed her sleep, and her lingering restlessness had been eased by exploring the new part of the castle. "So, this is where you disappear to?"

To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin gave the question a moment's thought, head cocked, before answering.

"I think it is where I come from," he said, nodding decisively. "Yes. My work is here. My potions, my enchantments, my herbs and books."

"And a spinning wheel." Belle could see that he had been as busy with this one as with the other; a pot beside his stool was full to overflowing with coiled gold thread. "More straw into gold."

"Yes." He sounded unsettled by her comment, as though she had criticised his pastime. "Perhaps you will bring me fresh straw here, too?" Hopeful and uncertain, her husband sounded so ordinary. Belle smiled, turning to him. His appearance no longer jarred against her expectations after hearing him speak so softly; she was growing used to his strangeness, to his eyes and his pebbled skin.

"I shall," she assured him. "But do you never spin wool, or flax?"

He shrugged his shoulders, making his leather coat creak as he moved.

"Anyone can do that." He wrinkled his nose, a little playfully, and Belle laughed.

"So that's why you spend all your time making gold? Because no-one else can?"

"It's as good a reason as any."

Rumpelstiltskin went to one of the work tables and closed a book. Belle saw, just for a moment, that he was using the ribbon he'd taken from her hair to mark his place.

Feeling her face flush, feeling a new and uneasy pleasure that he would do such a thing, Belle hid herself and her smile from him by examining the bookshelves. Books had been her treasures, at home, and she had brought only two with her - beloved, childhood books that she could not bear to leave behind. But Rumpelstiltskin's books were less frivolous - herbals and grimoires, histories and pedigrees. Many of the worn spines bore no title, no indication at all of what lay within.

"I always wanted to see where a sorcerer did his spells," she said, when her circuit brought her near to his side again. He appeared to be in the middle of a number of tasks, mainly the preparation of various plants and roots, and to have abandoned them all as each new thing distracted him. "Brewed his potions."

"A curious wish," he said, frowning. "But here you have it."

"It looks like a kitchen," she decided. "A messy kitchen."

Rumpelstiltskin caught her wrist, moving faster than a snake-strike to intercept her as she went to touch a marble mortar full of yellow paste. His grasp was not rough, not painful, but he held her immobile.

"Careful, dearie. These are poisons. Touch nothing in here without first consulting me." At Belle's urgent nod, his hand loosened, opened, caught her hand and held it down by his side. His grip was just a shade firmer than felt comfortable. "What doesn't scratch my thick hide might just strip the flesh from your bones," he said, quite conversationally, in his sing-song voice that played with cruelty. "And I really can't have that."

Belle swallowed, hard.

"I-I'll be careful." She dared not ask why he would be making such a terrible thing, nor risking such fearful poisons no matter how thick his hide. "T-the door, at the foot of the stairs?"

"Hmm?" He blinked, as though returning to her from a great distance without having moved. "My chamber." He noticed that he had frightened her, then, and carefully let go of her throbbing hand. "Nothing there will harm you. An oversight." He waved his hand, vaguely. "You may enter if you wish. I seldom do."

There was his dismissal of her again, unspoken and yet so final in his cool manner, and in the careless gesture of his hand towards the stairs. Belle felt her shoulders sink, but there was her ribbon peeking out from the thick pages of his book, and she fixed the memory of it firmly in her mind. The man who had taken that ribbon from her hair last night had been welcoming and kind; had caressed her unbound hair so timidly as she lay with him; had wanted this keepsake.

How could it be the same man who frightened her so, who became so cold and terrible in the blink of an eye?

Belle hardly caught her breath again until she was at the foot of the stairs, out of his reach and sight. The door that had been closed to her now stood ajar, as if inviting her to enter. She pushed the door open with her fingertips, annoyed with herself for being half afraid to touch it. Rumpelstiltskin had said that nothing there would harm her.

The simplicity of his room startled her. There was a narrow bed, a wardrobe and a plain brown rug on the floor between the two. No ornaments, no comforts except for a sheepskin across the foot of the bed. No fireplace, no window. It was a place for sleep and nothing more; it seemed to Belle to begrudge even that.

Curious, although it made her feel like an intruder, she went and opened the wardrobe. His silk shirts were there, a dozen of them in shades of earth and gold. Leather breeches, too, and a brighter assortment of waistcoats, cloaks and robes. They were all finely made, fit for royalty, yet looked so very humble in the dark, stark little room.

There was no mirror.

What _was_ he, this husband of hers, that he lived in a castle but slept in a hermit's cell? That he dressed in the finest cloth but never glanced at a mirror? That he'd bottle pleasure for her and then retreat to make the most awful poisons?

For the first time, Belle missed the simplicity of her old life. Her duties had been an honour, her father loving, her people generous. She had understood what needed to be done, there, and where her place was. What her future held, too; first as betrothed, then wife, then mother. It had not been all that she could dream of, nor hope for, but it had been simple to understand.

Belle returned to the kitchen, where she had carved out a space for herself away from the strangeness and the uncertainty. A kitchen was a kitchen - always useful, always warm, and she was determined to learn how to run it for herself. There were eggs, and she first tried her hand at cooking by boiling two of them in the big iron pot.

Her nurse had brought her eggs as a child, the yolks sticky and golden and the whites just set. Belle, guessing at how long it might take an egg to go from raw to this fondly-remembered perfection, was disappointed with the rubbery results. But she had cooked them and so she ate them, with a slice of bread and butter, and felt, at least, that she had made a good beginning.

~+~

Restlessness returned as night fell.

Belle had felt quite wrong, in herself, since Rumpelstiltskin had finished with her last night, and she couldn't decide whether she hoped that her husband would join her again tonight. There was none of the soreness that had followed her wedding night, but there was an ache - deep, low and ever so slightly sick. It flared occasionally in time with her pulse and left her out of sorts, with perspiration upon her brow.

Belle knew that vague discomforts came upon women before they were certain that they carried a child, but _surely_ it was too soon for that? And, besides, the sensations were not all unpleasant. There was a feeling of heavy awareness, in the places where only her husband touched her, as though he had left her more empty than she had been before he took her.

It was not _wanting_ , not like hunger or thirst, and yet, when she remembered his embrace and his kisses, her pulse quickened and the ache deepened.

So Rumpelstiltskin found her, near midnight, with her feet tucked beneath her in the chair by her fire and her thoughts full of confusion. He entered meekly and awaited some sign from her that he was not forbidden. Belle, whose last memory of him was that cruel grip and that cold dismissal, felt that she might drown in her own disarray.

"You can't sleep?" After some moments of her silence, Rumpelstiltskin crouched between Belle's chair and the fireplace, balancing neatly on his toes and gazing up at her. He was watchful, cautious. Hopeful, too, and Belle knew that he wished to lie with her again. At least that was a certainty.

"I was about to go to bed," she lied. Lies did not come easily to her, as a rule, but this one did. It would be impossible to tell him what troubled her; she had not the words for the tumult, even if he wished to hear them.

Rumpelstiltskin rose as she did, unfolding himself with athletic grace and bouncing on his toes before settling, half-smiling, and looking her up and down.

"A new nightgown?"

"An old one," she said, looking down. Their activities of last night had quite shamed the one she'd been wearing, and it was bundled in the wash basin, waiting for her to learn how to become a laundress.

He took her by the waist, both hands, and Belle gasped aloud. She had been ready for his touches beneath the bed clothes, in darkness, but to have his hands on her like this...

"Not so willing, now?" The cruel sneer was upon him, his voice like acid as he leaned close to whisper in her ear. "I see."

She pushed him away, but without passion. She didn't want him gone, only that cruel, gloating facet of him that had been too ready to seize upon her moment of modesty.

"No, you don't," she said, crossly. " _I_ don't, so you can't possibly." Rumpelstiltskin looked as though she had struck him, not simply spoken her mind. His lips were parted, his eyes wide with surprise. "There's so much I don't understand," she managed, amazed that she sounded more angry than pitiful. She _felt_ pitiful, complaining to the husband who had been so tender about things that she could not name. "I don't know how a wife should feel."

Sheer stubbornness kept her tears from falling, but she held the wrist that he had squeezed too hard, and bowed her head.

He wanted to leave. She could _feel_ it, like a physical force trying to pull him from the room and leave her to her self-pity. Whatever desire he felt for her body was outmatched by his alarm at her behaviour, and he had proven that he would not touch her until he was sure of her willingness.

He wanted to leave, and yet he stayed, shifting nervously from foot to foot and hovering close to her without touching.

"Was I perhaps... too forceful?" he tried, some moments after the silence became unbearable to her.

"Oh, no!" She looked up at him, mortified that he might have drawn that conclusion. "Oh, not that. Not that." She saw his alarm settle somewhat. "I felt so..." But there it was, the root of her problem; she had _felt_ so, and did not understand what it meant. "I truly don't want you to go."

"Come, then," Rumpelstiltskin said, but he sat in her chair and patted his knee instead of going to the bed. "Sit here a while."

Belle felt silly, perching herself on his knee like a little girl, yet it felt nothing like she remembered. Her father's knee had meant laughter, stories, tickles and fondness.

Her husband's knee pressed into her, with nothing but the soft cloth of her nightgown between herself and his leathers, and she no longer felt silly about it. He took the whole of her weight, tipping her back against him with no effort at all, until her head was beside his on the chair back and his arm encircled her waist.

It would have been uncomfortable, were he not so strong. His arm could hold her in place with ease, permitting her to cease all effort at remaining upright and rest against him, instead. With his free hand, he touched her, and Belle watched as he covered her breast and squeezed. His skin, his nails were dark against her nightgown, but it was the same hand as had touched her in the dark. She let herself be shocked by the sight of it, and let the shock pass away at the reminder of his gentleness.

"Tell me what pleases you," he said, kneading her breast without hurry. "Tell me, most especially, if something does not meet with your liking."

"That pleases me," she said, meekly, for it was difficult to find her voice while he held her spellbound with this quiet sensuality. Where, now, was the creature who had grabbed her hand to keep her from the poison?

With a quiet grunt of approval, Rumpelstiltskin shifted her weight a little to one side and gave his attention to her other breast. This one he drew between his fingers as he did the delicate fibres of his spinning, plucking at her until her nipple grew firm and then rubbing his palm across it, squashing it. Belle bit her lip, uncertain that she liked that, because there was that nagging emptiness again and it was not pleasant. It demanded, and that alarmed her... but, oh, she liked that he touched her at all. He did it again and she couldn't sit still, her lower body bunching up tight until she sighed the tension away.

"I think, mistress, that a particular _need_ is what ails you," he said. He was smiling, smug. She could feel it and hear it. "Won't you try my potion, my dear?" He said the last with a pinch that made her gasp, not with pain but with shock; the feeling burned down through her like a tiny lightning strike, grounding in her thighs. "It's a good one. Effectiveness absolutely guaranteed."

Belle tried to refuse, but her tongue wouldn't move itself around the word. She shook her head, instead, curling herself in his lap to escape the pressure of his thigh beneath her.

As before, when his hand ceased touching her Belle felt bereft, but this time he plucked open the buttons at her throat, one by one and so delicately that she thought again of his spinning, of how the fine thread passed through his pinch before turning to gold.

She closed her eyes, her modesty again trying to command her body, but this time she told it firmly to go away. Her husband's touch was no sin, no crime, no shame upon her. His gaze was equally blameless, and when he'd loosened the lowest button and slid his hand inside, she forgot how she could have minded, even for a moment. His warm skin was strangely textured, but his palms were softer and supple; one fit around her bare breast so nicely, warming the nipple that felt too sensitive to any cold now that it was firm.

Belle realised that she was quivering all over, as though her body resisted some great strain, and then that she recognised it; _he_ had trembled so, coming to her on their wedding night. Had he felt like _this_? The thought took her breath away, for there was longing in her now, and a dampness between her thighs without any need of his soothing gift. This was _wanting_?

Opening her eyes, dizzily feeling that she should share this revelation with him to explain her behaviour, Belle found that he had put out the candles. They still had the firelight, and Belle could make out his shape, but he had hidden from her the peculiar shade of his skin and the shock of his stained smile. He thought himself too hideous for her. She thought him too patient, too kind for an ignorant wife. A few tears got away from her before she bit her lip and managed to stop them coming. She would not want him to misunderstand, not when he was showing her such delights.

Her nightgown felt stifling. When she had put it on it had felt familiar, cool and pleasant. Now she perspired; as if she blushed all over and most especially in her secret places. She was uncomfortably warm, yet that had a pleasant edge to it, just as the heavy ache now did; just as the wetness did. Another tweak to her nipple sent another spike of heat downwards to stoke what had become a kind of furnace of heat and tightness.

Rumpelstiltskin breathed noisily, his face pressed into her hair, and Belle thought of how she had enjoyed his moments of obvious pleasure, last night; how it had pleased her to offer her body if it delighted him so, if it _sated_ some need. Did he do the same for her now, finding pleasure in giving it?

She had been expecting... no, ready for... no, _wishing_ for his hand to visit between her thighs, as when he'd prepared her before. When he dragged up her nightgown and, instead, pulled her own hand to the place, Belle cried out. He held her there, though, his hand covering hers, cupping her wetness and then - oh, sweet stars - moving her hand across every aching, wanting part of herself, cramped between her thighs. She could open her legs no wider without moving; she no more wanted to move from where she sat than to throw herself into the fire.

"Guide my hand," he demanded, his voice deeper than she had ever heard it before, and Belle obeyed him without a thought. Her whole being seemed to be pouring into that place where their hands met, and when she gripped his hand and moved it, caused his dry skin to slide across her moist lips, she saw stars in her head. The agreeable sensations of their coupling had been _nothing_ compared to this; she wanted it forever, but the enormity of it was consuming her and surely nothing like this lasted in the world?

Rumpelstiltskin half-whispered encouragements, his mouth against her earlobe, his tongue flicking at her as though he longed for her lips, and Belle moved his hand until she could move no more and cried out, again and again as he kept on moving it without her guidance, firmer and faster than before.

Something broke in her, some pulsing joy, and she struggled in his arms, overpowered by it.

Her cries became weeping as the feelings ebbed; frantic, foolish weeping against his shoulder while she beat his chest with her closed fist, and Rumpelstiltskin clutched her to him until that inner storm passed as well.

He did not loosen the circle of his arms until Belle tried to draw away, and then he steadied her firmly with both hands, because she swayed like a drunkard on his lap.

"Did... did that ease matters?" he asked, so timidly that she wanted to laugh.

"I think it did," she said, and found that her voice was a dreamy sigh, croaky with tears and drowsiness. "Oh, I think it did."

"Very good." He rose, lifting her without effort, and set her down very carefully. Weak kneed, Belle reached for him at once and put her arms around him, all the way, her face against his collar and her hands splayed against his back. His trembling was far less than her own, but his flinch at her closeness suggested that his affliction, now, was similar to the one he had so recently eased in her. His hands grasped her shoulders for a few moments and then dropped to her hips, squeezing her backside as he had her breasts.

He would not ask, Belle realised. She was content where she was, but he wanted to be in her. Was the want, for him, as hungry and overpowering as hers had been, there in his lap? Was it more so?

"Come on," she said, directing him towards her bed but letting him lead her there, because she was unsteady on her feet. She made to lift the covers, thinking gloomily of the cold sheets that awaited, but Rumpelstiltskin pulled her to him for a kiss. It invaded her utterly, his tongue in her mouth, but her heightened senses found only enjoyment in that, and in his clumsy urgency. He lifted her onto the mattress, setting her down so hard that she bounced, and pushed her back with her legs dangling over the side, dragging up her nightgown.

His urgency excited her more than it alarmed her, bringing a little renewal of the ache. Belle raised her knees for him as he fidgeted above her, her heels finding awkward purchase on the soft edge of the bed. She heard leather being forced to move and, as he slid so easily inside her, she could feel that he was fully clothed save where he had exposed himself.

With the ease of it and all her moisture, it felt wonderful to have him there - not only inside her but rubbing against her, outside. Belle bit her lip and tried to be still, to allow him his selfishness as he had allowed hers. He made such noises, arching over her with his hands on either side of her; a sound on every heavy exhalation, fierce and triumphant. She would not have known it for enjoyment, had she not been aware of her own cries at the fireside.

He withdrew from her, suddenly, and before she could voice her concern had yanked her by the hips to the very edge of the bed and taken her again, driving so much harder into her that he knocked the breath from her. Off balance, Belle clung to him with her legs, feet locked stubbornly behind him, and his back-arching moan told her that she had found a way to please her husband better. Wickedly, she tugged at him with her heels as he thrust, urging him on, and a shuddering silence replaced his noisy efforts - a trembling stillness punctuated by one more, two more hungry thrusts inside her.

Rumpelstiltskin stayed over her, in her, for long moments. She could feel his gaze, although she could not see him. When he finally rose, Belle felt too weak to follow; she wanted to be beneath the covers, but her body didn't want to obey her. Only the knowledge that she couldn't sleep there, dangling like a discarded doll, persuaded her muscles to help her sit up.

"Come to bed?" she said, seeing that he was adjusting his clothing.

He returned to her side, cupping her face in his palm for a moment. Then he coaxed her wordlessly beneath the covers and tucked them around her, catching her hand, gently, to prevent her as she reached for him. He seemed lost for something to say and so, saying nothing, Rumpelstiltskin once more left her to sleep alone.


	10. Alone

Belle spent the following morning in her kitchen, raising the hem of one of her dresses and one of her petticoats above ankle-height. She was no seamstress, for all her sewing lessons, and found it much more difficult to work with the bulky skirts than to embroider a handkerchief. Even so, by midday, she owned a dress in which she could comfortably kneel to scrub a floor. More importantly, she could get up again afterwards without putting her foot through her own clothing.

This done, she explored the pantry with the aim of cooking something hot for their evening meal. There was always food aplenty and none of it seemed to spoil on the shelves. Milk stayed white and fresh; bread stayed crusty; vegetables stayed firm and meat stayed red and inviting. Belle distrusted such unnecessary magic and wondered if Rumpelstiltskin might allow her to visit the town, to buy what they needed at market. She would have liked to meet the townspeople, if only to thank them for the gifts that had so warmed her heart.

Distrustful as she was of the pantry and its contents, Belle was weary of making do with bread and cheese for her meals. That Rumpelstiltskin would conjure her a feast of lavish dishes, if she asked, Belle didn't doubt, but that was only more magic. Where did that end? She felt, deep in her soul, that the use of magic should and must end somewhere, lest it consume the world.

Perhaps it had already consumed her husband. Rumpelstiltskin didn't inhabit his castle so much as wear it like a second skin; it seemed he thought no more about the availability of fresh food or the lighting of the fires than Belle did about walking or breathing. At least in his workroom she had seen knives and cutting blocks, pestle and mortar, books and bottles - the tools of a trade, clearly well used and carefully maintained. There, amidst his spells and potions, he chose to use his hands to complete a task.

Belle did likewise in her kitchen, clumsily cutting up meat and vegetables and dropping them into a pot of boiling water, with a handful of herbs and salt. She knew that there was more to cookery than this, but the few things she had ever made herself under the supervision of the cooks had been dainty treats; small cakes, plaited loaves. She was going to have to learn her new trade - how to buy, store, prepare and cook - unless she wanted to eat magical food for the rest of her days.

When she was satisfied that she had the pot at the best distance from the fire, Belle went to change into her newly altered dress. She left her bodice looser, too, for the freedom of movement that she would need; it was far more comfortable than dresses that were made to flatter her shape and make her look a real lady.

Her hair she wound into a knot at the base of her skull, and stuck through with hairpins until it more or less stayed there. Since Rumpelstiltskin would not permit her a mirror, she decided, he should not complain if, sometimes, her appearance favoured practicality over beauty.

She could smell her pot of stew as she scrubbed away at the kitchen floor. She began nearest to the main door to the rest of the castle, and had worked her way neatly to the far side of the big table before Rumpelstiltskin came to find her. He stopped just inside the door, one foot held off the ground like a cat offended by something sticky, as he noticed the wet flagstones she'd left in her wake.

Belle smiled at him, sitting back on her heels with the scrubbing brush in her hand, and he skirted the room carefully to stand where the floor was dry.

"Woman, what are you doing?" He looked pained and sounded put out.

"Cleaning this floor, what does it look like?" Belle blew escaped wisps of hair out of her face.

"It looks like my wife thinks herself a scullery maid," he said, frowning. "Can you find no more... appropriate pursuits?"

"None that will get this floor clean," she replied and, enjoying his perplexity, moved herself and her bucket to the next dry patch.

"I can have it cleaned in a--"

"Yes, but you didn't," she interrupted, patiently and firmly. "Haven't forever, if I'm any judge. And now I'm doing it, properly, with a brush and my own two hands." She felt him watching her as she scrubbed with patient strokes then wiped the stones over with her handful of rags.

"I see," he said, eventually, with evident disdain. "And the cauldron?" Rumpelstiltskin picked his way around the fringes of her labour to inspect the bubbling pot. She heard him clang a ladle around inside it for a moment. "Is it dinner or laundry? I can't tell."

Belle made a face where he couldn't see it, then pulled herself to her feet. Her back ached and her knees were sore, and she would not have him tarnishing her sense of quiet triumph over the dirt. She was prepared to admit that the contents of her cooking pot did not represent a triumph over stew.

"Do you have a cookbook? That might help," she said. Bemused when his insult failed to rile her, Rumpelstiltskin stood like a statue, his brow furrowed, blinking slowly at her. He wore only a shirt over his breeches, again; a dark, earthy shade of red that made his odd complexion look even odder, accentuating his faint shimmer of gold.

"Why would you do this?" he pressed, as she went to stand beside him at the fire. "There's no need for you to do these things."

She could see that he truly didn't understand, and thought of him at his spinning wheel - so absorbed, so still in his work, seeming almost content.

"Shall I help you with your poisons, then?" Belle took his hand between both of hers, swaying playfully from side to side. "Or will you teach me how to spin gold?" She smiled at his incredulity. "I must have something to occupy me until our children come, Rumpelstiltskin," she laughed.

He made a faint sound in his throat, and pulled his hand away from hers with great care.

"You must do what pleases you, I'm sure," he said, his voice gone reedy and weak. He avoided her gaze, as though her mention of children had made him uneasy. "At least try not to scrub away my castle while I'm gone, hmm?"

He was almost to the kitchen door before Belle registered the meaning of his words.

"Gone?" She hurried after him, her shoes slipping a little on the wet stones. "But we've not been married a week!"

"I have business that cannot wait," he said, taking the stairs two at a time so that Belle had to scamper to stay close behind him. "I shall be gone for two days, three at the most."

"But..." she sought for the right thing to say, following him through the great room and to the marble hall. _But I'll be all alone here,_ was first in her mind, and after that she knew that she would miss his particular company, his odd ways and his small kindnesses. "What sort of business?"

Rumpelstiltskin collected his leather mantle from the table in the hall, shrugging into it with ease. It make him look at once more fierce, more sharp and far more forbidding. It shadowed his face strangely. It made Belle hold her tongue, remembering to whom she was married.

"I go where I am needed," he said, his smile menacing. "Anyone who desires _my_ presence must have a most pressing need, as you know better than most."

"I... I'll miss you," she said, uncertainly. She would miss her careful husband and his quiet, sad mysteries. She would not miss the haughty and terrible mask that he wore now, that cruel smile, or the way his magic seemed to whip about him in excitement at the prospect of going. He could barely contain himself, barely stand still. She could barely see in him the man who had touched her so tenderly last night. "Goodbye, then."

"My Lady." Rumpelstiltskin swept a deep bow, vanishing into a brief cloud of purple smoke.

Belle stood and stared at where he had been, her shock suddenly at war with a shameful relief that he had indeed gone.

That was soon replaced by a new fear. She had never, in her whole life, been alone anywhere. To be alone in a room for any length of time was still a novelty to her, and now she was completely alone in a strange castle full of magic and dust. To the best of her knowledge there were several, snowbound miles between herself and the next living soul.

A part of her felt excited at that. This was adventure! The rest of her felt small, and young, and afraid.

Just as when the encroaching ogres had made her afraid, Belle sought refuge in hard work. It was true that, at home, she had done so as much for the company as for the distraction, but she had to try. She had been foolish not to see that her husband would be gone - perhaps often, perhaps for longer than two or three days - and that she would need to make the best of it.

Rumpelstiltskin was the Meddler, the Spinner, the Stealer of Babes; he moved freely in the world and came when he was called, or simply when he sensed an opportunity to bargain. It was just... it was just that Belle found it so easy to carelessly forget who he was, and what he was, and what became of those who dealt with him. To her, he had been generous and, if not good-natured, then trying for her sake to be so.

Eating her solitary plate of tasteless, tough stew, her shoulders sore from finishing the kitchen floor, Belle thought of the faces at the inn; the horror of people who had _not_ forgotten what Rumpelstiltskin was, when they saw that he had brought a new bride. She remembered the shock and pity of the innkeeper's wife, showing her to their room. It was what Rumpelstiltskin _wanted_ \- that fear, that disgust. He courted it, he cultivated it and he revelled in it.

And, for Belle, he laid it carefully aside, just like that sharp, scaly leather coat, and showed her something softer that lay beneath.

~+~

The feeling of adventure lasted her the first night, and into the second day. Belle ate at odd hours, sang as she swept floors and hardly jumped at all at strange noises.

On the second evening, aware of the loneliness and too tired to keep herself properly busy, Belle put her most necessary laundry in the kitchen sink to soak, then sat by the kitchen fire until her eyes grew heavy. She liked it better, there, than alone in her bedroom while she shared the castle only with shadows.

Although she eventually made her way to bed, Belle slept little, tormented by homesickness and by nightmares that flowed in like sticky tar to fill the hollow loneliness. She woke before dawn, sick with the dreams and soaked in her own sweat. She lay thinking of what Rumpelstiltskin might be doing, out there in the world. What would he take in trade for his services, this time?

The stories told that it was not always something valuable, but always something precious to the one he dealt with. Her father might have thought of that, when he penned his plea for Rumpelstiltskin to aid them against the ogres. Her father had never concerned himself with gold, more than was necessary for the security and prosperity of their province; he, like Belle, thought the stuff less precious than grain or horses, or farmland, or the wealth of the sea. They had offered gold because it was the most valuable thing the province had, but Rumpelstiltskin did not trade with provinces, towns or kingdoms; he made his deals with a single soul, always.

Belle's father ought to have remembered that, and perhaps Rumpelstiltskin would not have been tempted to demand that he deal, instead, with that which her father held most precious of all.

Perhaps.

It had been a harsh bargain, and Rumpelstiltskin had been sure to rub all the salt that he could into the wound before they left. Belle's father couldn't know that she was even alive, now, let alone that her new husband did, indeed, treat her as a precious thing.

She was overcome with a longing for her father, in those long, empty hours before sunrise. She missed his smile, his big hands and the way he spoke to her. She cried bitterly into her pillow, grieving more for her father's loss of her than for hers of him. When it passed, when winter morning peeked around her curtains, Belle dragged herself to her bath to wash away her tears.

Breakfast cheered her up, two eggs emerging from the bubbling water with their yolks sticky and their whites perfectly firm. She had counted carefully in her head, each time she had tried to boil eggs, and had, with only her third attempt, found the perfect number to produce the result she desired. Boiled eggs, tea and toast reminded her again of home, but the agony of grief was left behind with the darkness; it was only a soft sadness as she dipped her spoon into the yolk and thought of her old nurse.

Some searching over the past days had unearthed a wash room, with big copper vats, long washboards, a mangle and a pump. For soap, Belle made do with a bar that had been among her basket treasures. She could tell from the softness and slight lather that it had been made for the skin and not for cloth, that it was too fine and rare, but it was all she had and her nightgowns simply had to be washed.

The effort hardly qualified her as a laundress, the clothing not having been particularly dirty or delicate, but Belle enjoyed the sense of achievement when she dragged an enormous wooden clothes-horse to the fireside and hung her things there to dry. She was soaked through and frozen, her hands half numb and red from the water, so she spent a while there while her nightgowns and petticoats steamed, warming herself.

Rumpelstiltskin might return today, and if he had looked at her askance for scrubbing floors, Belle thought that he would be quite disapproving if he saw her in her soaked and rather grubby work dress. She should go upstairs and change, and then dry out the dress along with the other things.

Tired and still very cold, Belle felt her feet drag on the steps up to the ground floor. She welcomed the fatigue as the just reward for her hard work, and hoped that she would sleep better because of it, but she stayed a while to warm herself again in the great room, wandering around it to properly view Rumpelstiltskin's displayed collection.

None of the objects seemed terribly precious, to Belle, although most glittered in some way. One or two of them were horribly disturbing, including a severed, mummified hand that she suspected of moving when her back was turned. A pair of wooden puppets shared one of the stands, staring and ghastly, as though carved to embody some moment of absolute, blood-chilling horror. Belle had never stopped to truly look at them before, they were so unappealing, and when she did she felt a crawling terror beneath her skin and had to look quickly away. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her as she moved on and, to escape the sensation, Belle ducked quickly behind a curtain.

It was well towards a winter's early dusk, the sky overcast with the promise of fresh snow. Belle looked out at the gardens, and thought that they would probably be beautiful in the spring; the view beyond was of the mountains, which looked ominous in the grey light but would shine come summer.

A movement caught her eye, vivid against the stillness of so much unbroken snow, and she saw that someone was at the outer gate.

Belle's heart leapt, first at the sight of any living soul and then, as the gates swung open and her husband came through it holding more baskets, with relief that she would not be alone another night in the castle. Laughing out loud, she ran into the marble hall and, unable to contain herself for a moment more, flung open the great doors.

Rumpelstiltskin looked up from his burden at the sound, and cried out sharply as Belle ran, unthinking, towards him.

She never heard what he said. It was as though the hand of an invisible giant had snatched her up, bodily, and flung her back into the hall. Belle struck the heavy table so hard that it groaned backwards across the marble, while she landed before it with a sickening crack of bone, too shocked to feel any pain but terrified because she could draw no air into her lungs.

Rumpelstiltskin was beside her, faster than running would have allowed; he almost had her in his arms before she even struck the floor, but was a fraction too late to soften her impact with the marble.

"Belle," he gasped, his face grey and darkening, his expression stricken and fearful. "Don't move, don't move now."

She could not have moved even if she wanted to and then, for the want of air, she slipped unconscious in his arms.


	11. Slower Magic

Something bitter in her mouth woke her up, coughing.

For a while there was nothing but whiteness behind her eyelids and pain as she choked, her body screaming, but once she managed to swallow the bitter stuff, Belle felt the pain recede. It became isolated to various parts of her body - her head, her chest, her arm. Her head was lifted and a cold spoon dribbled more of the stuff between her lips. It helped to swallow and not inhale the fumes, she quickly found, and after two more small spoonfuls the pain was almost nothing. Her head was lowered and there were pillows beneath her, cool and soothing.

"Belle?"

She turned her head towards the sound of her name. After a struggle, she persuaded her eyes to open.

"Oh," she said, seeing Rumpelstiltskin there, sitting beside her on a bed. Memory returned, like the incoming tide. Her husband, Rumpelstiltskin. His castle.

"That's better," he said, putting the spoon and a black glass bottle into a velvet-lined basket in his lap. It was full of bottles. He leaned over her, scrutinising her face urgently. "No more pain, now, eh?"

"No," Belle agreed, muzzily. There was no pain. There was no anything, really. She closed her eyes again and the whiteness became a much more restful black.

When she next became aware of her surroundings, things were clearer. It was her room; it was night. There was a candelabra drawn up close to the foot of the bed; the room was warm. Rumpelstiltskin was still there, had drawn up a chair to her bedside and was perched at the very edge of it, as though ready to pounce.

"Can you move?" he asked, nodding encouragement. Belle thought that she could, but seemed to have forgotten how; she felt so heavy, so limp. Biting her lip, she flexed her hands and then her feet, and nodded. The effort exhausted her and left her trying to catch her breath. "Good," Rumpelstiltskin crooned, leaning closer. "Very good, you're strong. That's good."

Belle remembered, suddenly, being thrown through the air and landing like a rag doll on the marble. She flinched, tears welling up, but it was too much effort to properly cry. The memory was harsh and horrible; the sound of breaking bone, of the breath being driven forcibly from her body.

"Does it hurt?" Rumpelstiltskin transferred himself to the bed beside her, anxiety making his voice thin and his eyes huge.

"Not now," she choked out. "How bad is it?"

"Oh, you'll mend," he answered, brightly. "Don't cry, now." He was almost pleading. Belle couldn't manage to lift a hand to wipe away her tears; didn't even know why she was crying. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Belle shook her head, wishing that he would go away - that the medicine would make her sleep again.

"Why did you do this?" she asked, before she knew she'd had the thought. "Why? I wasn't running away, you know I wasn't."

More tears came, bitter with hurt and, now, fear as well.

"I didn't--" He was still pleading with her, more agitated the more she wept. "The castle keeps what's mine, I warned you that you mustn't--"

Rumpelstiltskin stopped speaking as her sobs grew louder, her body shaking with them. He patted her shoulder instead, before giving up all attempts to soothe her. When Belle was finally able to quiet herself, to blink the puddles from her eyes and see him again, his head was bowed.

"I need a handkerchief," she said. Sullenness felt strange on her - as strange and heavy as her ornate wedding dress had.

Wordlessly, he produced one. Out of the air, she noted, with one of those graceful shakes of his hand. Why couldn't he keep one in a purse at his belt or up a sleeve, like anyone else? She took it, moving an arm that felt leaden until she could dab clumsily at her face. Her arm was encased in silk, she realised; she'd not noticed the creamy luxury of it until she managed to properly move a limb. Finest, softest white lace hung from the cuff. He'd undressed her, putting her to bed! He'd _undressed_ her!

At her damp gulp of dismay, Rumpelstiltskin risked a look at her. Seeing the question in her face, following her gaze to the silk, he set his jaw.

"Magic, dearie. I didn't peek, nor touch you any more than was needful."

"Oh." To add to her confusion, Belle now felt ashamed for thinking so little of him as to imagine he'd take advantage of her unconscious state to... look at her. He had made no effort to see her body while they were together, and she was certain that he could see perfectly well, even in the dark. "It... it's very comfortable. Thank you."

"And you're in no pain?"

"No. Was that magic, too?" Belle didn't like the thought of that, of his magic working in her, any more than she liked the thought of being seen undressed while she was unconscious.

"Magic, yes," he said, dully. "But not mine. These are medicines from the world over. Rare and precious." He raised his basket for her to see, before setting it on the bed out of harm's way. "I could do it much faster," he said, "but at a far greater cost to you. Better this way," he urged, hopefully. "Slower and better. You must only be still and let the potions work."

Belle could see his agony, as he awaited her answer and her blessing. She had no words left, and could only nod and close her eyes to escape the sight of him.

She slept again, or something close to it. Her dreams were vivid, dripping with unnatural colours and formless misery. Every now and again she was aware of Rumpelstiltskin rousing her enough to take another tiny spoonful of something bitter or astringent, and each time the sleep took her back, deeper, until she knew nothing at all.

~+~

Come morning, Belle could sit up in the bed. Her body still felt weighed down, and a pulling sensation in her ribs and right shoulder warned her against further movement, but it was a relief to be able to stretch her arms and flex her legs again.

The chair remained close beside her bed, Rumpelstiltskin's basket of potions on the seat, but there was no sign of her husband. Belle was first relieved and then stung by that, and then so impatient with her own ambivalence towards him that she became angry with herself and folded her arms - an action that left her all too aware of being injured. It was not pain, not exactly, but her body had told her in no uncertain terms to heed Rumpelstiltskin's advice, and remain still.

Belle had always enjoyed robust good health. The few times that some illness or other had confined her to her room, she had never been truly confined to her _bed_ , and there had always been company. What would she do if her recuperation took days, or weeks? For the moment, she doubted that she would manage a chamberpot unaided, let alone wash herself or...

No. From her father, Belle had learned not to dwell upon the things that might not happen. Rumpelstiltskin would not leave her alone for long. His coat was draped across the foot of her bed, and he had left the chair close by. He had only stepped out. She was almost sure of it.

The pain, her hysteria and the fevered dreams that followed had not so much as dampened the silk in which he'd dressed her. Belle felt as clean and as fresh as the last time she had bathed, so perhaps his magic was at work to keep her sick bed as comfortable as possible. Yes, she would accept that much magic, she decided. Better that than call upon her husband to aid her with what Lotte had always, rather darkly, called "a woman's own things".

Lotte had always stood guard like a seasoned warrior while Belle bathed and dressed. She'd scurried out every morning with Belle's chamberpot covered in a cloth, as though it could possibly be the least bit different to anyone else's pot, be they man or woman. Oh, gods, and she would bleed soon, as well, unless Rumpelstiltskin's child had already taken in her womb, and Belle knew that she would accept _any_ magic rather than have to ask his help with _that_.

Belle went rigid at the sound of footsteps upon the stairs; it could only be Rumpelstiltskin, returning from whatever had demanded his attention elsewhere. He was coming from below, not from his room of poisons and books, and that settled her nerves a little.

He came in carrying a laden tray, nudging the door open with his boot and waiting just inside, watching her face uncertainly.

"Good morning," Belle said. Her voice was hoarse; she was thirsty without even knowing it. The magic, again?

"You're awake." He smiled, or tried to, and brought her the tray. He set it beside her on the bed and Belle saw a china pot, a cup and saucer, and boiled eggs in little silver cups, the tops already sliced off to reveal soft yolks. There was bread, as well, and butter, and jam. It was more food than she would ever eat, even when she was well. "You must eat before the medicine," he urged, hovering beside the bed and waving his hands about. "The magic must be fed."

"With more magic?" Belle reached slowly for a piece of bread, sighing.

"Not at all." Rumpelstiltskin clasped his hands in front of him, finally mastering them. "I prepared this, _properly_ , with my own two hands." When Belle looked up at him, his head was bowed and his gaze fixed firmly on the bedclothes beside her.

"You can cook?" She almost laughed at the thought of him, busy in her kitchen. "Rumpelstiltskin, the Spinner, the Stealer of Babes?"

"I can do most anything," he frowned. "When I've a mind to. Now, eat." After a moment's pause, he bent over and lifted the tray onto her lap where she could reach it better. "While it's hot."

Belle found that she did have an appetite, after all, and gratefully drank a cup of the tea he poured for her. It was awkward to manage, propped on her pillows, but the handkerchief he had given her doubled for a napkin, tucked into the collar of her nightdress, and kept her from staining it with egg and jam.

"Where does all the food come from?" she asked, when she was tiring of moving herself even enough to put food into her own mouth. She pushed the tray a little further down her legs, and let the pillows support her.

"What?" Rumpelstiltskin had been perched in the chair again, rigid and still. Even his hands. "From the town, for the most part. The surrounding farms."

"So, it's real food," she pressed. "The eggs came from a hen, the bread from flour, from a mill?"

"...yes." Bemused, he finally dared to meet her eyes. "Why?"

"Because nothing rots, in the pantry. Because everything is there when I need it. Because I don't want to eat magic food, or food that was taken from someone else's mouth to decorate your larder, Rumpelstiltskin."

"Mistress," he said, his patience strained and his eyes flashing with all too human anger, "I _steal_ nothing, and I'll wager that few other egglers and millers receive gold for the slight trouble of saving a portion for their rightful master."

"Oh." Belle was the one to look away, then. "Well. Good."

He grunted, grasping the arms of the chair. He had obviously hoped that she would be more pleased with his offering.

"Now for medicine," he said, collecting two bottles from the basket. Neither was the black one with which he had dosed her into oblivion, before. One was smoked red glass, the other clear but containing a liquid the colour of crushed berries. "Is there any pain?" As irritated with her as Rumpelstiltskin had been, but a moment before, it was as though the prospect of her pain stole all his breath away.

"A little," Belle said, "when I move."

"Here, then." Rumpelstiltskin poured a spoonful from the red bottle. The liquid was clear and strongly alcoholic, to judge by the fumes; Belle swallowed it quickly, screwing her eyes closed. Her eyes had nearly stopped watering by the time he had prepared a spoonful of the second, thicker liquid. "And this one for mending. Three spoons."

Each spoon seemed more bitter and foul than the last, and Belle was glad when he corked the bottle and put it with the others, out of her sight on the ground beside his chair.

She felt a little dizzy, but the beginnings of fresh pain had already gone.

"How long must I stay in bed?"

"A day, maybe two." Rumpelstiltskin took the tray from her knees with exaggerated care. It was as though he was afraid she might bite him, or that he might, once again, inadvertently harm her. "I shall leave you to rest."

"No..." Belle tried to reach for him, but the medicine had robbed her of the strength. "Please don't go." Her urgency surprised her, for neither of them were in an agreeable mood, and his presence had been awkward. Yet, she wanted him to stay with her, whether for the sake of his particular company or, simply, that she did not want to be alone again. "Please. I won't be a scold, I promise. I only wanted to know where the food came from. Please stay."

After a moment of indecision, Rumpelstiltskin gave a delicate shrug and, as his shoulders fell, the tray vanished from his hands. Belle smirked, helplessly, at his expression of smug satisfaction as he arranged himself in the chair again.

"And what shall we talk about?" he asked, too lightly. Of the two of them, Belle knew that his was the greatest discomfort.

"Tell me about your journey?"

Pursing his lips, Rumpelstiltskin steepled his hands.

"I gave a fool his foolish bargain," he said, drawing out the words with a touch of malice. A touch of satisfaction. "There is little to tell. And while I was away, you became a washerwoman?"

"I tried," Belle laughed. Laughter brought that feeling of pressure back to her ribs and shoulder, and she struggled not to cough on her way to silence. "With olive soap and freezing cold water. I don't think I'd make a living at it."

He shrugged again.

"The clothes are clean." He gestured to the foot of the bed, to her trunk, and Belle realised that he had placed a folded pile of clothing there. "I'd say that you managed well enough."

"And you think me foolish for doing it," she said. Her mind felt less clear than before. The words came a little easier, without the stabs of hurt that had been nothing to do with her injuries.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he said, spreading his hands with a flourish. "But perhaps you'll let magic heat the water, the next time the whim takes you? You were frozen in those wet clothes."

Belle went to put her hand to the collar of the unfamiliar nightgown, but her arm didn't move. She blushed, anyway.

"What would happen to me if I uncovered the mirrors?" she asked, after a while.

"Nothing. Do not do so."

"I won't, I just... I mean, if I'd known that you meant I mustn't set foot outside the castle, even to welcome you home..."

"Yes." His voice was sharp, silencing her, but soon softened at her look of alarm. "Yes. If you'd known. Such a thing will not happen again, you have my word."

Her eyes were growing tired, her eyelids heavy, and she could not answer. After a while, she felt him cover her to her chin with the blankets, as tender as he had ever been in the dark.

Belle tried to feel angry with him for the harm he'd done, but all she could feel was sorrow and hurt. She had given him her word, had become his wife, and he did not trust her to be true to it.

That his magic had no subtle understanding of her intentions, she could understand. That Rumpelstiltskin had no understanding of what her oath meant to her - _that_ she could not bear. But she would show him, she decided. With every day that she failed to betray her promise to be his wife, and every day that she stood loyally by his side, whether he charmed or terrified her, Belle would show him what it meant.


	12. Mending

When Rumpelstiltskin brought Belle a tray with her evening meal, she could already sit up properly in the bed to eat it. His medicines seemed to do their work best while she slept, and each time left her feeling a little better and a little brighter.

"So," she said, coyly, as she tried a spoonful of what looked like fresh bread pudding, "now you're the one serving me."

"Don't get used it it," Rumpelstiltskin advised, but without any bite in his words. He had been a careful physician, measuring out her medicine and making sure that she swallowed every drop. He had visited her frequently, when not actually sitting by her side, and on the previous trip had brought her the two baskets that he had collected from the gate before her... accident.

Yes, Belle decided, trying out the word in her mind, she would think of it as an accident. She had strayed into danger and been hurt, and Rumpelstiltskin appeared to feel as distressed about it as she.

The new baskets contained grander things than the first ones. One held fine needlework, and the means to make it; an exquisite lace collar that appeared to have been made from Rumpelstiltskin's golden thread; pots of rare spices and oils and two silver cups, their interiors gilded. One basket contained six bottles of mead, packed carefully in hessian and straw.

Belle looked again at the baskets, as she ate the hot pudding.

"Who sent these?" she asked him, but Rumpelstiltskin shrugged with exaggerated indifference, gesturing to her tray. She obediently took another bite, and sipped her tea. "These are from a wealthy place," she went on.

"There are merchants," he said, vaguely. "Those who manage my lands. Estates beyond my borders. I can enquire."

"I'd like to thank them," Belle said, hopefully. "All of them, the townspeople. Will I meet them?"

"If you don't eat up and take your medicine you may never leave this bed, my Lady." Rumpelstiltskin prodded her tray. "Come, I made it all for you. From bread, milk, eggs, butter, sugar and with my own two hands," he added, to forestall her. Belle smiled.

"When did you learn to care for an invalid?"

"It's a case of trial and error, so far," he said, showing Belle her first glimpse of his perverse mischief since her accident. "You're not dead, so it's probably working."

She found that it didn't hurt to laugh, so he was probably right. She finished the pudding, still smiling, and lay back against her pillows with a contented sigh.

"It was a very fine pudding," she said, remembering to be gracious, since she had not been so about the breakfast. "Thank you."

Rumpelstiltskin took her tray, his face hidden by his hair, and made a small sound that Belle took to mean that she was welcome. He sat next her on the bed, producing the two medicine bottles, but he kept them tucked between his hip and hers.

"I should examine..." he began, lifting his hands halfheartedly towards her shoulder, then letting them fall again. He was _blushing_ , Belle realised. It was perhaps only in this particular light, the late afternoon sunshine meeting the candlelight, that she would have been able to notice the way the warm colour rose across his cheekbones. It made him seem so much less... different.

Belle unlaced the nightgown, wordlessly. It was loose enough about her to preserve her modesty to some degree, while she dropped the shoulder of the gown so that he could see her. Even so, she had a blush of her own while Rumpelstiltskin's hands grasped her arm, then her shoulder. He barely touched her, but she could feel the ache of deep bruises where he did, and looked down at herself in surprise.

It was black and ugly, from her right shoulder and midway across her chest; beneath her breast and down her side the bruising was a redder colour, far more angry and swollen. Her mind refused to understand how her flesh could _look_ like that when she felt so little pain; she felt that she could not possibly be seeing her _own_ body, battered like that, but then she remembered the magic. Magic in his rare medicines.

"Might I have died?" she asked, blushes forgotten as he helped her to cover herself fully again. "Without magic?"

Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted with the glass bottles beside him, his frown directed down at them.

"No. Not death. The pain would have been great for a very long time. It is better than it was. The bones have knit. Now your body must purge the poisons, the bruising, and lastly the magic itself. It will be a less comfortable night. Even a healing magic must exact its price."

His quiet matter-of-factness spoke to Belle of how deeply her injuries had affected him. But why? The whole world knew of the terrible things he did. She had seen for herself the vicious pleasure that he took in reminding others of his power, frightening them. Rumpelstiltskin took no pleasure in seeing the vivid reminders that marked her, now; he had about him not one ounce of that cackling, grinning glee. He looked weighed down and unhappy, instead, as any man might whose new wife had been hurt. As a man might whose concern for that stranger-wife ran deeper than mere courtesy.

Belle put her hand over his, over the medicine bottles, and felt him stiffen at the unexpected touch.

"At least you were here," she said, trying to offer him some small consolation, even though she felt little herself.

"It might have killed you, if I wasn't," he breathed. Belle sensed that he hadn't meant to give it voice; he inhaled sharply, straightening himself, and wrapping himself in the cloak of power and dark certainty once more. "Even _my_ reputation might be a little tarnished by a bride who barely lasted the week," he quipped, and Belle took her hand away, slowly.

She didn't know how to speak to him, when he became like that - the creature who'd giggled like a cruel child at her father's anguish. She could only keep reminding herself, again and again, of what lay beneath.

Rumpelstiltskin grew calm again, administering her spoonfuls of medicine. The quiver of unnatural excitement went slowly out of him, and Belle made herself remember the warm blush lightening his cold-coloured skin at the prospect of uncovering her in daylight.

"Have you had many wives?" she asked, when she dared, and when she could speak again after a very large spoonful of bitter tincture. "Did they last longer than a week?"

"Ah." Caught by his own unkind jest, Rumpelstiltskin was able to be nearly gracious. He corked the medicine bottle with unnecessary care and slowness, his head bowed over the task. "One wife. Very long ago."

"Oh." Belle could feel the medicines taking her mind. It was growing dark outside, the winter's night falling fast, and she felt that she was being swallowed up with the rest of the world. It had been a very, very big spoon of the spirits, this time. "Oh."

Her thoughts swam, as Rumpelstiltskin lifted enough of her weight to dislodge some of the pillows from behind her. He laid her down again, one pillow beneath her head, and brought the covers up to her chin.

"Try to rest," she heard him urge, his voice coming from very far away.

It wasn't sleep. It wasn't rest. Belle found herself in darkness, in dreams, and yet _aware_. She knew that time passed, and that Rumpelstiltskin tended to her. She burned, her dreams of roaring fires and blood red skies, and when she could barely breathe there was something cool. A wet cloth against her skin; her face and neck. Her arms, her hands. It soothed her into stillness, in the dark place, and after the stillness came welcome oblivion.

Rumpelstiltskin spoke to her through the night, Belle thought, or perhaps she only dreamed it. She came to her senses only once during the hours of darkness, and found her husband beside her, stretched fully clothed above the covers, head propped on his fist, patiently dabbing at her bare arm with the biggest sponge Belle had ever seen.

"You're strong," he said, catching her eye and seeing that she was momentarily lucid. "It will be over soon."

"Don't go," Belle pleaded. "Not tonight."

"Hush, now," he answered, dipping the sponge into a bowl that sat between them, wringing it out and then stroking it across her brow. It felt wonderful. "Let the magic work. Let it be over."

Perhaps there was a little magic of his own, then, for Belle felt a different kind of warmth to the fever. Something in her mind, pressing her back towards the darkness. Her last memory was of his thin, nervous giggle close by, very quietly singing her to sleep.

~+~

Belle surfaced at first light to a piercing headache, and a gnawing ache that extended from her right shoulder down to her hip. Turning over before she remembered that she was supposed to lie still, she found that movement eased the pain rather than worsened it. She found her husband beside her, still atop the covers as she remembered, but sleeping now, his hand beside his face on the pillow.

 _So, you do sleep_ , she thought, and made herself as comfortable as she could on her left side. Sleep changed Rumpelstiltskin little, except to make him seem smaller. He was neatly proportioned and selected his clothing to accent the fact. Awake, he encouraged a fearful respect that fooled the eye. Asleep, his eyes closed, he seemed only a man. He breathed unevenly, as though his dreams were not peaceful, and his body seemed rigid rather than relaxed. Even the hand beside his face had made a tight fist.

Belle longed for the comforts of her bathing room, after her fever. The calls of nature and the aches of inactivity that had not troubled her in her sickbed were making themselves known, now, so she supposed that the magic and the mending were done. Should she get up, and stretch her aching limbs, and wash away the night of fever?

Perhaps not yet. Rumpelstiltskin slept so little; surely that meant that, when he did succumb, it was because he was truly weary? She need not disturb him yet, and what better opportunity would she have to truly look at the man she had married?

Keeping still, afraid that even her breathing would wake him, Belle let her eyes have their fill of him for the first time. For the most part his hair was a mousy brown, but a brown run through with all the shades of sunlight, and then a few shadows. The smoky discolouration of his skin seemed to come from something that spread, unevenly, beneath the flesh itself, something far darker than life's blood. His lips seemed too thin for his features, his eyes too sunken and the irises far too large, but he was not... Belle thought of his contempt for his own appearance, and sighed. He was not unsightly, not grotesque, not malformed. He was...

She could not find the right word. His appearance made the onlooker feel a _wrongness_ ; it was a warning, she decided, like the colour of a poisonous berry, the stripes of a wasp or the bold markings of a venomous snake. Those engendered unthinking caution or respect, alertness and awareness, but those things were not, in and of themselves, _ugly_. And neither was Rumpelstiltskin.

His skin creased strangely at the folds, dragged up into peaks that did not stretch and settle again until he moved. Belle moved her own hand, comparing the supple smoothness of her own flesh to the texture of his. In parts, his flesh seemed as coarsely textured as tooled leather; in others, almost ordinary, save for the hints of gold that put her in mind of fine scales on some tiny, scuttling lizard creature.

Had he been born so? Belle had known of Rumpelstiltskin and his dark deeds all her life, yet the stories didn't speak of how such a creature came to be. They hinted, sometimes, at a heavy punishment for some great evil, or at an abomination of nature that balanced out some of the beauty in the world. But those were stories, cautions for children and men alike, and the words no doubt changed over the years to emphasise the ever-present danger of him, more than the truth of his deeds.

Sleeping beside her, half curled in on himself, Rumpelstiltskin looked a danger to no-one.

When she could be still no longer, Belle tried to ease herself out of the bed without waking her husband, but it was a futile effort. He sat bolt upright, instantly alert, and froze Belle in place with the bedclothes half lifted. His eyes were narrowed, his expression sour. It was, for a few heartbeats, as though he looked through her and not at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, gingerly. "I tried not to wake you."

He blinked, and the startling intensity of his stare was gone.

"It is your bed, my Lady," he said, lightly. "I am the intruder. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, much." Belle took care, placing her feet on the ground and reaching for the bedpost before she tried to rise. Rumpelstiltskin was beside her in a moment, but did not touch her. When she found that she could stand unaided, he backed away with a nod.

"If you can manage, I will leave you. There should be no pain, but you may be sore." He indicated his own ribs.

"I can manage," she assured him. The alternative was to accept his assistance, and... no. She would be careful. "Thank you."

It seemed to take her forever to ready herself for the day. Rumpelstiltskin had been right, there was no pain, but her ribs protested with every movement that stretched or twisted her torso. There was still redness below her arm, spreading further back than she could see without a mirror, but it was barely a mark compared to the way it had looked before.

Dressing was uncomfortable, so she left her bodice as slack as she dared, and tied her shawl about her to cover herself better. Brushing her hair was equally difficult, so she contented herself with a few strokes to tame it before catching it beneath the shawl.

The effort of preparing herself had tired her, more than she cared to admit. There would certainly be no scrubbing of floors, today, or lifting of heavy kettles to make Rumpelstiltskin his tea. What would she do with herself? Feeling gloomy, Belle took the linen and threads from her basket of gifts. Needlework had been her final resort, at home, whenever boredom threatened to undermine her even temper. Oh, she could make pretty things, but had never seen the use when there were women who, with their exquisite skill, could make so much better, and with it earn their living.

Any pleasure she had ever found in needlework came from the company and conversation of other women as they worked. But it was an appropriate pursuit, and Rumpelstiltskin _had_ asked that she find one. Careful to keep her right hand near to a wall or bannister to steady herself, Belle carried her things downstairs to the great room.

Rumpelstiltskin was at his spinning wheel in the far corner, but rose when she entered. He approached her with stiff strides, but stopped some way short of her side. His expression was closed and cool, but not his eyes. There, Belle could still see the turmoil.

"Here," he said, a little desperately. A wave of his arm showed her that the armchair had been restored to the fireside and, with it, a footstool and a small table. "You should stay warm."

Before she even sat down, a tray appeared on the little table beside the chair; a warming breakfast of porridge, with a cup of tea. She smiled, and said nothing except to thank him.

While she ate, she heard him back at his wheel, but the creak of the mechanism was without rhythm and Belle felt... watched. She knew that if she glanced around, she would only see Rumpelstiltskin busy at his spinning.

Belle had taken up her sewing before he approached her, crouching with the roaring fire at his back and looking up at her, uncertain as a child.

"When you feel well enough," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, "you will be able to leave these walls. Nothing will prevent you."

She tilted her head, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"I could go to town? To market?"

"... yes." He had expected a different question, she knew. Had no-one ever shown him loyalty, before? It seemed to confuse him, as if she spoke in a foreign tongue and left him desperate to follow her meaning.

"Then I shall," Belle decided. "I want to thank everyone for the gifts. I want to meet them, and see your lands."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, blank with incomprehension, then looked away when she smiled.

"Then so you shall, my dear," he said, too brightly, springing up and hurrying back to his spinning wheel. "So you shall."


	13. An Involuntary Dance

Belle's day of rest surprised her by not being unpleasant. Rumpelstiltskin was both attentive and distant, so that she was neither lonely nor engaged with his conversation. It was peaceful, restful, and she patiently sewed a new sampler of the stitches that she might like to decorate a nursery. It gave her more satisfaction than she might have expected.

Rumpelstiltskin spent many hours at his spinning wheel, seeming content with her silent company. He saw to it that she ate heartily, and shared tea with her twice, but it was only when Belle rose at dusk to return to her room that the careful spell between them was broken.

"Will I see you later?" she asked, going to watch him at the wheel. His eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment before he frowned down at his own knees.

"You must rest," he said, doing his best to appear preoccupied with his work. "Good night, my Lady."

Belle made her way around the great wheel, stepped up onto the low platform that housed it, and bent to kiss Rumpelstiltskin's cheek.

"Good night, then," she said, feeling him freeze in place at her small gesture. She was sure that he even held his breath until she left his side.

Although she felt well rested, the climb to her room was less easy than before. Belle went slowly, thinking as she climbed of Rumpelstiltskin's shyness, and his surprise at every small gesture of affection or warmth. Or loyalty. That she had not immediately asked to return home to her father had shocked him, she knew. Would he have let her go? Let her go never to return? She would still be his wife but, such things were not unheard of; not as much disgrace as to be unfaithful, or simply abandoned by her husband. Her father would welcome her, wouldn't he, whatever her shame?

Belle wondered what it would be like to live, every day, without the certainty of another person's love. Without company, without the slight touches that could not be helped as people went about their business in the same space. Without smiles or conversation. How long _had_ he been alone in his echoing castle, surrounded by his dusty magpie treasures and his horrid relics?

One wife, he'd said. Long ago. The stories spoke of Rumpelstiltskin across generations, and far back into the mists of time; he was older than many of the borders that carved up the world. And in all that time, _one_ wife? That didn't preclude other possibilities, but Belle knew, in her heart, that Rumpelstiltskin had never peopled his castle with companions, with lovers, with courtesans or even with servants. Her gestures of simple human warmth would not shock him so, otherwise.

At her room, at last, Belle sank down onto the edge of the bed. The candles always came alight as she entered, a silent welcome. There was always a fire in the hearth, suitable for the weather, and it never needed her attention. The bed was made and the sheets always fresh. Tonight, the silk nightgown in which Rumpelstiltskin had clothed her lay spread at the foot of the bed, quite fresh and clean, even though it had been damp with the sweat of her fever when she'd removed it. Belle fingered it as she sat, swinging her legs from the great bed. It was a lovely garment, needing no delicate embroidery or rare dye to make it luxurious; the generous expanse of plain, smooth silk the colour of buttermilk was enough. Only the blue ribbon that laced from chest to throat broke the simplicity, and Belle realised, belatedly, that the shade was a very good match for her eyes.

She remembered how Rumpelstiltskin had held her close, in the chair beside the fire, and how he'd loosened the pearl buttons of her old, plain nightgown. She could imagine, all too clearly, seeing his fingers unthread the blue ribbon one night, touching her again just as he had by the fire. The vivid thought shocked her for a moment, until she asked herself why it should. There was nothing wrong in welcoming her husband's touch; she was shrewd enough to know that not all wives did, let alone found any pleasure in their duty. She could have gleaned as much from Rumpelstiltskin's assumptions on their wedding night alone.

Belle was fortunate, then, to have a husband who was both tender and concerned for her pleasure, and if her thoughts filled with images of his hands upon her... well, how could that be wrong?

There had been no more of the distracting ache, since that night, but it crept upon her as she thought of these things, and increased when she changed her day clothes for the silk nightgown. Knowing where the heavy sensation could lead, she tried not to mind it; she did not feel the unhappy restlessness that had accompanied it before. Why it would come upon her when her husband had made it plain that he wished her to sleep, Belle didn't know, but it was as if her body prepared itself for him, regardless. That made a little sense. To have him inside her had been far easier, that last time they were together; he had not needed to take such great care with her, after her own pleasure.

Belle left the door open, and went to sit by the fire. At the very least, she wanted him to be sure of his welcome if he passed by her door in the night.

Her ribs still felt sore when she raised her arms, so she struggled once more to brush her hair. It had knotted, and needed real attention, but the discomfort soon persuaded her to stop brushing. Few other movements still pained her, and she did not think that Rumpelstiltskin would be pleased if she did herself further injury just for the sake of her vanity.

She had not been at the fireside for long when she heard him on the stairs. He stopped outside her open door, and Belle tried very hard not to smile to herself.

"Do you have some magic that can untangle my hair, Rumpelstiltskin?" she called, not turning around. Yes, she wanted him to be quite certain of his welcome. She did smile, but out of his sight at least. "It hurts to brush it."

"Well then," he said, coming slowly to stand beside her chair, "let us see."

Belle had expected magic, since she had asked so boldly for some, but Rumpelstiltskin merely took the brush and comb from her hand and, urging her to sit forward a little, began to work the tangles loose himself. He did not have Lotte's patient skill for it but, after her first indrawn breath of protest, he learned to grasp each hank of hair at her scalp before he pulled on the knots lower down with the comb. After a few awkward pulls - and some irritable snorts that Belle suspected would have given birth to hearty curses, were he not minding his manners in her company - he seemed to learn the way of it. Hair, she supposed, was only a sort of fibre, and his hands were truly skilled at dealing with that. She closed her eyes as he worked, first combing out the tangles and then, returning the comb to her hand, slowly brushing her hair through until it was smooth.

"Lovely," he declared, scooping all of her hair back behind her shoulders and smoothing it down with his hands. He gave her back the brush. "My Lady."

He would leave, Belle realised with a sinking heart. He had done as she asked, and now he would leave unless she stopped him.

"My maid, Lotte," she said, stammering the first words in her haste. "She brushed my hair every morning and night. I'd forgotten how nice it is. Thank you."

"Was that the one who dripped _snot_ the entire time I was at your castle?" he asked, with sneering distaste. "And took to her bed while her mistress married a monster?"

"Don't be unkind," Belle complained, but his words were only the truth, embroidered with his own sarcastic condemnation. Lotte _had_ done those things. "She was afraid for me. She was my oldest friend."

"Not friend enough to plead with me to spare you," he said, his hands returning to her shoulders. "Not enough to offer herself in your stead, or beg to be allowed to remain at your side, come what may."

Well, she _had_ wanted him to stay. This was her husband, and her husband could be cruel in ways that mystified Belle. He could make the truth seem cruel, while she, herself, always tried to look upon it kindly. He was still her husband, and she had wanted him to stay with her tonight. She could not invite one aspect of him into her bedroom and lock out another. All of it was Rumpelstiltskin.

"No," she said, sighing her disappointment. Perhaps some of it belonged to Lotte, for abandoning her when she had most needed those around her to be brave. "I shall have to learn to care properly for my own hair, that's all. And you're not a monster."

"Am I not?" He removed his hands from her shoulders with exaggerated care. "Then why did your snotty maidservant weep so, I wonder? Perhaps joy at our impending nuptials simply overcame her?"

There was still that unkind bite to his words, but Belle detected weariness as well. He'd grown tired of his own game, finding that she would not play along. When she turned, a little afraid in spite of herself, she saw him quickly turn his face away from her, lips pursed. His mood unsettled her, but then she thought of how he had nursed her, how he had seen to her during her day by the fireside, and found a little certainty there. She went to him, took his hands in hers, and waited for him to look at her. He concealed himself even then, head bowed so that she could not see his eyes while he, it seemed, studied the blue ribbon that closed her nightgown.

"The silk suits you well," he said, with the little-boy coyness that always startled Belle as much as his crude attempts to alarm her. "I will bring you more, the next time I travel."

She looked down at herself in surprise. This had been from his journey? But, then, he had never said that the gown was magical in origin, only that he had used magic to clothe her in it.

"Another gift?" Touched, and shy herself because of it, Belle squeezed his unresisting hands. "Thank you."

Somehow, between them, they succeeded in coming together for a hesitant kiss. Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, so Belle did likewise as their lips brushed together. For just a moment, the tip of his tongue teased her mouth, her small, startled gasp allowing him the opportunity to go deeper. His hands tightened in hers, pulling her a step nearer, but no sooner had she complied than he let her go and, almost stumbling, stepped away himself. He looked hunted. He looked _afraid_ , Belle realised, frozen on the verge of some silly, teasing protest. She held her tongue.

"You must rest," he said, slightly breathless. His eyes darted about, avoiding the sight of her. "Tomorrow is market day. If you are well enough, we will go in to town. I'm sure that they're quite beside themselves with curiosity about you, by now."

His words put Belle in mind of her old nurse, encouraging her to go obediently to bed with promises of some treat or favour that tomorrow might hold, as long as she was a good girl.

"All right," she said, failing to entirely conceal her unhappiness at this turn of events. She had very much liked to be kissed with such sweet reverence, and to watch his bashful interest in her.

Rumpelstiltskin gave her one of his elegant half-bows, looking quite relieved, and closed her door firmly behind him on the way out. For a few breaths, he stayed outside her door. Then, by the sound of it taking two steps at a time, he climbed rapidly upwards.

Well! Belle would be the first to admit that her flirtations were clumsy and unpractised. Perhaps a wife who was too forward was more alarming to Rumpelstiltskin than a reluctant one? It was food for thought, as she went around the room and blew out the candles.

She braced herself before pushing her feet beneath the chilly bed sheets. She had searched the kitchen levels for a warming pan and found no such thing; not a terrible surprise, since her husband appeared neither to feel the cold or to spend any more time occupying a bed than he must. Perhaps, if he cared to go on giving her gifts, she could find a way to let him know that warmer feet would be ideal for the winter months.

Waiting for sleep to find her, Belle thought about Mistress Elena's advice before her wedding. She had been wrong about one thing; Rumpelstiltskin most definitely did _not_ want to do it all the time. Her conversation with Elena had left Belle with the idea that she would spend the first months of her marriage learning tactful ways to evade her husband's overbearing attentions. Or... or might it be the other thing? Elena had said something about how often a man could _manage_ it, as though that would be at odds with his appetite. Was there a limit to a man's capacity, just as there was for food and wine?

Had she been at home, now, Belle knew that she would simply have steeled her nerve, endured her blushes, and asked Mistress Elena to tell her the rest of it. Better that than to unknowingly offend her husband through her ignorance.

Brides should be told, she decided, that husbands might be unsure, and oddly sweet in their uncertainty, and think themselves too ugly. Belle had known that husbands could be brutes, that the act could bring blood and pain. She had known enough, too, to hope that her future husband might be a better man than that; that he might think of her. She had known that it could be endured, regardless, so that there would be children and a future. But the rest of it? The aching, the pleasure, and the warming comfort of his close embrace? The hollow wanting, knowing that he did not want her tonight? Who told a bride how she should manage all that?

As the bed warmed, the ache deepened until it was a throb that counted her pulse for her. Belle bit her lip and tried her own hand between her legs, curling her fingers to catch the moisture that had already come and spreading it, as he had, over the most sensitive peak just beneath her curls.

Her own touch had pleased her well enough, when she was younger and merely curious; she had rubbed and plucked and played with herself in the dark, mindful of her precious maidenhead, and found the outer edges of a shivering delight. Now, a wife, she dared to try two crooked fingers inside herself, and found that from there she could, as well, move her thumb over the slippery nub that exposed itself as her pleasure deepened. She remembered Rumpelstiltskin's hand, with her own clumsy guidance, and how the coarseness of his palm had felt delicious against her wetness, but her own smoothness was pleasant too. The callus on her middle finger, from her needlework, offered a pleasant contrast and soon... yes, she was rocking helplessly against her own hand, and thinking of how Rumpelstiltskin rocked against her, until the hot sweetness burst in her belly, and stiffened her limbs in a twitching, involuntary dance to the music of her own whimpers.

_Oh._

This time, without her foolish sobbing and struggles, Belle felt the pulsing subside slowly within her, drawn out and responsive to the slight movements she made to get comfortable on her side. Her hand was coated with her own fluid, thin and slick compared to the balm with which Rumpelstiltskin had coated her to prevent harm. No wonder it had been better, easier and more natural, when he took her after _that_.

Pleasantly sleepy, her breathing and her heartbeat settling slowly as her excitement ebbed into fatigue, Belle pushed away her self-conscious regret. She did not think that Rumpelstiltskin would begrudge her the moments of pleasure, and surely she could use the better understanding of her own pleasure to increase his? Gods all around, but did he feel like _that_ when he finished on her, jerking and trembling and trying so desperately not to make a sound?

Her toes curled up tight at the very thought and, noticing it, Belle smiled to find that her feet were perfectly, deliciously warm.


	14. Odstone

Belle could barely contain her excitement at the prospect of leaving the castle. While she had fewer and fewer objections to Rumpelstiltskin's company, she found his home dark and depressing with its shrouded windows and perpetual state of twilight. To be outside, and on such a bright blue winter's day, seemed irresistible.

She had worn a simple dress of blue, and her warmest underthings, and beneath it all the only pair of practical shoes she owned. They were heavy, short boots in a tan leather, lined with sheepskin. She had seldom needed them at home, where winters were milder and the roads good, but the snow around Rumpelstiltskin's castle remained knee-deep.

Breakfast waited for her in her small sitting room, and Belle was hungry enough that she couldn't mind if he had put it there by magic. She had not heard him enter the room while she bathed. Porridge, bacon and eggs with hot tea got her warm from the inside so that, once wrapped up in her travel cloak, she found her cheeks glowing with a combination of heat and excitement.

Rumpelstiltskin met her at the foot of the stairs, standing tall with his hands behind his back. He wore a golden-green shirt, rich with embroidery, beneath one of his high-necked waistcoats and the stiff coat of scaled leather.

"Will I do?" she asked, looking uncertainly down at her own clothing. She hoped that he would not want her in her best finery; the best she had was her golden betrothal gown, cut for beauty rather than warmth and, leaving aside all other considerations, it was not one that she could put on properly without some help.

"You are their mistress," he said, simply, ushering her towards the doors. "Your carriage awaits."

Belle had expected to walk, which seemed ridiculous after a few trudging steps through the snow. Had Rumpelstiltskin not already made a path, she might have taken the rest of the morning just to reach the carriage that did, indeed, await them. As it was, Rumpelstiltskin simply picked her up and deposited her on the step of the carriage rather than let her struggle through the final snowdrift. He swung himself in behind her, clearly in a good mood, and sat opposite her as they set off.

Once again, Belle had not managed to get a good look at the coachman. At the inn, she had thought that he was dark-skinned, but seeing him in the bright light that reflected from so much snow, he looked less a dark man than a shadow in the shape of a man, bundled up in even darker clothing. Fearing that she would not like the answer, Belle decided not to ask - for the moment.

"What's the town called?" she asked, holding aside the small curtain so that she could see the world outside.

"Odstone. All these lands go by that name."

"And you are master of all of it?" He nodded, vaguely. From the town to the mountains, he'd said, and from the town to the river. She had see how far the mountains were. How far was the river? "Were you born here?"

"No." Rumpelstiltskin looked surprised. "No. I became the master here when I won the castle. Since the former owner was a troll, no-one objected much."

"A troll?!" Belle stared at him, round eyed, and his broad smile made her suspect that she was being teased. "Trolls don't have castles."

"Trolls don't _build_ castles," he corrected her, with a playful wag of his finger. "When they decide they want to live in one, it's surprising how fast everyone else decides to leave."

"And when you turn up, the trolls leave." Belle returned his challenging smile.

"The place was shocking," he said, sitting back happily. "You've no idea."

Rumpelstiltskin's good humour only lifted Belle's own spirits higher. Although she came from a market town, a prosperous one, the war had cut them off from all of the trade routes but the sea, long before their own borders came under attack. Once attacked, they had prepared for siege - to protect as many as possible within the walls, to arm the fighters and to store provisions. The bright and bustling market stalls with their goods from the world over had become a thing of the past. She looked forward to seeing a market in a town at peace, again.

"Here." Rumpelstiltskin tossed her a small leather pouch that clinked with coins. From the weight in her palm, Belle guessed that much of it was gold. "No haggling. The castle pays whatever is asked. If anyone takes unfair advantage of the arrangement... well. They know what awaits them when they're caught." At her shocked expression, Rumpelstiltskin rolled his eyes. "The district prospers. No child sleeps with an empty belly. There is a price for their comfort, and it is obedience to my wishes. I am not disturbed for trivialities. I am not cheated by the traders."

"I understand," Belle said, nervously. She put the purse into the pocket inside her cloak, and tried to smile again as she drew the warm wool close about her.

The main road was clear of snow, she realised. It coated the trees, still, and ran in thick drifts along the road's edge, but the track was well maintained and easily passed. Rumpelstiltskin's work? She looked across at him, hoping to ask, but saw that he was absorbed with a restless game of cat's cradle. He was using the white satin lace from her wedding dress.

Belle's cheeks grew warm again, and she quickly looked back out of the window.

As the coach slowed, she got her first look at the town of Odstone. The buildings looked old, as though they had changed and improved over centuries rather than been knocked down and rebuilt as fashion or necessity demanded. Most of the outlying buildings were squat, stone affairs with reed thatched roofs, but once the carriage rode on cobbles, some of the buildings were larger. Two or three storeys, some of them, the upper floors of timber, with delicate leaded glass at the windows and ornately carved, brightly painted shutters outside.

The sounds of a busy market met her ears, but she sensed that things grew less noisy at their approach.

Rumpelstiltskin saw her worried expression, and pocketed the white string with a predatory smile.

"I said they'd be dying to see you," he said. "They're never happy to see me."

Belle waited for him to help her step down from the carriage, and held on to his arm as she took her first look around. The town, like the main road, was cleared of snow. The cobbles were icy, but it was as if the snow had either avoided the place or been meticulously cleared from every public street. The rooftops were still heavy with it, the trees bent under the weight of it. It was a strange sight.

Market stalls stretched across a square space centred around a crossroads. There was a large, covered well at the far side, and Belle could see that it was in constant use; it had not frozen. Even at home, she could remember drinking water melted from snow and carefully boiled. Was it for these comforts that Rumpelstiltskin demanded their obedience, and threatened some terrible price if disobeyed?

"What will you buy, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin gave her a firm tug towards the crossroads. People were stopping, staring, and then hurrying about their business when they realised they had done so. They did not receive the looks of naked fear that Belle remembered from the inn, but caution seemed to have settled over the town. People lowered their voices, averted their eyes, gave Rumpelstiltskin a wide berth but, Belle saw, nodded to them as they passed. They were not wholly unused to having him among them, then.

She tried to smile at one or two people, but nobody would catch her eye.

"I don't know," she said, letting her hand fall from her husband's arm. After a moment, she pushed back her hood as well. "At home we make lace and fine cloth. What does Odstone make?"

"Pots, ornaments. Anything from clay." Rumpelstiltskin gestured to a couple of stalls of gleaming glazed wares. "I understand that the bakeries hereabouts are among the best in all the lands. Leather, too." He sounded disinterested. Belle supposed that he took what he had a use for and thought no more about it. "Off you go, dearie." He passed her a small, open basket. She was quite sure that he hadn't been holding it a moment before.

Wondering if people might be more friendly if she did not have the Spinner beside her, Belle nodded to him and set off towards the stalls. Many of them had goods from elsewhere, she could see; she would not have been surprised to find some of the lace or embroidery at which her own town excelled. There were sweets, spices, hot pies and, as Rumpelstiltskin had said, anything she could imagine made from leather or clay. A bubble of hush seemed to surround her, making her self-conscious and a little angry. Finally, she planted herself face to face with a stallholder, an elderly man selling pastries, and gave him a resolute smile.

"Good morning," she said. He nodded to her, rising from his stool and waiting respectfully. "I recognise these," Belle said, pointing out the curly, flaky pastries that had been the first to catch her eye the other day. "Did you send some to me, at the castle?"

"I did, my Lady," he said, with a nervous smile. "Everyone hereabouts sent something, and the boys carried the baskets up to the castle."

"We enjoyed them," Belle said, and then, a bit desperately, "very much. Thank you." She could have cried out with her frustration. At home, a trader would eagerly push his wares on anyone who stopped at his stall, as long as they looked like they might own a coin. This man simply waited for her to speak, respectful. "I'd like to buy two of each," Belle said, with forced cheer. She held out her basket, almost pleading, and his smile warmed a little as he carefully laid the sticky treats in short rows for her. "What's your name?"

"Hadley, Mistress." He held up his hands when Belle tried to pass him a likely looking coin. "My wife and I wish you joy. Both of you, of course," he added, with a furtive sideways glance that no doubt found Rumpelstiltskin. Belle turned her head to look as well. Her husband stood at the crossroads, speaking with a wrung-out looking man who was thin and tall, and dressed quite finely compared to most of the others she had seen.

"I must pay you, Master Hadley," Belle said, firmly. "He tells me that the price will be fair."

At that, Hadley nodded, soberly, and took her largest silver coin. He returned to her a handful of smaller ones, many copper discs and a few minuscule silver ones, which weighed her purse down considerably.

Seeing that Hadley had not been cursed to ashes for speaking to her, the next stall owners were a little more welcoming. Belle bought some tiny clay pots with tightly fitting lids from a man named Page, and a strange looking aged cheese from a girl named Lulie. Eggs were scarce, it being winter and the hens out of condition, but the castle never seemed to run short of those. Belle left them for others who needed them more, but bought a long loaf of bread and some freshly churned salt butter.

She enquired, wherever she could strike up a conversation, as to who had sent what in the wedding baskets. She made sure that everyone was included in her thanks, and asked, lastly, where she might buy parchment or paper, and some ink. No-one she visited asked her for gold, but she had no copper and none of the smallest silver left by the time she completed her tour of the market and returned to Rumpelstiltskin's side.

He'd been leaning against the stone pillar of the shelter that covered the well, his legs crossed and his arms folded. He smiled when he saw her, straightening at once and peering into her basket.

"They didn't want to take any money unless I pressed them," Belle said, unhappily. "Are they so afraid of you as all that?"

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged.

"They know that the castle pays whatever is asked. I imagine that they're hoping you'll be a positive influence on me." He picked up one of the smaller pastries and took a bite. "Sweetening you up," he grinned, his mouth full.

Belle didn't know whether to laugh or swipe at him with her hand.

"Well, nobody wanted to talk with me either. They're too afraid of saying anything that might make you angry."

"I'll talk with you, little one," said a woman, and Belle turned to see her. She was old, one of the oldest people Belle had seen in her life, and wrapped up in a number of black and grey shawls. "I ain't afraid of him."

Beside Belle, Rumpelstiltskin sighed, noisily.

"This is Wren," he said, with a further sigh. "She'll certainly talk to you. Oh, yes."

The old woman laughed. No, Belle thought - the woman cackled.

"Well, thank you, Mistress Wren," she said, smiling. "Why aren't you afraid of him when everybody else is?"

Another wheezy, throaty laugh emerged from the bundle of shawls. The woman was stooped, hunched, but not as small as she first appeared; at first glance, Belle had taken her for a frail old thing under a mountain of cloth wrappings, but once her eyes took into account the stoop, she realised that the woman would be taller than she, if she could straighten herself, and quite wide across the shoulders.

"I've been alive eighty years, and he ain't ever done no worse to me than glare," she said, setting down her bucket of fresh water. "I'm useful to him, you'll see, and he likes to keep hold of what's useful."

Belle glanced at Rumpelstiltskin and, seeing his scowl, had to quickly hide a giggle. The woman plainly infuriated him, but she had, equally plainly, been doing so for a very, very long time.

"My name is Belle," she said, offering her hand to the crooked woman. Wren grasped it between both of hers, which were soft as a wool-worker's, and warm.

"Ah, you're a lovely young thing, aren't you?" Wren said. "And him an old man, too."

"That's enough," Rumpelstiltskin said, dropping his arm between the two of them to separate them. "Remember that this is your mistress, Wren."

"Yes, my Lord," the old woman said, quite seriously, but with the laughter still shining in her filmy old eyes. "Joy to you both, then. Good day to you."

Belle watched her, speechless, as she collected her wooden bucket and shuffled away until the market hid her from view.

"Is she really eighty years old?" she asked, for want of anything else to say.

"At least," Rumpelstiltskin muttered, but he took her basket from her and offered her his arm. He led her slowly back towards the waiting carriage, which now faced back towards the castle. Belle stared. There could not possibly be room for it to have turned around. She shook herself.

"And, um, is she useful, like she says?"

"In her way. The medicine that let you rest came from her. No magic, but it works."

Belle remembered the big black bottle with the contents that had made her cough when she inhaled the fumes. Yes, she could easily see it coming from the hunched-over old woman with the cackling laugh, who thought herself too old to fear even Rumpelstiltskin.

"Is she the midwife?" she asked, suddenly. Rumpelstiltskin looked at her strangely, frowning.

"It's been known. She's more adept with herbs and healing."

Belle nodded, thoughtfully, and took a last, wistful look around her at the market, the town and the array of new faces. When she came again, she would try to learn a few more names, and try harder to convince them that her husband would not smite them for merely speaking to her.

She watched from the window until the last of the stone houses were behind them, then let the curtain fall closed and sat back. Rumpelstiltskin had taken the seat beside her, this time, and placed her basket on the one opposite. He had taken out the white cord, again, and was weaving it between his fingers.

"You do know that it's a game for two?" Belle still flushed to see him playing with the lace from her wedding gown. He must have kept it after he untied the lover's knot; kept it as he had kept the ribbon from her hair, when he had untied that. She wondered if, the next time he lay with her, she would find herself without the pale blue ribbon that fastened her new nightgown.

"Or one, with magic," he answered, shrugging. "I prefer to spin." He wiggled his fingers and the white cord vanished, presumably back to wherever he kept it.

Belle reached across and took his hand, clasping it in his lap.

"Thank you for showing me the town." She wanted to thank him for allowing her to leave the castle, but did not want him to misunderstand - to think that she was unhappy there. "It was nice to meet new people, even if they are all scared to death of my husband."

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her hand, saying nothing.

"Look at this," Belle said, excitedly remembering one of the small treasures that she had found. She pulled the basket across to sit on her knees. Carefully placed between her parchment and the bread, she found the thin cylinder of glass, patterned inside as though a narrow red ribbon had been trapped there. "A quill made of glass. A pen." She had heard of writing tools from other lands - pens with their own inkwells, with nibs made of gold. She had only ever held a goose feather quill, before, and this replica made of glass seemed so beautiful. The nib itself was of glass, and less fine than the cut of a quill, but she would learn to write with it, just for the sake of holding the wonderful thing in her hand.

"A well crafted thing," he agreed, though it was clearly not a wonder to him as it was to her. "And what will you write, my dear?"

"I hoped that I might write to my father. When we spoke of Lotte, I..." She replaced her glass pen in the basket, very carefully, and tried to ignore the lump in her throat. "If you'll allow it."

In that moment, Belle had expected him simply to refuse her. She had other uses in mind for the parchment, anyway; a place to share her new thoughts, her questions, when they burdened her too heavily. But she wanted so much to tell her father that all was well; that her husband was good to her. That she was even alive.

Rumpelstiltskin drummed his fingers upon his knee, and did not move as the carriage came to a stop. Belle fought with the urge to retract her request out of fear; if it had earned his disapproval then doing so would not help, and if not...

"You will say nothing about me, in your letter. Nothing about my castle, my magic or my lands. Write only of yourself and those you left behind, yes?"

"I..." Belle hesitated, thinking hard. "Yes, I can do that. I only want them to know that--"

"That I didn't skin you for your pelt?" He gave her his terrible smile, eyes shining, and Belle caught her breath, appalled at such a joke. "I suppose I must agree to that. Sooner or later that maidservant's mucus might flood the world."

His unkindness about Lotte bothered her more than his other teases and taunts. Just as she was learning to appreciate the many things that Lotte had seen to on her behalf, her clothing and her care, Rumpelstiltskin was trying to undermine her fond memories. It upset her, which left her sullen, which in turn dismayed her.

Belle kept her gaze on her basket as he helped her step down from the coach, and saw that where there had been trodden snow before, there was now a clear path to the castle doors.

Her husband walked patiently beside her instead of striding ahead and leaving her to follow; she felt watched, but when she dared to glance up at his face, he was looking ahead of him at the castle.

"You seem recovered," he ventured, as the doors opened to admit them. His groping uncertainty was such a contrast to his cutting wit; the speed of the change all but left her breathless, dizzy from the effort of keeping up.

"I'm much better," Belle said, placing her trust in simple truths. "I could manage my hair this morning."

"Good." Rumpelstiltskin's voice was light, but it was as though he forced good cheer into it. "Very good. If you write your letter, I will see that it is delivered without delay."

At that, Belle couldn't help a tired smile.

"By magic?"

"Well, I'm not walking there to deliver it in person."

"Please try not to frighten my father too badly," she said, imagining her letter appearing beside him in a puff of dark purple smoke as he sat with his breakfast and the morning missives. "I want my letter to comfort him. I... I'm his only child," she went on, not sure why she felt the need to share the information. "My mother died bringing me a brother. He died with her, so it's just me."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his expression grave, and went to the stairs. No doubt he would vanish into his turret of books and spells, and she would not see him again all day.

"Wait," she called, as he reached the top of the first, shallow flight. He turned, regarding her mildly, already distracted by his plans for the day. Belle showed him the basket, uncovering the pastries. "Come down for tea, later?"

"... as you wish." He smiled, then frowned, and shook his head as he left her.

It gave Belle some small satisfaction to know that she could perplex him in her turn.


	15. Unbending

It took Belle an hour to master the use of the glass pen, which was so much heavier than a quill, and smooth against the parchment but prone to blotting if she hesitated in her stroke. It would drip upon the table if she took up too much ink, but she slowly learned the correct rhythm as she filled a sheet of parchment with words remembered from her lessons, with abstract swirls and, once she made less of a mess of it, with hesitant attempts at finding what to say to her dear father.

Why would Rumpelstiltskin forbid her to mention the details of her new life? She would have poured out her heart, otherwise; all the contrary strangeness, the mystery of her new husband, and all about the place where magic held sway. She would have written about the streets without snow, and the curly nut pastries, and Rumpelstiltskin's skill at the spinning wheel.

Bound to her obedient promise, Belle wrote instead that she was safe and well, comfortable and not in fear for her life or safety. It sounded so cold, next to the reality of her situation, and as her fresh sheet of parchment filled up with careful words, she realised how false it would sound to her father, or to anyone who knew her talkative nature.

After that, she added a dozen questions, hoping that there, at least, she conveyed a little more of her own self. She asked after Lotte, after the wounded and the returning soldiers, how the town was faring now that they had peace and safety and, of course, she wanted to know if her father was well. She urged him not to worry for her, for all the good that would do, and realised, reading the letter back, that she had shown how much she missed him with every line. It would do.

Satisfied, she signed the letter and pushed it to the centre of the table. She did not mind if Rumpelstiltskin wished to read it before it was sent; there was nothing written there that she would not freely confess to him, asked or unasked. There was nothing false, even where her careful choice of words made it sound so.

Belle washed her glass pen at the pump and dried it with a clean cloth. Small, beautifully made things had always thrilled her, and the glass pen pleased her even more because it had a function, and the use of it required skill. She would have loved to see the glassmaker at work, but it had come from a stall of imported things. She wondered where such things were made, and how the maker put the ribbon of red fire inside the smooth barrel of clear glass.

Lost in thought, thinking about molten glass and the hands that worked it, Belle put the foodstuffs into the larder. She had cleared a small space for the food that had arrived as gifts, meaning to watch and see if the castle's magic worked to keep them as fresh as the other things, and for how long.

The pastries she arranged on a large platter and left upon the kitchen table for later; they were small things, no more than a few bites each, and she looked forward to trying the ones she had not tried before.

It hurt a little to lift the kettle from its hook and carry it to the pump for water. The trip back to the fireplace left her shoulder aching, but that eased as she sat in her chair, her travel cloak across her lap, and let the warmth seep through her. After a while, she untied her boots and pushed them off with her toes, and wiggled her stockinged feet at the flames.

It was only then, still and not preoccupied, that Belle realised; she had seen no children at the market. The cheese seller, Lulie, had perhaps been fourteen years old and a year or two from her mature beauty - her face blemished with angry red lumps and her eyes underscored with dark smudges from the strain of growing fast. Belle had seen no-one younger than Lulie during the visit to town.

There must _be_ children, she thought; Rumpelstiltskin had acknowledged that the old healer, Wren, served sometimes as midwife.

The weather was icy. Possibly the younger children were kept indoors for warmth, then, but what about their elders? Even Belle, whose nurse and governess and companions had tried in vain to convince her that she owned a delicate constitution, had run about in the winter months as a girl. Often inadequately clothed for the weather, often in the way of traders in the market, often getting into scrapes and scraps. If she, as protected as she had always been, had been free to do as much then what about the children of Odstone?

The kettle reached a near boil and Belle swung it away from the flames, using her cloak to protect her hand. She found the china teapot that Rumpelstiltskin had been using to bring her tea, and the matching set with it. She liked it better than the silver things, and it would be far easier to clean, if a bit heavier to carry upstairs when her husband wanted his tea there. She filled the sugar bowl, the milk jug and chose mint leaves for the pot.

As glad as she was to be back in her warm kitchen, Belle did not feel like tackling a new task. Her ribs needed more time and she was sorely in need of a book that could help her learn how to do all that she wanted to do. It had taken her half an afternoon to wash a few light garments and set them drying.

Belle returned to the table, to her letter, and read it through again. It made her heart heavy, to think of her father receiving it, and a moment after that came the shameful suspicion that Rumpelstiltskin might not even deliver it as he had promised. How would she know? He had not said that she would be permitted to receive an answer.

Rumpelstiltskin caught her in the midst of such thoughts. Belle jumped at the soft scuff of his boot against the flagstones, not having heard him come down the stairs. How long had he stood at the door, watching her? Her guilt must have been plain to see as she pushed the letter away, for he cocked his head and approached her slowly, standing behind her chair and reading the letter over her shoulder. For those few, terrible moments, Belle truly believed that he could see inside her mind, and was truly frightened.

"I will deliver it later," he said, gripping the back of her chair. "Without giving your father a heart attack."

"Thank you." Belle's relief, when it seemed that he could not read her mind after all, must have been as naked as her guilt. She opted for silence, fetching the kettle and, her ribs twinging, adding hot water to the waiting leaves. Rumpelstiltskin did not move, even to be out of her way; he watched her closely, instead, and forced her to make her way around him, to and from the fire. It made her self-conscious, quite apart from her shame at her recent thoughts. He had kept himself so distant that this sudden, intrusive nearness confused her.

"It still pains you," he said, as she skirted the table to find herself the space to pour the tea and lay out plates for the pastries.

"What?" Busy with cups and saucers, Belle didn't follow his meaning. Only when she looked up at him, flustered, and he gestured to his right side, did she understand. "No, it's much better. It's only the kettle. I should have carried less water, that's all."

Rumpelstiltskin put his hands flat on the table, leaning hard and staring, unseeing, at her letter home.

"My magic," he said, slowly and deliberately, "all but broke you in half. Had there been a heartbeat less time for me to soften the blow it might have killed you." It sounded like an accusation, as he wrung out each word with careful precision and cold, clipped tones. Belle listened, frozen with the hot teacup in one hand and the saucer in the other. His anger was palpable, whipping his shroud of invisible magic into a frenzy that brought the hairs up on the back of Belle's neck. "All you can say," he went on, hoarse strain replacing some of the icy care, "is that you should have carried less _water_?" His head snapped up, at the last word, and Belle jumped back, cup and saucer both falling from her hands, unheeded. Hot tea splashed her stockinged foot, taking a moment to reach her skin through the wool, and then burning. She gasped aloud, but couldn't tear her eyes from his.

His eyes... the raging _anguish_ of him... it took her breath away.

"I... I know that I disobeyed you--" she began, her voice nothing but a gasp.

Rumpelstiltskin turned away with a choked sound, but stayed there, as though incapable of choosing a direction.

"I nearly killed you, woman. Why didn't you go? I don't--" And then he was as breathless as she, as speechless as she, and Belle could hear the pounding of her own heart.

His anger, his anguish; she was not the cause, nor the target. It broke her heart to see that he truly did not understand why she had chosen to stay, when he had given her leave to go. Shaken, her steps unsteady, she rounded the head of the table and stood before him.

"I forgive you," she said, with a clarity that felt as though it came from outside of herself. "I believe you when you say that you never meant me such harm. I forgive you, Rumpelstiltskin," she pressed, something like anger rising in her own breast at his silence, at his avoidance of her questioning gaze. What else did he want from her, if not her forgiveness?

Rumpelstiltskin shrank away when she offered her hand, but she held it still, waiting for him. Staring at it, he very slowly took her hand between both of his. He trembled, as much as he ever had in her bed, and compassion flooded out Belle's heartache and irritation, for the moment. She brought her other hand over their joined ones, and stroked his hand, down to his cuff of gold lace.

At last, she'd done enough to startle him into meeting her gaze, and he looked so lost that it was all she could do to keep from looking away, then, herself.

"You are too kind," he said, his voice strained and small. "Too kind to an old man."

"Not an old monster?" She tried a smile, watery and uncertain as it was. "Well, that's a start, I suppose."

"An old monster," Rumpelstiltskin said, but she could feel the relief in him; hear the sheepishness and shyness in his voice. "I've been alone here for too long. The castle, the magic, protects me and all that is mine."

"Not from dust," Belle said, almost laughing as her relief overwhelmed her. "Not from dirt."

"It never harmed anyone." He was gripping her hands so tightly that the ring he'd given her was digging into her fingers. Belle wouldn't have pulled her hand away for all the world; to see him unbend even this much was a gift. To have him lean towards her, a moment later, and press his lips to hers felt like a blessing.

Belle parted her lips and welcomed him, her breathing growing shallower as anticipation lifted her relief into a kind of reckless joy. It was a reaction to her fear, she knew, but it made her bold enough to meet the kiss and reach for him, her hand behind his shoulder. He had closed his eyes, almost squeezing them shut as though expecting her to shun him, but Belle let her hand slide up his collar, and beneath his hair, so that she could urge him to kiss her again. He made a sound in his throat, so full of longing that it brought tears to her eyes, and his arms went around her, clasping her against him desperately.

She had seen lovers kissing, sometimes, and thought it a strange activity. Now, though, she had an inkling of where the pleasure lay in it; in the teasing of lips and tongue, and in the expressiveness of every slight movement. Their first clumsiness behind them, left in dark bedrooms, they found a little skill together, and Rumpelstiltskin moved his mouth with patient, hungry strokes across her lips, until she felt tender from the dryness of him, her lips tingling and the taste of him in her mouth. His hands, splayed across her back, began to move; one up to tangle in her hair, the other lower, rubbing at the small of her back.

At first it was his need, and her offering whatever solace he could find in her kisses, but it changed as their hands began to wander. Belle found her own need, the wanting that felt like pressure and a pulse in her loins and belly; she remembered her own touch, last night, and thought again of how he took her. Did he know an equal pleasure? Or was his greater, his need and his ache still deeper than her own?

When Rumpelstiltskin bowed his head and kissed her shoulder, Belle let her head fall back and revelled in the fluttering sensations that it brought her; elusive, where his lips and tongue met her skin, but tugging hard at something deep within her that was connected, by a circuitous route, to the apex of pleasure that he had taught her to find. He kissed her lower and lower, keeping her steady on her feet as he first mouthed at the exposed rounds of her bosom and then, making her bite her lip and moan, buried his face there and breathed her in, shuddering with his own longing.

It frightened her, how the sensations drove her, but the suspicion that it was no different for him allowed her to face it head on. She would have tried to copy his gestures, return his kisses, but he was clothed from throat to ankles, all of it stiff and awkward to manage. Instead, she allowed herself to be quiet and compliant for the moment, when he lifted her and sat her on the corner of the kitchen table, pressing in close after her and once more devouring her mouth.

Belle liked the warm cooperation of that, and the way he responded to her hand at the back of his neck, or her fingers laced in his curls - she found that he would go where she directed him, without need for words; that she could bring his kisses to her cheeks, her chin, her throat and, once again to the tops of her breasts, where he all but bit her flesh in his eagerness.

Rumpelstiltskin's right hand began to toy with the laces of her bodice, his trembling urgency offset with a surprising patience as he merely plucked at the small bow at her belly, failing to unfasten it. That he could unfasten it at a tug, that he surely _would_ at any moment, made Belle fidget restlessly on her wooden perch. And he smiled, neither his shy little-boy expression nor his challenging mischief, but with naked pleasure at the sight of her responding to his teases.

Cupping his face between her palms, Belle waited for him to look her in the eye. He doubted her so very much, this husband of hers; in the darkness she could not study him, respond to his moods, but here, like this, she could see him and try to understand. He offered no protest when she grasped the wide lapels of his leather coat and tried to pull them back. She could not wrap herself around that spiky garment; it was worse than a knight's armour. It was too tightly fitted for her to dislodge, but he needed only a few shrugs to do so himself. The horrid thing fell to the ground behind him, unregarded, and he kissed her again.

Softer, now. Not the timid gentleness he had shown in her bed, in the darkness, but a slow and deliberate care as he showed her how to kiss him deeper; that she could dip her tongue into his mouth as he did to her; that tongues could meet, and tangle, and tease in a dance of tricky delight. Rumpelstiltskin seemed no more a master at it than she, but they were learning rapidly together; the interest was mutual, the goal was their own and each other's pleasure. And, for her, another goal was his happiness, however momentary, and to prove to Rumpelstiltskin that he had a loyal wife who could learn to cherish him, if he would only allow it.

Did he have other goals? Belle supposed that he must, watching him finally pull the cord and release the little bow that tied her stays. His face near hers, they both watched his hand, his stained fingers hooking patiently through each turn of the lacing and drawing it out. They both breathed faster, seeing his fingers climb nearer to her breasts, and his other hand held her thigh too tightly, conveying his greedy anticipation of the final pull. He kissed her, when he had it between his fingers, and Belle all but forgot about her clothing for a long moment. Her jaw was aching from the new activity of kissing, but she could not stop herself answering him, even demanding more from him.

She felt the moment when he drew the lace out of her bodice, leaving it loose and allowing him to push his hand beneath it. Her chemise was cotton, plain and warm, and memory made her shiver when his palm covered her breast for a greedy squeeze. Crisp cotton crinkling, and his hand upon her breast; her body knew this feeling, and wanted to go where it led. When Rumpelstiltskin tugged the loose collar of the garment lower, exposing her breast, Belle recoiled - not from him, but from the shock of it; from being exposed, seen. Admired, she realised, her hand anchored at the back of his neck lest he mistake her startled twitch for reluctance. It was a delicious sensation, the naughtiness of knowing that her bosom was bared, and that it interested him in a way that she did not yet comprehend.

Drunk with sensation, she followed his gaze there; watched his dark thumbnail as he rubbed it across her nipple, which had hardened and puckered until it was almost painful when he touched. Almost. Shocked, still, Belle watched with parted lips as he rolled and plucked her, then stiffened when he bent suddenly and kissed her there, obliterating her view but filling her with impossible new heights of wanting.

Rumpelstiltskin held her by the shoulders, kissing her breast as greedily as he had kissed her mouth, and each time he brought lips, tongue or - gods - even teeth into contact with the tightness of her nipple, Belle whimpered.

If he had doubted her desire, his doubt evaporated when he raised his head, his eyes alight with mischief, longing and hope. She had no control over her own expression; felt that she could smile, but her face was slack and her breathing had become laboured, keeping her mouth slightly open. How long could this torment of teasing go on for? Belle had lost track of the minutes, both when he took her and when she had ministered to herself last night. How much of it could the body stand without becoming sick from it, without _dying_ from it? She struggled to form a word to convey her depth of conflict.

"Please," she managed, forcing her lips to shape the sound.

Wordlessly, he lifted her from the table, bearing her weight easily for a few seconds before lowering her feet to the flagstones. Belle's whole body slid down his, in the process, and Rumpelstiltskin's breathing became as laboured as her own. He caught a handful of her skirts and pulled them up, fumbling with the layers of her petticoats until his hand found her thigh, the cotton of her drawers, and he pushed his hand between her legs.

Belle clutched at his arms, sure that her knees would give way, but he turned her gently around so that she faced the table, so that she could brace her weight there, and pressed up close against her bundle of skirts while his hand returned to where she ached. He stroked her through saturated cotton, meeting her firmly if she jerked forwards, his body immobile behind her if she tried to pull back.

It was impossible, too much, and Belle thought she might cry until he brought his other hand around in front of her and untied her drawers. A moment later, he plunged both hands down in front of her, down through her dark curls and between her thighs. She rose up on her tiptoes, yelping foolishly, and felt him laugh; silently, not his playful giggle. His right hand dove deeper, began to rub, and Belle found what she wanted; that rhythm that he set, that steady, firm motion alongside the sensitive bud just beneath her curls.

Every few breaths she rose up on her toes, helplessly trying to both savour and escape the feeling, and then Rumpelstiltskin pressed his face to the back of her neck, buried himself in her hair, and it was enough. The spasms of bodily joy shook her all over, paralysed her for a few moments, and finally left her struggling to rub herself harder against his obliging hand. She knew that she cried out, many times, and was glad that she was not fully aware of herself - not enough to register what she might have said as the joy crested, breaking like a wave upon the beach. Ebbing, like the outgoing tide.

Her arms trembled from supporting her weight, but Rumpelstiltskin did not give her rest. She felt him fumble behind her, with his own clothing, and then turn her with gentle hands to face him. Her stunned, trembling silence seemed to amuse him, but he hungered. She could see it, how it dragged his expression towards seriousness even as mirth lit his eyes. She looked down, dreamy and bemused, and saw that his shirt was untucked and his breeches bunched about his knees. She could see nothing of him, but the very thought of him made her bite her lip and look up at him, askance. What should she do? How could she return to him the shattering pleasure that he had given her so easily?

He sat, though, on the nearest of the kitchen chairs and drew her towards him. His hand was slippery from her, slipping against hers, and Belle shivered.

"Sit," he whispered, holding her lightly at her waist, one boot rubbing at the inside of her ankle. Belle made to turn sideways, to perch herself upon his knee as she had before, but he tugged her forward to stand over him, his lap and the chair between her legs, and began to raise her skirts again, pushing her drawers all the way down so that she had to step out of them.

 _Oh._ Belle sat down on his knees as much in surprise as anything else, and he kissed her before she could concern herself with the awkward, unknown _how_. She had known that beasts mated face to back in a field and men took their wives face to face upon a bed, and that had been the end of it. But while he kissed her, it seemed not to matter that her confidence had flown; his arms were around her, and his kisses were slow and tender, and she was comfortable upon his knees. It gave her time to collect herself, to get her breathing to something nearer normal, and to apply her fertile mind to the simple mechanics of the situation. _Oh._

Well, he had been a husband before, and she had not been a wife before. She had to trust him, if he thought that it was going to work. One of his hands was cupping her buttock, squeezing lazily. The other was between them and, she realised with a thrill, touching himself beneath the loose hem of his shirt. She looked down, before she could stop herself, and timidly lifted his shirt between thumb and forefinger so that she could see.

Rumpelstiltskin froze, at that, gripping her arm as though he feared she'd flee at the sight of it. That thing that he'd pushed inside her, that would give her children. She felt no particular shock, only interest and embarrassment at her own boldness. He grasped himself as a man might grasp a staff, concealing much of the length, but it widened at the very top and was dark, like the deepest blush imaginable.

"You need not," he said, uncertainly, as she let go of his shirt and made to kiss him again. "This is--" but she smothered his words, and used her tongue until he stopped trying, both hands rubbing at her backside beneath her bunched skirts.

"Show me how," she whispered, concealing her blushes by pressing her cheek to his, and he lifted her by the hips and... lowered her onto it, so effortlessly that she scrambled to brace her feet against the floor lest he impale her. His hiss of pleasure made it worth how silly she felt, trying to balance herself and hide her face from him at the same time. He supported some of her weight, his hands beneath her buttocks, and it became easier. More pleasant, too, for to take him so deep, so suddenly, had been something as near to pain as she had yet felt in his embrace.

And then... Belle's mind grew cloudy almost at once, as her body once more took command of her. He had her move, to rock her hips back and forth and then, when she had more trust in the hands that supported her weight and in the strength of her own legs, up and down so that he was slid in and out of her, deep and shallow, deep and shallow. He buried his face against her throat, breathing hard but lost in a quiet that seemed more urgent than any of the sounds she had heard him make in the dark; he kept her moving, and began to move himself, and Belle felt her toes begin to curl and her knees to go weak.

Rumpelstiltskin jerked up towards her, groaning, long before she was near to another of those inner bursts of delight, but the mere possibility that it could happen _again_ had enchanted her, and she was as breathless as he as they clumsily found his completion and fell still.

"Oh," she whispered, finding herself kissing his neck, wherever she could reach skin inside his tall collar. "Oh."

His member shrank out of her, she realised, dazedly. It stopped being like a pole and softened, got smaller, which answered a number of her more practical questions on the subject. She had been too overwhelmed or too insensible to realise it, when he had been in her bed, but the sensation was perfectly clear to her now. She tucked away the answer to her unasked question, and enjoyed the way he held her so tightly while his breathing grew quiet again.

"Well, my dear," he said, eventually, tipping her back so that he could peer at her face. "It seems I've thoroughly debauched you, now. Perhaps just as well you wrote your letter home beforehand." He looked bemused, but pleasantly so; drowsy, but contentedly so. Belle smiled. She would have liked to go on, to see if she could find that elusive bliss again, but how much better it was to see his eyes so soft with fondness, and the harsh lines gone out of his face. "If you'll permit me a little magic, instead of doing things _properly_?"

Belle started to ask what he meant, but felt a jolt that stole all her breath; saw darkness, saw the deep smoky purple of his magic, and found herself sitting on her bed. He was beside her, looking pleased with himself. Their clothing remained in shameful disarray, and even his impossibly neat curls were untidy. Belle dared not imagine what her own hair looked like.

It was afternoon, she saw. Late enough that the sky was darkening, and the candles jumped into life at their arrival. She had never thought of being with her husband except at night, but he seemed to think nothing of it; she, for her part, was only glad that he had not tried to hide himself in the dark.

"Is it wicked to go to bed before we've even had our tea?" she felt shy, coy. She wondered if he would touch her again, if she told him that she still ached, or if he would think her greedy.

Rumpelstiltskin lay back, sighing, his shirt barely keeping her from having another look at him. Belle wondered if he might willingly sleep beside her for a while, he looked so calm and spent.

"Wickedness is in my nature," he said, making a slight attempt at his mocking humour. It was only very slight, and Belle smiled to herself. "I really think we can do as you please, dearie, don't you?


	16. The Marriage Bed

There seemed so little shame left, when he undressed her.

Belle thought that she would always cherish the memory of his gaze upon her as he peeled away her layers; her bodice, her chemise, and then he laid her back against the pillows and kissed her until the last of her shyness was gone, and she could allow him to look at her, exposed like that.

The fastenings of her skirt seemed to perplex Rumpelstiltskin, who had, in any case, left her skirts in a state of twisted chaos before they left the kitchen. Belle found the ties herself, and loosened them, and he once again peeled away the layers as though unwrapping an extravagant gift.

The twilight had set in, before her innermost petticoat was gone; Rumpelstiltskin had left one candelabra bright, extinguishing the others. Belle could see a little of him, far more than the nights when he had come to her after dark, but she herself was glad of a few shadows when only her stockings were left, her garters fallen as low as her knees in all the upheaval.

"Lovely," he crooned, his eyes taking in everything she had to offer; lingering the longest, she noted, on her lips, and her breasts, and on the triangle of dark hair that sheltered the most private thing. "You are lovely, my dear. So very lovely." 

His appreciation was without greed, for the moment, and Belle watched him untie her garters to free her stockings, then slide them down her legs. He lifted her feet, both in one hand, and stripped the final coverings away from her. For a moment, Belle's toes felt the most naked of all, but then his gaze wandered upwards again, slower than before, as if committing the shape of her to memory.

Even without shame, she blushed, but Rumpelstiltskin did not stare at her so long that she became uncomfortable. Instead, he took up the silk nightgown that he had brought her, and offered it to her with both hands, his expression hopeful.

Belle had expected to be ravished, after the slow unwrapping and the kisses, but she took the nightgown and slipped its easy shape over her head, pushing her arms into the loose sleeves with their cuffs of lace. She slipped from the bed, to let the skirts fall, and Rumpelstiltskin sat up to watch her, his hands meeting in a silent clap of delight.

"Is the dress prettier than I am?" she asked, with shy teasing. He placed his hands on her hips, pulling her close to the bed, and looked up at her longingly.

"Your feet felt frozen." He lifted a hand, tracing the shape of her left breast with his fingertips.

"My feet are always frozen," Belle laughed. "All by myself in this huge bed, even with my nightdress on." She played with the ends of his hair where it met his collar, swaying a little on her feet because he'd pressed her knees to the side of the mattress. "Are you going to get in and keep me warm?"

"If you like." He let her go so that she could climb beneath the covers. Belle sat among the pillows with her knees pulled up under her chin, her toes curling to minimise her contact with the chilly sheets above and below. From there, she watched him unfasten his waistcoat and shrug it off. He had made himself decent, at some point during the heady kissing, and hesitated with his fingers at the top button of his shirt.

"I'll look away, if you don't want me to peek," Belle said, gently. After his open appreciation for her, she felt that she better understood his hesitation; the fear that he must feel, thinking himself anything but lovely to look at. "But please, don't put out the last candles. Let me see your face."

Rumpelstiltskin seemed to have been holding his breath. She heard it sigh out again, unsteady, and his hands dropped to his lap.

"I will spare us both the rest of it, if you don't mind," he said. His defeated tone lanced her in the chest, but she nodded and got properly beneath the sheets, putting her back to him and waiting. She heard... no, perhaps it was more that she _felt_ a whisper of his magic nearby, and only that much because she was waiting for it. When he joined her, he wore a silk nightshirt, as he always had before.

Belle began to turn onto her back, but he pushed himself up close behind her instead, his arm draped over her and his head near to hers on the pillows. With some fidgeting, Belle found that his knees would tuck comfortably behind her own, and that his feet were warm. She could lace the fingers of her uppermost hand through his, too. It was nice enough just to lie there, but he soon touched her through the silk - aimless little touches, but they each inflamed her sweet ache for more of him.

She liked the way the silk felt when his stroking hand pressed it to her skin, or caused it to slide against her. Against her breast, the sensation made her bite her lip and hold in a giggle, which only encouraged him to explore her further, until he was working his hand up under the loosely-fitted skirt and teasing her upper thighs.

She wondered if they would do it again. She knew that she would like to, both for her body's sake and for her heart, which longed to push away his loneliness now that she had found a way to reach him.

"Do you want to?" he asked, his hand hesitating at the top of her thigh. "There's no need. I can warm your feet instead, if you like."

"I want to," Belle said. She had intended to sound decisive, but the location of his hand made anything as sensible as decisiveness impossible. She sounded impatient, instead, and added, "please?" to make up for it.

Again, she tried to turn onto her back, but Rumpelstiltskin held her where she was. He raised himself a little behind her, his elbow among the pillows and his hand cupping her shoulder, and slid his other hand up to meet her wetness.

Belle would have expected a second time to be less overwhelming, like taking a meal before she was truly hungry, but she found herself writhing against his hand almost at once, to the extent that he merely held it still, bunched into a fist, and allowed her to seek her own enjoyment for a few moments. She became aware, rather slowly, that in doing so she was wiggling her silk-covered backside against his renewed hardness, and that his breathing was coming in short gasps much like her own. It took all her resolve to become still again.

Relaxing, Rumpelstiltskin kissed her shoulder and then turned her onto her back. Her whole body tightened with anticipation, but he did not hurry to take her; he lay half over her, instead, one of his legs over hers, and kissed her as he had before.

There was a shyness there, back from wherever they'd banished it while enjoying each other in the kitchen. Belle knew that he would rather extinguish all the light, even now, and it saddened her; made her gentle with him, and more patient in the face of her own desire. As her husband could show her these pleasures of the marriage bed, so Belle could show him her understanding, her kindness. Her love, too, she thought, while he kissed her throat and fondled her breasts, more at ease with his face hidden from her sight. She thought that she could learn to love this man, if she could come to know him; if he would let her try.

Taking her, he was slow and yet not so careful as he had been with her before. He _took_ , pleasing himself rather than simply trying to get it done in the least time possible, and Belle shivered around him, caught at the edges of her pleasure instead of plunging into it, helpless.

She could enjoy the sensation, knowing that it could be fulfilled by his hand, or by her own; she could enjoy the nearness of him, the warmth between them, and the opportunity to run her hands all over him. He liked her to touch his shoulders, she discovered; he liked her hand in his hair, and if she touched his face he would raise himself enough to kiss it, kiss her mouth, before once more burying his face beside hers and losing himself in the long, patient thrusts. Sometimes faster, or harder, and then slow again, or almost still on her; he was savouring her, she realised, with a dreamy enjoyment. He was drawing out his own pleasure and putting off that final moment that would complete it, but end it.

Belle had always learned fast. She was learning, today, that how she moved or angled her hips affected him enormously. Her own sensations, as well; if she rocked herself to meet him as he thrust, the pressure outside sparked an answering burst of something _inside_ , that seemed to make her tighten. That, in turn, made Rumpelstiltskin moan or falter. She did not want to hurry him, but the enjoyment of moving began to seduce her; when she angled her hips just so, his skin rubbed against her tender parts and brought her nearer to what she longed for.

It was only when he whispered 'yes' against her ear, in answer to an almost involuntary raising of her hips, that Belle realised that he _liked_ her to do these things. He dragged himself up, taking his weight on both hands as he had on their wedding night, and his expression shocked her; he looked aghast, he looked utterly lost. His breath caught every time she rocked herself up to meet him, and soon the bed was rocking with their efforts, and Rumpelstiltskin was crying out as though she hurt him.

Shocked out of her self-interest by the sight of him so moved, Belle studied him instead as he pushed deep into her, shuddering and grimacing as though he felt anything but pleasure. But pleasure it was, she knew, and welcomed him into her arms as the tension inevitably released and left him panting against her cheek, his face pressed into her hair. He stayed there but a moment, almost crushing her he clasped so tightly, and then rolled her on top of him. His hand burrowed between their bodies, pulling crumpled silk out of the way, and his hand cupped her, offering her own release.

Watched, this time, Belle hesitated to abandon herself to the urges, but he rubbed her with his palm, encouraging, and with a groan Belle pushed her own hand down to join his, to guide his. Before she was done, she was sitting astride him, showing his fingers where to be; to the left of the sensitive part, which almost hurt now if touched directly. Cushioned by her inner lips and all the wetness, the pressure was perfect and it took but a few twitches of their hands to curl her toes and leave her shuddering in the grip of that perfect, singing pleasure.

"There, now," he smiled, his sticky hand gripping her bare thigh as she became still, and realised what she had been doing. "We've made you a wanton."

"Is that worse than wicked and debauched?" she panted, falling beside him.

"Oh, much. Much worse. Who could have predicted you'd have such an appetite, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin had caught her in the crook of his arm as she lay down. She eased herself nearer to his side, and closed her eyes. The feeling of contentment was like nothing she'd known before - as though there had been a vast letting-go. She felt heavy, and yet so light that she might float away.

Belle smiled, as his arm tightened about her. She supposed that she must have been _sated_.

"What does that make you?" she asked him. Her clarity of thought returned quickly after her pleasuring, she found. While it was happening, it seemed impossible that she would ever think again.

"A dirty old man, I should think." She could hear his smile.

"Are you very old?"

"Very." He kissed her temple, then sighed heavily as he surrendered his weight to the mattress and the pillows. "But hardly a man."

"Don't say that." Belle rubbed his chest, snuggling closer to his side. With her head on his arm, and his arm about her, she felt at peace. "Anyway, I don't mind if you are an old monster."

His huff of laughter sounded tired. Perhaps he would sleep? Belle was hungry, and thirsty, and needed to make a trip to her bath room. But if she left him, would he stay and wait for her to come back?

"Our tea must be stewed," she said. "Shall I bring us some more?"

"Hush," he whispered, and for a while he held her tighter, and Belle made no effort to move herself. She had no real desire to, until her stomach made an unladylike gurgle and he released her. "Tea, then," he said, watching her sit up. "And the pastries." He waved a hand, and a tray and the platter appeared among the heaps of discarded clothing at the foot of the bed.

Belle shook her head. She would not have minded venturing out to fetch the things up, even in her nightgown and bare feet. But she supposed that magic was all he knew, with no-one to wait on him or to remind him that things could be done so easily without it. It meant that she would not have to leave him, except to relieve herself and wash her face; it meant that he was less likely to slip away.

"Oh dear," she said, pulling the tray of tea things nearer so that she could pour. One of the stacked cups was broken, an ugly chip taken out at the rim, and she remembered that she had dropped it in her fright, in the kitchen. The saucers all seemed to be intact, at least.

Sitting up, Rumpelstiltskin took the broken cup from her hand with a tut of mock-disapproval, turning it this way and that to examine the damage, but then he held it out for her to fill with tea for him and no more was said.

The tea was fresh, not the mint that she had brewed earlier but something sweet and earthy that went nicely with milk and sugar. It went even better with the pastries, but Rumpelstiltskin held up his hand to refuse them, sitting back against the carved headboard and nursing his tea, and watching her try not to shower crumbs on the bed.

"You eat like a bird," Belle said, after three of the delicious treats. "Can you live on tea and air?"

"On nothing at all, I expect," he said, disinterested. "Which seems just as well, if you intend to take up cookery."

"I can learn," Belle laughed, remembering her terrible stew and glad that she had not had to persuade him to try it. "I will learn."

As a means of enticing him to stay while she left him for a few moments, Belle filled up his cup again. Even so, she was surprised and relieved to find that Rumpelstiltskin remained in her bed when she got back. He had emptied his tea cup again and returned it to the tray with the others, and seemed lost in thought, resting there against the headboard. He watched without a word while Belle carried first the platter and then the tray into her sitting room, to leave them on the table there. He continued to watch as she gathered up their clothing and draped it all neatly, garment by garment, over her trunk.

"Your knickers are in the kitchen," Rumpelstiltskin smirked, and Belle laughed. She strongly suspected that most of her dignity was still down there as well, and for the moment she didn't care one bit.

"A gentleman might have brought me those as well as the tea," she said, climbing back into the bed and searching for the warm spot beside him. He welcomed her with his arm, as soon as she tried to settle close against his side, and Belle pillowed her head against his chest.

"He might," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, amiably. "I'm rather looking forward to watching you pick them up off the floor where you left them."

Belle blushed, then, because she could picture that scene _all_ too clearly. She felt him touch her hair, nervously at first, and then search through it with his fingers to find the pair of pins that bound two slim braids together at the back, holding the rest of her hair out of her face.

He tossed the pins towards the foot of the bed, having removed them, and Belle wondered if she would ever find them again. She had only a dozen of them, and for any upswept style such as she had worn for her wedding, she would need them all. Oh well. She could buy more at the market, or have them made, or if all else failed bring out the colourful, wide silk ribbons that she had put away in her trunk. Nothing could have persuaded her to move, or to object to Rumpelstiltskin's rearranging of her tresses. He combed her with his fingers, freeing the tangles, while Belle rested.

Sleep seemed out of the question, if she wanted to keep him beside her, quiet and comfortable like this. He was always as tight as a bow string, coiled to strike. She had unwound him, at last, and his limbs were loose. His breathing was slow and steady as he played with her hair.

"Are you content, Belle?" He used her name so rarely that she was startled by it, opening her eyes. The question, too, caught her by surprise. If she had not shown contentment, in the past several hours, then she did not know how she could. "I had not thought... expected..." He rested his cheek against the top of her head and squeezed her tightly. "Are you content?"

His depth of emotion, his struggle to voice it, demanded her honest answer. Belle gripped the front of his gown tightly while she thought.

"I could be. I think I will be. I miss Papa, and I'm afraid for him. I miss my home and the people I knew there."

"But I do not make you... unhappy?" He asked with the same delicacy as he had asked after her wellbeing, after their wedding night. Pressed so close, she could feel that it cost him dearly to ask.

"Why would you ask that?" Belle asked, shaking her head. She knew of no way to show him more acceptance than she had already.

"I was a husband once before," he answered, stilted and reluctant. His hand caressed her shoulder, burrowing beneath her hair to touch the silk of her sleeve. "She did not care for my company and... and I have not grown any more lovely, since then."

"I'm sorry." Belle truly was. "That must have been lonely."

"It was a long time ago."

"Is it so very important to be lovely?" Belle sighed. "I'd rather that my husband was kind to me, and clever, and interesting to talk to."

"You don't miss him, then. Your handsome betrothed?" His question held a trace of scorn, but Belle remembered his open contempt for Gaston and knew that the scorn was not directed at her.

"I don't even know him. Honestly, I never cared to. And I didn't find him _lovely_ no matter how handsome he thought he was. I didn't--" She found herself too shy to say what she had meant to say; that she didn't _want_ Gaston. But she had not known how to want, then, had she? She had not known the yearning for touch, until her husband stirred the guilty spark inside her. "Please don't think that I could despise you simply for the way you look. Please don't."

"Well, the rest of me is quite unlovely too, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "But I will try to deserve your favour." He was silent for a long moment, his breathing quickening. "Had I known, before I first... I would not have wasted such a treasure as your innocence, had I known that you could ever want..."

"To seal our contract?" She felt him nod, grateful to be released from his struggle in finding delicate enough phrases for her ears. "Well, if _I'd_ known I could ever want to, I wouldn't have been so _tiresome_ ," she said, remembering what he'd muttered in the dark that night. "We can't know the future."

Rumpelstiltskin snorted.

"The whole business is tiresome when there's not the will for it on one side, or both. All elbows and dashed hopes." He sniffed, and continued in airy tones. "As you would no doubt have discovered had you wed the square-jawed dukeling."

Belle's jaw dropped, but she couldn't muster any real outrage on Gaston's behalf. She could not, for some reason that escaped her, imagine him being as courteous as Rumpelstiltskin had been in the face of a maiden's modesty and alarm. Gaston was young, only a few years older than she; he had never been married. Even if Rumpelstiltskin had not known happiness with his first wife, he did at least know what he was _doing_. It seemed helpful that one of them did.

"Did you love her? Your wife?" Belle didn't know what would be more dreadful - to love someone and be unrequited, or to be chained to someone when there was no love at all.

Rumpelstiltskin bristled a little, fidgeting with unease.

"It was so long ago. I forget."

It was all the answer Belle needed. She had not known love, but she did not believe that, once known, it could ever be forgotten.

"I'm sorry," she said, again. "I won't speak of it."

"That would be best." But, as if to show that Belle was forgiven, he rested his head against hers. "Am I to stay," he asked, too lightly, "and keep your feet warm?"

"I'd like that." Belle slipped away from him and wriggled down under the bedclothes. The bed was more than big enough for two to share, even if they didn't care to touch one another. For the moment, she wanted to touch her husband as much as possible, and not just for the sake of her feet. Affection was in her nature, and Rumpelstiltskin seemed so bewildered by it at other times; holding her, in bed, he seemed able to accept her better. She had liked his small gestures, for the past little while - that he kissed her head and caressed her hair. She liked, more than she could express, how much he had seemed to enjoy having her at his leisure, instead of trying to spare her some imagined trial.

Belle could not imagine withholding that from him, even if the act brought her no pleasure of her own, but, again, she was affectionate by nature. Others were not, and some people disliked to be touched at all. Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin's first wife had been like that? Had he been alone so long by choice, because that long-ago wife could not love him?

She slept for a while, but not well; although she had shared a bed before, she had not slept in an embrace since she was a small child in the grip of nightmares. It was not as comfortable as she might have supposed, sleeping with her head on Rumpelstiltskin's outstretched arm, and where she had been pleasantly cosy beside him while she lay awake, she found herself growing uncomfortably hot. Her own tossing and turning woke her up before very long, and she blinked drowsily at Rumpelstiltskin, trying to decide whether or not he was sleeping.

He lay on his back, one arm outstretched for her use as a pillow. The nightshirt was twisted about him and his eyes were closed.

"Are you awake?" Belle tried, as quietly as it was possible to speak without whispering.

Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes at once.

"Quite awake," he said, staring at the ceiling. "I'm sure you'd sleep better if I left you."

"Maybe." Belle rearranged her nightgown as she wriggled back to be near him. "Would you?"

"Most unlikely." He blinked, and turned his head towards her. "Sleep is for the blameless, my dear."

Belle put her hand in the middle of his chest, lifting herself on her other elbow to gaze at him.

"The stories say that you father the nightmares of the blameless," she said, watching his hand cover hers. "Do you?"

"What else do they say?" He drew up her hand and laced their fingers together, watching too.

"That you steal babes away in the night. That you never break a deal. That nobody can afford your price." Belle frowned. "That your heart doesn't beat, if you have one at all, and that time flees before you."

"Well," he laughed, softly. "I can see that I'll have to work harder to live up to my reputation. But I steal nothing, dearie. I told you that. I trade. I bargain. I deal." Tightening his fingers around hers, Rumpelstiltskin drew her closer with his arm. "And does my heart beat?"

Belle put her ear against his chest to listen. She had already felt his heart racing, and knew that it beat, but now she heard it; an agitated throbbing beneath his ribs. Faster than her own by far, but definitely a beating heart. She relaxed where she was, her cheek against his silk, and felt him begin to play with her hair again. After a while, he parted their interlaced fingers and moved that hand to her throat, running his fingertip down the crisscrossed ribbon that closed her nightgown.

Her surprise gave way almost at once to a keen anticipation, and it had little to do with the demands of her body. Belle found that she was as hungry for new knowledge as ever, now that her modesty had made room for her to be a better wife. What stirred her husband's desire? That he enjoyed tempting himself with her ribbons and laces she had already discovered, but only understood when he continued the quiet game; he allowed his fingertip to catch at each rung in the ladder of blue ribbon, flicking upwards and then back down. He could have touched her skin through the gaps, but did not. He could have unlaced her at once, but did not.

Enchanted, Belle dared her hand a little lower, her palm in the hollow beneath his ribs, and felt his breathing quicken.

She thought about the kitchen, and how he had grown softer and smaller after they coupled on the chair. Did the hardness return with anticipation, as the heaviness and the throbbing in her belly did? Was it sudden, that change of state, or as gradual as the arrival of desire seemed to be for her?

Questions were on her lips - less forthright than the ones occupying her mind, to be sure, but she still hesitated to give them voice, in case she broke the quiet comfort between them. Instead, she moved her hand as much as she dared; from his belly to his shoulder, and down his side until she found his hip. It seemed not to displease him, for his hand in turn explored her - first her shoulder, and then her breast, where his hand lingered for a long time for his pursuit of kneading her. It didn't give Belle the same pleasure as his attention to her nipple had, but his appreciation of her breasts pleased her in other ways; it satisfied her, to possess something that intrigued him so, and it excited her to remember his eager gaze when he had uncovered her, first in the kitchen and then on the bed.

The excitement took Belle differently, this time. She felt increasingly aware of the part of her that he filled up when he took her - of a pressure there that made her want to fidget. It was less distracting, more pleasant than the aching want she had felt before; it deepened gently as he toyed with her breast, and as she allowed her hand to go lower to rest at the outside of his thigh.

That distracted Rumpelstiltskin even from her breast, and he eased her away from him so that he could look at her again.

"Should I not touch you?" Belle asked, uncertainly, removing her hand from him at once. If she could not see him then she wished to touch him, but if he preferred that she save that self-indulgence for when he was inside her...

"Do as you wish," he whispered, wide-eyed. "Whatever you wish." His expression held that plea for something he could understand, again. "Have me do for you whatever you wish."

Her nod seemed to ease his mind, earning a sheepish smile as he averted his gaze. Belle, who knew only the things that he had shown her already, wondered what else there could be. She would not ask him to uncover himself for her - not merely to satisfy her curiosity. His reluctance moved her with pity, and it was stronger than her wish to show him that he was wrong to fear her scorn.

Flushing, she caught his hand and moved it back to the lacing at her neck. Rumpelstiltskin untied it at once, with a single tug at one dangling end of the bow. He licked his lips, loosening the ribbon, and knelt over her, bending so that he could kiss the skin as his tugs exposed it. Belle reached her arm up and rubbed the small of his back, feeling him tighten there and shiver all over. His mouth covered her nipple, hot through the silk and making it wet before he kissed her there, then sucked, then kissed. Belle bit her lip, liking his eagerness more than she liked the sensation, which frustrated her more than it added to her pleasure. After a moment, he turned his attention to her other breast, but the drape of her nightgown allowed him to uncover the right one, and apply his mouth directly to her skin.

Belle studied him patiently while he enjoyed her this way, and gently stopped his hand when he tried to push it between her thighs. He looked up, anxious, but Belle smiled. She did not want to be distracted from these new things, not yet.

"Shall I take this off?" She guided his hand up her body, smoothing it over the silk. "Or do you like it on me?"

"I like it very much," he said, his voice little more than a croak. "But I would like to see you again without it."

Getting up on her knees, Belle tugged the nightgown up around her hips; there was a great deal of skirt, and it took some arranging to free it from beneath her. Before she could do the rest, Rumpelstiltskin stopped her, and kissed her full on the mouth. He could barely contain himself, and he trembled almost as much as he had that first night. His hands took up the hem of her gown, lifting it slowly while they kissed, but he didn't hurry. He allowed his hands to stroke against her skin as he lifted the silk, and broke their kiss only when he could go no further without doing so.

Belle stayed still, when he lifted the gown over her head. She allowed him to slide it down her arms, last of all, and when he drew the puddle of silk out of her lap, she was naked before him. She felt less exposed, kneeling, than she had when he undressed her earlier. Again, there was little shame left in her, but still shyness. She lowered her gaze and, as before, Rumpelstiltskin gave her kisses until she became used to her nakedness.

She held the back of his neck while they kissed, noticing that his skin was smoother there, beneath his long hair. In turn, he brought one hand back to her breast and played with it while their mouths played together. He cupped the small weight of it in his palm, he squeezed and rubbed her and made small, short sounds of enjoyment into her mouth as he did so.

When Rumpelstiltskin finally drew back and looked at her, Belle looked too. His skin looked so dark against hers, even in candlelight, but more so against the white silk of his sleeve. She could see his knee, as well, half buried in the bedclothes next to her own; the skin looked rougher there, almost scaled, and she placed her hand there, slipping her fingertips beneath his nightshirt.

He stopped what he was doing and stared at her hand, there on his knee. He had bid her do as she pleased, but he was afraid that she would uncover him. Belle's kindness prevented her doing so, but he had touched her those first nights without exposing her to his sight. Could she do as much for him?

Looking at him askance, hoping that he would not need to hear her voice the question, Belle felt her cheeks and ears begin to burn. In answer, Rumpelstiltskin grinned, but it was a poor effort if he meant it to be his smile of knowing and mischief.

"You can touch if you want to, dearie," he said, breathlessly. "I've held all your treasures."

"Treasures?" Belle smiled, too, thinking of his greedy attention to her bosom. She thought of how he had held himself, down in the kitchen. His hand had been wrapped around the shaft, and that didn't seem difficult to accomplish without looking. "Is it nice, if I touch? As nice as when you touch me?"

Rumpelstiltskin's only answer was a helpless shake of his head.

His nervousness distracted her from her shyness at being naked; that, and curiosity. He had told her that a woman's pleasure was more elusive; that must mean that his would be easy to find. Cautiously, Belle pushed her hand up beneath his nightshirt, along his thigh until her fingertips found the thing. He had shut his eyes, as though he dreaded the touch, but grasped her wrist through the silk and guided her hand until she held him, her fingers wrapped around the shaft as his own had been. By then, his breath came as mere gasps, and she could see that it would be fruitless to ask him any more questions. She kissed him, instead, and his moan vibrated against her lips as he guided her hand to move a little; just a simple tugging motion while grasping him. The outer skin of the shaft moved over a hard core, much as the silk had moved across her skin, and that seemed to bring him pleasure. The hand that guided hers was shaking, and he was barely catching a breath or responding to her kisses. His other hand fumbled and found her right breast, and he buried his face against her shoulder, guiding her hand to move faster, shuddering and groaning the whole while.

A burning wetness coated her hand, where she held him, and the tension went out of him with it; he mouthed her neck with desperate kisses, sucking in great gulps of air and still holding her breast in his left hand, clutching her ministering hand in his right.

Belle stroked his hair, waiting for a hint about what she ought to do next. She felt that she must have done wrong, somehow, for him to be trembling so, yet she could feel the extent of his relief, and if he had spilled his seed did that not mean his pleasure was complete? Her own had been startled into retreat by his urgency, but when he finally released his jealous grip on her and sat back on his heels, the softness of his expression made her want again. As in the kitchen, his pleasuring had washed all the harshness and hints of cruelty out of his face, leaving his expression slack, his eyelids heavy and his lips parted.

"Did I do it right?" she asked, for she had never heard of such a thing, and truly had no idea whether they had achieved the result he intended. She stroked his cheek, his hair back from his face, and, as on their wedding night, he pressed a soft kiss to her palm that seemed to express unspeakable gratitude. The white silk clung to him where it was wet, in front of him, and Belle glanced guiltily at what was on her hand. It had made quite a mess, but he had told her that it was a messy business. Did he leave all _that_ inside her, every time they coupled?

Rumpelstiltskin was watching her, she realised. His eyes were still heavy, but a little of the shrewdness had found its way back. He sat back against the headboard, arranging pillows behind him, and beckoned for her to be beside him.

"And your pleasure, my dear?" He let her choose how to settle herself, and she once more chose his side, with her head pillowed on his shoulder. "How shall that be?" He pulled the bedclothes over them, covering them both to the waist. Belle wondered why she didn't feel cold, but let the thought go. It didn't matter. Not tonight. Not now.

"In the morning?" She was comfortable, and her husband was drowsy and content. "We should sleep." 

Rumpelstiltskin grunted softly, nudging the top of her head with his face. It wasn't even a kiss; he seemed too weary.

"The morning," he agreed, slurring slightly, and very soon they both slept.


	17. Shameless

There was sunlight streaming through her window, when Belle awoke. Outside looked to be another bright and blue day, the low winter sun reflected from the landscape of snow. She blinked at it for a while, aware of little but the beauty and the peace of the moment. At some point during the night she had slid down the slope of pillows and buried herself beneath the bedclothes. She could feel Rumpelstiltskin's weight behind her, feel his warmth beside her, and smiled to herself. Remembering that she had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, it was nice to realise that they had accommodated one another in their sleep.

Carefully, she turned herself away from the window to face him, and to warm her right side which had been colder, being topmost while she slept. It was only then that Belle remembered that she wore no nightgown. For his part, Rumpelstiltskin remained propped against his slope of pillows, but he appeared to be at ease. His head was turned away from her, his arms slack by his sides and the bedclothes smooth across his lap, as though he had moved very little during the night.

It must have been the chill in the room that drove Belle beneath the covers, she decided; with the drapes left open all night and the fire burned low, the air was unpleasantly cool. She would have to dress herself, because she doubted that she could be warm if she emerged from beneath the blankets to press herself back against her husband's side, bare as the day she was born.

Moving with slow care, Belle sat up and looked about for her nightgown. She grabbed it quickly from the middle of the bed and dragged the silk over her head, shivering as she pushed her arms into the cold sleeves. The ribbon that closed it was missing, leaving her exposed from her neck to her bosom, and Belle looked at Rumpelstiltskin, torn between exasperation and a smirk of guilty delight.

Since her movements thus far had not disturbed him in the slightest, Belle chanced a barefoot dash to her little bathing room. She felt in need of a bath, but settled for washing her face and hands before returning to her husband. Chilly as she was, she stood over him for a moment, studying him in the clear morning light. It was an unforgiving light, emphasising every lump and wrinkle of his features, but sleep made him appear younger at the same time. Belle was glad to discover that Rumpelstiltskin was capable of finding such peace, even if it only came in sleep.

When she began to shiver, Belle hurried back around the bed and crawled back to the warm place beside him, jolting the bed as little as she could. All the same, her arrival woke him, and his arm caught her up before he was fully awake, welcoming her to his side.

"You're cold," he murmured, and then, suddenly and without any obvious display of magic, Belle was comfortably warm. Had he warmed the room, or her? Had it been his conscious will, or only the castle responding to his command?

Belle settled herself as she had last night, her head upon his shoulder, and felt him begin to lose the easy relaxation as his awareness returned.

"You slept well," she said, when she was sure that he was not going to return to sleep. "So did I."

Rumpelstiltskin didn't answer her, but squeezed her slightly before drawing her over him, to sit upon his thighs. Belle went there willingly, but held her gown closed, shy of him seeing her in stark daylight. His smile was on the darker side of playful, but he caught her shoulders and brought her down to him for a kiss. There was no demand between them, just a brush of greeting and fondness that made Belle's heart sing. She pressed her cheek to his, then sat back on her heels and smiled at him.

"Shall I cook breakfast?"

"I'd prefer that you didn't." He wrinkled his nose. "We shall find you that cookbook, my dear, before the unspeakable evils emerging from your kitchen begin to rival my most fearful potions."

"Oh!" Laughing, she swatted at his hand as he reached for the opening of her nightgown. Rumpelstiltskin merely caught her hand and held it, grinning. "Well, I should like a new book," she said, "even if it's a cookery book."

"Did I not show you the library?" He asked the question airily, as though it had slipped his mind that he had shown her nothing of his castle beyond her own room. "It's rather a good one."

"A library? Here?" She sighed with anticipation, and Rumpelstiltskin's hand crept past hers to reach inside her gaping nightgown. Belle looked down, her mild exasperation more than outweighed by the enjoyment of his fingertip caress over the round of her bosoms.

"I see that I've found the way to your heart," he said, his palm nudging against her right nipple. "Always dangerous to hand a monster such a secret, my dear."

"It's hardly a secret that I enjoy books," Belle said, trying to resist the renewed calls of her body. He had barely touched her, they had barely kissed, but his very wish to touch her excited her interest. Would she ever master these new sensations? How was a wife to go about her business if this _distraction_ was only ever a heartbeat away? Did it stop once there was a child on the way? "Are there books about this?" she asked, swaying gently as he stroked her skin.

"This?" It took him a moment to catch her meaning, and then his hand went still. His forehead wrinkled with thought. "I expect so. Shall we go and look?"

Belle almost giggled, but saw that he was quite serious.

"I think we can manage without," she said, trying to ignore her own shyness and to contain her smile at his confusion "We've managed quite well, so far."

"So we have." Rumpelstiltskin blinked, and his sly smile returned, slowly. "Your pleasure was mentioned, before we slept. How shall it be?" He began to move his hand again, from one breast to the other, plucking until her nipples grew tight. With that accomplished, he withdrew his hand and placed both against her thighs, rubbing there against the silk. Belle flushed at being asked to decide, when she had only just become used to being shown the way. "Come," he said, more gently, his hands going still. "Let me please you?"

"You do," she whispered. "But show me?" He nodded, wide-eyed. He had thought that she would like to be asked. Oh dear. How much easier it had been when everything was unspoken! "I'm sorry. I'll learn, I will."

"Hush." Taking her face between his hands, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. "No blushes, now. No shame." He spoke to soothe her, a musical lilt to his voice, but Belle could see his alarm at her sudden disquiet. He hadn't meant to ask for more than she was ready to give. From the very beginning, he had refused to do so. Belle pressed her cheek into his left palm, closing her eyes.

"I don't like to be thought ignorant," she confessed. "Foolish."

"Hardly that," he said, releasing her. Belle opened her eyes, and saw that he meant to dislodge her and get up. She placed her hands on his shoulders, afraid to let their nearness go in case she couldn't bring it back. She would miss him, this generous lover she'd found in him, if he returned to his distant courtesy outside the bedroom.

Rather than let him go, Belle bent quickly and kissed him, and felt him subside at once into his nest of pillows. His hands caught her arms, steadying her above him, and he returned her kiss eagerly. He hissed between his teeth when she took her kisses sideways, to his jaw and his throat - the one rough, the other softer like his palms. Belle remembered how she liked his kisses there, and allowed the tip of her tongue to touch his throat with the next kiss. His hands tightened on her arms, a soft sound of surprise and enjoyment escaping him. It made her bolder; even if she could not put her desires into words when he asked her to, she could act upon her feelings, moment to moment.

"No beard," she noticed, when her nibbles brought her back to face him. She brushed her thumb across his chin, where his skin was rough but quite free of morning bristles. Every other man she had seen was dark around the jaw, if he did not wear a beard. Her father's kiss would scratch her cheek, come late afternoon when the shadow of new growth looked almost blue. "Don't you need to shave?"

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, as though he had never given it a moment's thought. Not magic, then. Just his own strangeness, the same as the raised texture of his skin, and the blackness of his long fingernails. He studied her closely, as she studied him, and when Belle pulled herself together and met his gaze with an apologetic smile and shake of her head, his eyes were soft with amazement at her quiet interest.

Gently, Belle touched his face. He closed his eyes, as though he couldn't bear to look at her while she explored his chin with her thumb. She studied how the flesh softened beneath his jaw, like the soft underparts of an armoured creature, only to become coarse again at his chest, where it was almost a ridge across the centre. The collar of his nightshirt prevented further exploration; unlike the gown he had given to her, which gaped shamefully without its ribbon, his was buttoned tightly to the throat. That didn't seem fair.

"How can I please you better?" she asked, to distract herself from the temptation of the topmost button. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes fluttered open, naked surprise written across his face. His hands, which had gone loose by the side of her knees, drifted up her thighs again, rubbing slowly. Belle was learning to like how it felt to be caressed through thick, smooth silk.

"Only with your pleasure, my dear," he said, eventually. "Your... affection... is more than I would have asked."

Belle placed her hands over his, on her thighs, and kept hold as he lifted them to her chest again, squeezing her bosoms lightly through her gown.

"You would have left me untouched," she pressed, encouraging his hands with her own even as she spoke. It distracted him, as she had hoped it would, and he licked his lips before he answered, his gaze flickering between her face and their hands.

"Have you ever heard it said that I rape?"

"No." It was true. In the stories, he was sometimes a monster. A killer. A deceiver. A devourer. But she had never heard a hint of that particular evil. "Never. But I was already your wife."

"I take only what is given," he said, very quietly. "I will never take you against your will." His hands went still, and Belle squeezed them, moved by his sincerity, and thinking of his reluctance to lie with her even once she had shown him her willingness. "Even a _beast_ has things that he finds too monstrous to allow."

"You're no beast," she said, leaning her weight on their joined hands. "Don't say such things." The more Belle learned of it, the more she understood what the alternative might have been. To be taken without consideration, on her wedding night when she had been so lost and afraid... it would have been horrible. It _would_ have been monstrous of any husband to do such a thing, but _her_ husband was no monster.

"Oh, but I am, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin turned his hands and caught hers, grasping them. "Never doubt it." The gentleness of his touch belied the words, and Belle just shook her head, bringing his hands to her lips and kissing them each in turn. His sadness ran so deep, and there seemed to be no touching it, but if he forgot himself with her, even for a moment, then she was glad.

"In the kitchen," she said, shyly, half concealing herself behind their joined hands. "In your lap. I liked the way it felt."

Lifting his eyebrow, playfully, Rumpelstiltskin drew her closer, until they could kiss more easily. He buried a hand in her hair, as they did so, and the way he held her head was almost forceful, but she was unafraid. He had been equally direct in the kitchen, and she had known so much pleasure that she had thought it might shatter her. The very thought of knowing that sensation again excited her interest, and she was eager for him long before he slipped a hand between them and teased her through her nightgown.

Belle found that she could not concentrate on kissing him properly, while his fingers rubbed wet silk against her; each time he brought his fingers forwards, her body ceased to obey her and she fidgeted in his lap, her arms trembling too much to support her. It was certainly pleasure, but this time it was a raw and grasping feeling that half frightened her with its intensity. It brought her out in perspiration all over, hot and then cold, until she quivered above him, her teeth almost chattering, and could no longer manage to move her mouth when he kissed her. She could barely force herself to open her eyes, and whenever she did, his gaze was blazing with desire.

When she began to moan, helpless to prevent herself expressing her confusion of frustration and wanting, Rumpelstiltskin deprived her of his fingers and pulled open her nightgown, exposing her breasts fully before she could think of protesting, and made a high-pitched sound in his throat that put Belle in mind of his childish glee. His expression held none of that, however; she saw hunger, through her fog of need, and a greedy appreciation of her body..

She barely had time to glance down, as he pulled his own nightshirt up enough to allow them to join; he took her by the hips and pulled her nearer, obscuring any view she might have had, were she coherent enough to peek, and held himself with one hand while she lowered herself to meet him.

It wasn't like the chair, she thought, grabbing for his shoulders as her body simultaneously clenched around him and tried to resist his entry. With her knees on the mattress she could prevent him achieving a painful depth of penetration; she could move as she wished, and as he guided her with encouraging hands on her hips, and it felt wonderful. Overpowering, alarming, but freeing as well, and wickedly indulgent.

Rumpelstiltskin spoke to her, and Belle found that she needed to concentrate hard to make out any meaning; he urged her to please herself, to have her fill of him, to find what pleased her the most. As she gave herself to it, to the rising and falling, the rocking and wriggling that brought her, moment by moment, nearer to her peak of excitement, he slipped out of her, and, unthinking, she fumbled between them for his swaying member and held it rigid so that she could lower herself again. Only then did he fall silent, his head pushing back into the pillows, and began to match her urgent movements with sharp, upward thrusts. It ignited something in her, and she felt her nails dig into his shoulders; felt his shudder of pleasure at even that, and realised that she was crying out with every exhalation. He had called her a wanton, and she was - she was given over utterly to the demands of her body and to the deep throbbing that began to fill her.

It wasn't like before, with the long shivers of delicate, indefinable bliss. It shook her from the inside, convulsing her above him until he had to catch her shoulders and keep her from falling; it prevented her from thrusting herself back onto him to meet her own need, and only his thrusts kept her riding the surge of impossible pleasure.

Belle sobbed, as it began to subside and she could catch a full breath again. The backs of her legs screamed from where she had clenched herself so tight, and his continuing presence in her was almost unbearable. She stilled him, communicating her need somehow with her hand pressed to his belly, and Rumpelstiltskin obeyed her wordlessly, his chest heaving with every breath while he waited for her.

She felt half faint, her head spinning and her body weak, and lifted herself off him. He shut his eyes, tightly, and arched his back on the slope of pillows, but did nothing to prevent her abandonment. She could see him, then; bare thighs above the bedclothes, his member standing rigid and glistening from her wetness, and before he could notice it as well, Belle arranged herself beside him, on her back, and offered him her arms. One more moment upright seemed impossible, but she could welcome her husband like that, and wrap her arms and legs around him as he gratefully took her again, his face buried beside hers and his thrusts rough and needful.

Belle's body twitched and trembled, but she held on to him and allowed her discomfort to ebb, as the violent storm of pleasure had. She felt spent, as though she could never achieve that spasm of wonder ever again, but there was an enjoyable heat where he joined with her, and she thrilled to feel him shudder with his own completion. He was silent, except for his broken breathing, and strained over her in the throes of his passion, as though stubbornly resisting his need to cry out.

The aftermath of their coupling was... wonderful. Belle released her hold on him, arms and legs, but buried her fingers in his damp hair while he kissed her neck, her shoulder, her ear. He seemed incapable of moving further than that, even to withdraw from her, and the intimacy of the embrace was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She felt that she might burst with her fondness and gratitude, or from the warmth that filled her from head to toe.

Rumpelstiltskin recovered himself first, and took undue care in withdrawing from her, using his hand to remove himself. At once, as hot fluid spilled out of her and onto tender flesh, Belle understood why, and was grateful again for his foresight and understanding; she was _sore_ , and she ached as she had not since he withdrew on her wedding night. It was not at all pleasant for the few moments that it took her body to adjust. She felt almost bruised, inside as well as out, but she had been the instigator, as willful as her husband was careful. As nervous as he was of hurting her, she would not have him see that she had overreached herself in her eagerness for sensation.

Did he suffer a similar discomfort? He gave no sign of it, and she remembered his remark about the poisons in his work room - that he was immune to things which would harm her terribly. Probably not, then. If he trembled a little, rolling to the edge of the bed and sitting up, it was probably only a reaction to his pleasure.

He faced the window, the heels of his hands pressing into the edge of the mattress, and Belle sat up while he could not see her, grimacing as her body protested.

"Are you all right?" Rumpelstiltskin spoke tersely, and his shoulders were tense. Belle crawled up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, feeling him all but flinch away from her touch.

"Yes," she promised him. But was he all right? He had gone from such bliss to this tightness, and she didn't understand why. "What's wrong?"

"You bleed." He lifted his hand, and showed her the blood there. Just a smear or two, but when Belle looked down at herself there was more of it mingling with the wetness at the front of her beautiful gown.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her first thought for the perfect silk. Her next was for herself, and she hid the stain between her clasped thighs, kneeling behind him. "I'm sorry," she said, wretchedly - wretched that her concern for her husband came after her dismay about the nightgown. "It... it must be my time. It wasn't you, I'm sure. I'm not hurt. I'm sorry."

He released a long, slow breath with careful control, and half turned to look at her. He spared her his gaze, though, and Belle was more grateful than she could express for the consideration.

"You're certain that's all it is?"

"I... I think so." She had lost track of the days, in the upheaval since her wedding. Her bleeding often came upon her suddenly, often in the night, with few of the previous signs that Lotte and the matrons hinted that she might notice. "I should have been more careful."

"No matter," Rumpelstiltskin said, plainly relieved, if uncomfortable with the subject in hand. "As long as you are unhurt." As he rose to his feet, he passed his hand in front of himself, swiftly, and his day clothing replaced the nightgown. It was only in the moment when he stood that Belle realised her blood had marked his gown also. Her face grew hot with shame, even as she marvelled at the sight of his magic so easily at work. Her eyes had tried to ignore what they were seeing, but she must be growing used to it. She had seen the slight ripple of magic and of cloth, as the change took effect. "I will leave you, then."

Belle hated to have him leave on such a wretched note, but nor could she want him to stay while she knelt bleeding onto her beautiful nightdress that he liked so much. Tears filled her eyes as her husband hurried out of the room, determinedly not looking back, but matters needed to be attended to. She blinked the tears away fiercely, and went to her bathroom to wash herself. The nightgown she left draped over the bed, and as she bathed, Belle wondered how to go about cleaning it, and the huge, heavy sheets that had undoubtedly suffered from her carelessness as well.

She need not have troubled herself. When she returned in search of clothing, her blood stemmed with one of the soft, thick cloths sent to her by the townswomen, Belle saw that the bed was freshly made and the nightgown, Rumpelstiltskin's gift to her, was once again spread at the foot of the bed, pristine and smooth. At the collar, the pale blue ribbon had been restored, half laced up and tied in a generous bow.

_Oh._

When she had dressed, choosing the dress she had cut short to let her work, Belle sat on the bed and ran her hand across the puddle of perfect silk. She knew that she would have been heartbroken had it been ruined. She adored all of his gifts, even the strange wedding ring that he'd woven with her blood and his gold. The gift of the nightgown pleased Rumpelstiltskin as well, though, and she was glad of the magic that had saved it for her.

~+~

Belle's blushes kept her from seeking out her husband until late morning. She spent the time dusting and sweeping the gloomy passages that extended from her kitchen, and thinking of home.

The letter had been gone from the table when she entered, and she refused to let herself doubt that Rumpelstiltskin had delivered it as he promised. Her drawers had still been on the floor, which only added to her general sense of embarrassment, but at least he had not been there to witness their retrieval, or their hasty banishment to the laundry room.

Her husband's heavy leather coat, also abandoned on the kitchen floor, needed brushing down but was otherwise no worse for wear. Belle doubted that anything very much could harm it. With the coat folded carefully over her arm, she ventured upstairs with a tray of tea things, half expecting that Rumpelstiltskin would be avoiding her company, and planning to find him with a cup of tea in her hand, if that was so. She would not be avoided, not when he had forbidden her shame; not even if her own blushes set her on fire.

Rumpelstiltskin was not at his spinning wheel in the great room, and Belle sighed to herself, pouring out a cup of tea. Perhaps he saw to his own meals, wherever he was busy working? Having witnessed the depth of his absorption while he spun, and his haphazard method of working in his turret of magic, she doubted it.

That was where she found him, the teacup rattling violently on the saucer as she climbed, as if to announce her. Rumpelstiltskin was at the largest table of bottles and jars, watching something simmer in a glass dish over a tiny charcoal brazier. The room smelled horribly of rotten vegetation, intermingled with the bitter aroma of tar.

"And you mock my attempts at cooking," she laughed, breathless from the last steep climb. "That smells revolting."

He glanced towards her, absently, and his mouth hinted at a smile.

"Well, it's not for eating, dearie. Take care not to get too close." He was standing almost over the dish, himself, and while Belle was nauseous from the smell alone, the rising steam from it seemed not to affect him in the slightest.

"I brought you tea," she said, lifting the cup as though he might require proof of her intentions.

Waving his hand to the table furthest from the stink, beneath an open window, Rumpelstiltskin kept a wary eye on the burner as he joined her there. Belle waved her hand in front of her nose once he'd taken the cup and saucer from her. He sipped his tea, unconcerned.

"Oh, your coat," she said, and went to lay it across the stool beside his spinning wheel. "It was in the kitchen."

"With your unmentionables," he said, shamelessly, and grinned at her flustered nod.

"Thank you," Belle said, before she had time to think better of it, "for seeing to my nightdress. I'm no laundress. I hope there are books about that, as well."

"I can't have my wife condemning herself to a life of unnecessary servitude," he said, brightly. There was a new energy about him, a restlessness that had been there when he first came to demand her hand in marriage. Even standing still, sipping tea with his elegant economy of movement, something about Rumpelstiltskin looked agitated. "Nor spoiling my lovely gifts."

Belle did blush, then. She had never imagined, not for a single moment, that any man would ever know of her bleeding, and now he had found her stained twice. It wasn't proper. Yet, her husband would _need_ to know, wouldn't he? She would have needed to tell him that she could not receive him in her bed, and he would be waiting for the news that a child had begun in her. She shivered, then, and wrapped her arms around herself. The foul smell and the chill from the open window made her quite uncomfortable.

"Go upstairs," he said, at once setting down his cup and going to her side. He caught her around the shoulders, drawing her with him to the top of the staircase. "Take the left-hand passage, and the second door." Bewildered at being swept up like so much dust, Belle looked up at him. "The library, dearie. All the books you could ever want, I daresay. Try not to get lost." He gave her a little smack on the rump when she took her first voluntary step forward, and Belle jumped, more shocked by that little gesture than by anything that had passed between them in her bed. Or her kitchen. Her cheeks burned, and she simply refused to giggle.

As she rounded the first turn of the spiral staircase, Belle heard Rumpelstiltskin call after her, perhaps a little wistfully.

"Thank you for the tea, my dear."


	18. Hope in a Box

There was a great deal of dust on the third floor. Belle found herself leaving footmarks in it, as she followed Rumpelstiltskin's directions to the library. She would need to return with her broom, as soon as possible.

All thoughts of dust left her when she opened the door to the library, because she had never seen so many books in her life. Bookcases lined the walls, broken by just one window, beneath which sat a desk and chair. Above the level of the bookcases, a cast iron balcony ran in a horseshoe shape around three-quarters of the room, a winding staircase at either end, giving access to a second tier of bookshelves. As the room lit up to welcome her, she saw that the candles were encased in tall glass lanterns, each affixed to or hanging below the ironwork, ensuring that the flames came nowhere near the books. 

Belle could not even guess at how many books there had to be, in that room. She stood in the doorway for a long while, simply staring around the room in wonder. She had not known that there were so many different books in the entire _world_.

It was a beautiful room, in spite of being poorly lit and airless. Belle could taste the dust and smell dry paper, as she took her first steps towards the centre of the room. There was a lectern there, carved from heavy oak like the bookshelves and worn smooth from long use. Although the cast ironwork was an intricate black lattice, and quite beautiful in its way with the red-tinted glass of the lanterns making patterns of light on the floor below, everything about the room was simple. The desk beside the window looked out of place, as though it had been brought from elsewhere in the castle. This was not a room for reading; it was a place where books lived.

Her initial joy was slowly deflated as she realised how impossible it would be to find any one subject among so many books. She would enjoy the search, no doubt of that, but it would be time consuming unless the books were arranged in a logical fashion. The books in Rumpelstiltskin's turret had been haphazardly placed, as though constantly in use and, furthermore, used while he was busy or in a hurry. The library appeared untouched, the books finely bound in sets that stretched for shelves and shelves. She would need to read every title and, today, all she needed was a book that would teach her simple cookery.

Slowly, Belle made a circuit of the room, trailing her fingertips lightly across the spines of the books. So much knowledge, all in one place! At home, she had read every book that belonged to the castle, even the old ledgers and legal documents. She had borrowed books from anyone who would lend them. To discover two or three new volumes inside a year had been heaven to her and now Rumpelstiltskin had given her a room of books that would take her years to read through. He hadn't even known that he was giving her a gift, this time, but _what_ a gift!

Belle climbed a twisting iron staircase to the second level, and saw the lanterns on the railing brighten to light her way. She made her way around the shelves counterclockwise, the heels of her shoes clanging on the ironwork and echoing oddly in the book-lined space. The walkway was just wide enough that she was not afraid of falling, but the topmost shelf was too high for her to reach without standing on something. She thought about that, as she completed her tour and descended to the ground level, but set the thought aside for the moment. The books that she could reach easily would occupy her for the best part of forever. She would trust to luck that there were books among those that could answer her questions.

No system of organisation had suggested itself to her, as she studied the shelves. Books were grouped by their binding, as though collected in large sets of twenty or more, but within each style of binding fell a wide range of topics and authors. She had seen history, anatomy, fiction, philosophy and chivalry all side by side in one small section. The books were all beautifully bound, their covers tooled, with detail picked out in gold leaf. Most appeared never to have been touched, after being added to the shelves - certainly none of them had been read enough to sustain any damage. There was little dust, compared to the corridor outside, but the room had a dead feel to it. Nobody had made use of the library for a long time, if at all.

Steeling herself to resist all temptation, Belle began another circuit of the lower shelves, this time carefully studying each spine. She would collect what she could find on managing a household, on the storage and preparation of food, and leave all the other books for another time. She had been Rumpelstiltskin's wife for but a week; she would have the rest of her life to make use of the library.

As she moved along the shelves, running her finger along the spines of the books to keep her place, Belle noted the occasional gaps where one had been removed. In each space, a fine layer of dust had collected on the shelf between the remaining books, suggesting that Rumpelstiltskin had removed them long ago and never returned them. She counted perhaps forty such gaps in the collection of thousands.

The only subject she couldn't find on the shelves was magic. The only hint of that was in the small collection of story books for children that she found on one low shelf. Of all the shelves, it was the only one with books lying atop the neat row. No two books were bound alike, on that one shelf. Some were so old that the covers and pages had discoloured, while one or two of the ones lying flat atop them seemed brand new. Belle took them from the shelf, one by one, and saw that they were the sorts of books that she had loved as a child - brightly bound tales of adventure, of heroes and, yes, of magic. Intricate woodcuts, many of them hand coloured, adorned the pages of these tales.

Belle would have sat there quite happily, on the floor, and read the entire shelf. She had known some of them as a child, but most were new to her. They seemed a strange addition to what was, otherwise, a sober and scholarly collection.

After an hour of exploring, she had collected a small stack of books that looked promising. If she had hoped for one book to teach her how to cook and another to instruct her on how to wash clothing, then she was disappointed, but Belle looked forward to reading what she had found. One seemed to be the meticulous, decade long journal of a woman of noble birth reduced to humbler circumstances, and that alone would have interested Belle. Had the woman married for love and shunned her upbringing? Committed some crime and been cast out? Had war overrun her lands and forced her into exile? As much as Belle hoped to find instruction on household tasks in those pages, she hoped guiltily for a romantic tale that would steal her away into her vivid imagination.

Imagination had long been Belle's weakness. Whenever she had been found idle when she should have been at her lessons, it had been because her mind had filled, unbidden, with stories and mysteries. When she had been tardy in returning from a walk or from playing with her friends, it had been because she had been caught up in the wonder of the moment and distracted by imaginary things. She had settled, as she had grown older and understood her duty, but imagination had not left her. In books, her imagination found release.

Unable to resist, Belle returned to the shelf of tales for children and chose one at random to take with her, hiding it in the middle of her pile as though afraid to be caught indulging herself. Perhaps she was, for her husband so often seemed sombre and forbidding, and she felt that he might not approve of silliness. Had he chosen the books in his library, or had they been a part of the castle before he ever claimed it? If he had furnished the library for himself, then the shelf of childish escapism seemed all the more out of place there.

She was beginning to feel unwell, as she often did when her blood first came, and the airless room did not help matters. Reluctantly, Belle tucked her chosen books under her arm and went back into the corridor where the air moved more freely. She remembered that there were empty bookshelves in her sitting room, waiting to be filled, and a place to sit beneath a bright window so that she could read. Rumpelstiltskin could not have given her a more welcome retreat, one more appropriate to her inclinations and habits, had he known her all her life. The suite had been spotless and ready for her upon their arrival, the bedlinens fresh and aired. While the rest of the castle was shut away from the daylight with rigid drapes and shutters, her room had curtains that she could pull aside. Had he prepared it for her - for Belle, herself? Or had the room stood empty, awaiting his choice of bride?

Belle found herself feeling chilled, at that. Had Rumpelstiltskin come to her with his offer already in mind, or had it been only when he saw her that he decided that he would have her? Had he gone out into the world in search of a wife, or had marriage been a momentary whim?

Returning to her room, she allowed her armful of books to spill across the bed and sat, catching her breath. She would feel pain before she felt well again, before the bleeding eased, and Belle longed for Lotte's bright and bustling way with her when she suffered the tribulations of womanhood.

At least her husband was not ignorant of the matter. As much as it distressed her that he had seen her misfortune, she knew that it would have been worse had she needed to explain herself to him, tonight. At home, Belle would have shunned even her father's company during these first days and now, without it for the first time, she fully appreciated the silent sympathy of Lotte and her other female companions.

Belle missed them, and the sound of women and girls laughing together. Her childhood home had been a happy place, until the war came, and even that had not silenced the laughter. It had only deepened the understanding between them, as they eased one another's fears, or mourned fallen sons and husbands together. She missed the warmth of it, and only knew that she did once the pains grasped at her belly, as though they were a physical reminder of her new isolation.

Too stubborn to sit and indulge her self pity, Belle collected her books and carried them to the sitting room. She arranged them on the shelves, which were large enough to swallow half a dozen books and leave the empty space looking pitiful. She would fill them, but not simply for the sake of doing so; she would select carefully from the library, and she would learn what she needed to learn before she turned to self indulgence. But, she decided, picking up the slimmest volume and opening it to the first brightly painted plate, she would find the time to enjoy the shelf of books meant for children. One book at a time, and lovingly, she would allow herself this small escape from her new responsibilities.

~+~

The night had drawn in and Belle had eaten before she saw her husband again. She had gone to find him in his turret, to ask if he would join her for a meal, but the room had stood dark and empty. Unlike all the others, it did not light up to welcome her and she had felt, as she climbed the narrow stairs to reach it, that some magic hung in the air, pressing her back. Belle took it as a sign that she was not to enter the room unless Rumpelstiltskin gave her leave, and hurried away quickly.

She checked his small bedchamber, and saw clothing strewn across the bed. He had made no attempt to leave the garments in any fit condition to be worn again, and the untidiness surprised Belle. Her husband seemed so careful, so neat about everything else, that the sight of his discarded socks on the floor gave her cause for concern. Had he been in a hurry? But why, when he could use magic to change his clothing in less time than the blink of an eye?

Remembering his earlier agitation, Belle hoped that all was well with him. While she did not yet know him, nor even his habits, she sensed that this was a departure that she should not ignore. If her duty was to be her husband's comfort and his strength, then she should begin by finding him and making sure that he was quite well.

Having searched the few rooms where she had seen Rumpelstiltskin, and not found him, Belle was at a loss. The castle was vast, with a great many places where she had yet to set foot. For all she knew, he had yet more spinning wheels or laboratories within the castle. He could be anywhere, and short of a methodical search, she was unlikely to find him.

It was as she crossed the marble hall on her way back towards her kitchen that Belle caught a faint whiff of pipe smoke in the air. She hesitated in the middle of the room, her hand resting upon the table, and looked about her until she could detect where the scent was strongest. It led her towards the outer doors, where she hesitated. She had not forgotten what had happened the last time she opened them, when she had rushed to greet her husband and been thrown back by violent magic. Her head knew that she had, since then, left the castle and been unharmed by it, but her heart remembered pain and terror. And Rumpelstiltskin had been beside her, the last time she ventured through these doors.

Belle held her breath as she pulled open one of the doors, and she was relieved to see her husband sitting on the step. He had a basket by his side, full of neat bundles of plants, fungus and roots, and was smoking a slender clay pipe. He half-glanced behind him, hearing her, and gave her the slightest nod.

"Don't you ever get cold?" Belle hugged herself, keeping inside the castle as much to avoid the cold as because she hesitated to cross the threshold.

"No," Rumpelstiltskin answered, easily. He was, however, wearing his travel cloak, and had it wrapped firmly about him. Belle could feel the cold breeze creeping up beneath her shortened skirts. "I must leave tonight," he went on, staring out at the moonlit, snow-covered garden. "Business must be attended to."

"Oh." Her heart sinking, Belle braved the chilly step across the threshold. Nothing magical happened, just as he had promised. She only became colder. Nevertheless, she sat herself on the step beside him. "Will you be away very long?"

It seemed to her that a part of Rumpelstiltskin was gone already; he was so distant as he sat there, as though he barely saw her.

"Perhaps." He gave a faint smile, taking the stem of the pipe from between his lips. The smoke had an aroma nearer to the burning of resinous wood than to tobacco. It was heady and bitter. "Don't pretend that you'll miss me, my dear."

"I..." Belle forced herself to think before speaking. It was as though she spoke, now, with a completely different man. Not the lover, nor the reserved gentleman, nor even the terrible creature with storm-blackened eyes. Rumpelstiltskin's remoteness made him more of a stranger to her than ever. "I will be lonely," she said, finally. She would miss him, but not this. Not the times when he became incomprehensible to her, and frightened her.

"Shall I bring you a companion from the town?" he asked, feigning a kind of innocence. "A girl your own age, perhaps?"

"And frighten her half to death!" Belle protested, before he could think of snapping his fingers and whisking some poor woman from her home without so much as a warning. "I'll be all right. And I shall miss you," she added, made stubborn by his slyness. "You keep my feet warm."

That earned her a smile, one that was a little more the man who had warmed her bed. Rumpelstiltskin glanced in her direction, albeit without seeking her face, and knocked out his pipe on the step.

"Then I shall hurry back," he said, lightly, and sprang to his feet, the clay pipe vanishing from his hand. He bent to collect his basket. "And bring you a gift. What should it be?" He spun on the ball of one foot, spreading his arms extravagantly. "Jewels? Silk?" He leaned close to her, his face near enough that she could have kissed him with barely a movement of her own. "Name it, my Lady."

"Whatever pleases you the most," Belle answered, taking a step back and lowering her gaze. She felt no desire to kiss him, when he appeared ready to laugh at her expense, but nor would she have him think that she would not be awaiting his return. Before he could turn away, she found her nerve and kissed him firmly on the lips. She found the taste of strong spirits there, and herbs, and the strange, sweet pipe smoke. He tasted as he had on their wedding night, and Belle's senses drove her thoughts back to that night, leaving her reeling.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed even more disturbed by her gesture, and laughed nervously, increasing the distance between them.

"You are too kind to an old monster," he said, with a hint of darkness and a trace of longing. He was silent for a long moment, and Belle stood where she was and shivered, wishing that she knew how to make the awkward moment come right. "On my stool, beside my wheel," he said, his voice light and his words spoken with delicacy, as if he spoke magic, "there is a box. When your father places his reply inside an identical box, as I have instructed, you will find it there. Be sure to place nothing else inside the box," he added, raising a finger in warning. "Not so much as a hair or a teardrop, or the magic will not work and his letter might be lost."

Belle nodded her understanding, urgently, not trusting herself to speak, and with a slight bow, her husband vanished.

She had expected to wait weeks or months for a reply to her letter home, if she were permitted to receive one at all. That she might simply find a message from her father waiting for her... she wondered if Rumpelstiltskin knew what he had given her.

Hope, in a box. Nothing he might bring her from his travels could rival such a gift.


	19. A Heavy Life

After two days and nights alone in the Dark Castle, Belle was as lonely as she had ever been in her life. It was an empty, aching feeling, reminding her of when her mother died, and of how she had felt during the long carriage ride that brought her to her wedding night.

She checked the small, carved wooden box that Rumpelstiltskin had left for her so often that she began to feel foolish about it. She _knew_ her father, and if Rumpelstiltskin had sent him a similar box with instructions to use magic to send her a simple reply, then its use would be considered and debated for the sake of the common good. She knew how it would hurt him to wait, to allow the wise men to examine the box and her letter, to weigh the advice of the councilmen. She thought of her father constantly during the days of solitude, and then felt ashamed of it. Should she not be thinking, instead, of her absent husband?

There was a thaw, on the third day, and the sound of meltwater dripping from the castle's gutters and gargoyles. Belle stood at the window of her bedchamber for a long while, enjoying the morning sunshine yet longing to be outside and to feel it upon her skin. She had occupied herself for two full days by sweeping more and more of the castle, until her shoulders ached from the repetition. Her next task would be the floor where the library was housed, she had already decided, but the bright new day left her with no appetite for the work.

With the worst of her blood behind her, she felt herself again, strong and full of energy, and found that she simply could not face another long day indoors, checking the magical box and then trying to distract herself from it with chores. She would go out. A walk in the sunshine, and fresh air in her lungs - yes. As soon as Belle had the thought, she knew that she must go.

The journeys by carriage had not given her a clear idea of how far it might be to the town, but she guessed that it could be no more than an hour's steady walk. If the roads remained clear, might she make it that far? The thought excited her, because she would find people there, and even if they were reluctant to keep her company, she would be glad to see another living soul.

It made her deeply uneasy to think of leaving the castle empty, but reason told her that, before she had arrived, Rumpelstiltskin must have done so all the time. He had not forbidden her to leave, or to seek her own amusement while he was away. All the same, Belle hesitated in the hallway and, leaving her basket and cloak upon the table there, went once more to peek into the box that he'd left on his stool.

She had wanted to take it to her room, but dared not in case that somehow kept the magic from working, and her father's letter from reaching her. Kneeling on the dais beside the low stool, Belle carefully lifted the lid of the box, and both hands flew to her mouth when she saw a square of folded parchment there, sealed with black wax and her father's seal.

Tearful with relief and excitement, Belle snatched the letter from the box and backed away, as if afraid it would be swallowed up if she hesitated. Her hands shook as she carried it to the table and, slipping into Rumpelstiltskin's chair, held the letter before her. She could not help but study every detail, from the familiarity of the creamy, thick paper with its ragged edges, to the rightward-leaning smudge her father always made when he pressed his seal into a blob of wax without first removing the ring.

"Papa." Belle put her hand to her mouth again, to stifle that word and the hiccoughing little sob that followed it.

It was some time before she could bring herself to break the seal and unfold the letter, and tears kept misting her vision as she tried to read it. Far from easing her homesickness or her loneliness, the arrival of the letter brought the anguish too close to the surface, and tears rolled down her cheeks without restraint. She wiped at them with her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes, and tried to savour every one of her father's words.

Above all, the letter spoke of his relief that she was safe and well. In the wording, however, Belle could read his concern and his questions. The tone of her own letter would have puzzled him and he might even suspect that Rumpelstiltskin had given her the words, or forged her hand. Her Papa had taken equal care to avoid writing anything that could possibly anger her new husband, or place any suspicion in his mind. Father was well, the town already being rebuilt. He wrote at some length of their gratitude to Rumpelstiltskin, and to Belle for making her bargain to save them and, again, this was for her husband's eyes rather than for her own.

Lotte, he wrote, was much recovered since the arrival of Belle's message, and had been sent home to her parents for a few weeks to rest. She would be awaiting Belle, should she and her husband visit.

The final few lines were only for Belle; a clumsy expression of her father's love and pride, and his sorrow at seeing her wed and flown. Even there, in those raw lines where his pain stood out in the unsteadiness of his pen strokes, he'd taken care to offer Rumpelstiltskin nothing that might lead him to find fault with Belle.

She felt angry, knowing that her father's fears had not been laid to rest by her letter. Rumpelstiltskin must have understood the cost when he placed the limitations on what she might say, in her letter. It would suit his spiteful, playful aspect, Belle thought, to use her own letter to further torment those she had left behind. She was sure that he did not mean to torment _her_ , yet the very fact that she was not allowed to tell her father so was the source of her torment. It was intolerable that she should be used against those who loved her.

Anger dried her tears, at least, and Belle left the letter on the table. She cared not if Rumpelstiltskin read it and even, although the thought shamed her, hoped that in doing so, he might realise how cruel he had been in forcing her to write a letter that sounded as if it might have been to serve his ends, not hers. Her slightest hint of unhappiness dismayed Rumpelstiltskin, yet it would not be proper to turn her anger upon him. She had promised to obey his strictures upon her words; she could have refused him, challenged him then.

Belle had no stomach for cruelty. She did not understand it, and had not even as a small girl, when the passions of games and friendships ruled her head and, sometimes, her tongue. That Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed the unhappiness of others, that he cultivated their fear and wallowed in it with childish glee, repelled her as his appearance never could. She could not yet reconcile that part of his nature with the many ways in which he thrilled and charmed her. His boyish timidity around her, his wild eccentricities, his depth of sorrow and his generosity in their bed - she adored her new husband for all these things, and cared for him already. It had not been the effort that she had anticipated, to make space for him in her heart; he won her a little with every gift, every acceptance. But he could be cruel.

Collecting her cloak and basket, and checking her pocket for the small purse of coins, Belle stepped out into the sunlight. It was warmer than she could have imagined, and she carried her cloak folded inside the basket. She was glad that she had worn her boots, for where the sun had warmed the road, the track had turned muddy. Before she had gone very far from the castle, Belle's skirts were spattered from the muddy puddles and her boots were caked with dirt.

In places, steam rose where the snow at the roadside had turned to brown slush, and the air was humid beneath the overhanging trees. Most of the road to the town was like that, dark beneath the trees except where one had fallen in the storms, and then bright and almost unbearably hot.

Belle enjoyed the walk immensely, but felt thirsty and overheated before she reached the first of the outlying stone houses. She had not noticed a tavern, on market day, but supposed there would be one. She must have missed it in all the bustle, being so wrapped up in her own anxieties. Might she cheer herself up there, with a hot meal and a cool drink?

A boy of about twelve years was sweeping the step of the next house along the road. He gave her a friendly nod, as she approached the gate. Belle was about to remark on the small patch of well-tended winter vegetables behind the low wall, but an adult arm yanked the boy out of view before either of them could say a word.

Puzzled, Belle went on her way. She heard the town before she crested the final rise and saw it. She heard children playing, and adults talking, and cartwheels on cobbles and yet, before her own feet trod the cobblestones, the street was half deserted and there was not one child in view.

They _hid_ the children? Aghast, Belle stopped in her tracks and looked around her. Suddenly, against all her expectations, she felt unsafe and unwelcome in this place. Men and women continued about their business, but carefully, nodding to her with the same taut respect she had been shown on market day.

She thought of home, where the lively business of the town left no room for anyone to stand on ceremony. If her father or the councilmen wished to speak to a person, they had to walk up and tap them on the shoulder, to wait until their current business was concluded, and would be greeted with something nearer to the respect of equals than any frightened deference. Gaston had found that unnerving, to begin with, but even he had bent himself a little to meet the warmth of Belle's people. She doubted that anyone where Gaston came from snatched the children from their play, merely because someone from the castle set foot in the common street.

It was a feeling more lonely than any she had known at the castle, walking from the town gate to the crossroads. Surrounded by people, by a whole busy town, Belle was isolated as she had never been in her life. It stung her, and she knew that it ought not. Rumpelstiltskin was to be feared; this she had _always_ known, even if it became difficult to remember when he gazed at her with longing and wonder. She was Rumpelstiltskin's bride, and even she did not know how he might respond to any slight or harm that came to her among these people.

Weary, Belle rested against the pillar where she had rejoined her husband at the well, the other day, only to realise that if she stayed there, she might keep people from coming for their water, for fear of meeting her there. She looked around, desperate for an escape where there was none; she would not simply march back to the gates and back to the castle, allowing them all to see how their behaviour upset her. Suppose that Rumpelstiltskin had commanded them to behave thus, and threatened them with a dreadful penalty of the sort that awaited anyone who cheated him with their prices?

As she got her bearings, Belle made out a building far down the left-hand street where more people seemed to come and go than elsewhere. A tavern? Still thirsty, even if her distress had stifled her appetite, Belle walked purposefully towards the busy place. Large men stood aside for her like obedient schoolboys as she passed, and she took the time to smile at each one of them, thanking those who had, in any small way, inconvenienced themselves by paying their respects.

The place was, indeed, a tavern. It was far smaller than those she had known at home, the door only just high enough above the street to allow Belle to enter without ducking. The men who came and went seemed to have the knack of it, probably through long experience of banging their drunken heads on the thick oak lintel.

She had braced herself for the tavern to fall silent when she entered, but it was not quite as bad as when they had stopped at the vast coaching inn, on their wedding night. She attracted no curiosity, and while voices lowered all around her as she was noticed, conversation did not cease entirely. Wearing her bravest attempt at a smile, Belle wove her way among the cramped tables and stools, apologising humbly when her skirt or her basket brushed someone's back or arm.

A man and woman kept the bar, and resembled one another so strongly that Belle thought them twins. She managed not to stare, aware that everyone was quite nervous enough in her presence, and addressed the woman.

"A mug of ale, please?" Belle had done her best to sound friendly, to let her forced smile lift her voice, but she sounded as hopeless as she felt.

The woman, pudding-faced and obviously jolly under normal circumstances, elbowed her rigid companion, who took a pewter mug from above the bar and turned to one of several large, well-kept barrels behind him to fill it.

Belle proffered a gold coin, the smallest she had, feeling that if there was anywhere able to give her change of it, it would be a tavern. The woman nodded, taking it from her but with great care not to touch her person. After some rummaging in her apron pocket, she counted out a large number of silver and copper pieces onto the bar. As at the market, no price was named, so Belle nodded her thanks and put the new coins in her purse without glancing to see how much had been returned to her.

"My Lady?" A man spoke behind her, and Belle turned to see that the occupants of the nearest table had made way for her. As she nodded her thanks, the same man collected her mug from the bar and placed it carefully on the table. Belle sat, spreading out her skirts and reminding herself that, while it was acceptable for a lady to quench her thirst in a reputable tavern, she most certainly did not stand at the bar while she drank. She put her basket with her cloak on the bench beside her, and smiled again at the man who had called her attention to the courtesy. She dared not ask his name, in case he fled.

Although muted, the conversation appeared to return to something approaching normal, once Belle was pretending to be fully engrossed by her drink. Even the ale here was different to the sort she'd known at home; it was heavier, with more foam, and she liked it very much. She had found none in the castle, although there was a room given over to the storing of wine and spirits. She remembered the taste of something fiercely alcoholic in her parting kiss with Rumpelstiltskin, and on their wedding night, and guessed that it took something a good deal stronger than ale to give him the slight inner glow that she began to feel as she neared the bottom of the mug.

Sir Maurice, her father, would remind her that only fools looked for comfort in the bottom of a cup, but Belle could suddenly see the appeal of modest drunkenness, when her world had become so topsy-turvy. The beverage dulled the edge of her self-consciousness, and her smile of thanks was less awkward when she returned the empty cup to the fellow behind the bar.

"Sir," she said, with only a slight hesitation, "where might I find Mistress Wren?"

"Down the end of this street, my Lady," he said, willing enough to answer a direct question. He gestured with his arm as he spoke, directing her further down the street beyond the tavern. "The second of three cottages, right before the orchards."

"Thank you," Belle said, and kept from catching anyone's eye as she picked her way back through the tavern to the street door. One or two of the drinkers half rose as she passed, but at least nobody actually stood for her.

It was only a little way past midday, and Belle didn't want to return to the castle before the failing light forced her to. If the crooked and cackling Wren was the only person brave enough to begin a conversation with her, then she would seek the woman out and be glad of her company.

Belle had never had a great deal to do with the wise women, at home. Should anyone in the castle fall ill, no matter how humble their rank, a doctor would be summoned. It was only for a birthing that a wise woman was called, and Belle had only faint memories of the women who had attended her mother's ill-fated confinement, shortly before her death. She knew that such women were learned when it came to plants and herbs; not only the ones for medicine, but for food and for animal fodder. It was sometimes said that the wise women had magic, but Belle suspected that what they actually had was learning - word-of-mouth learning from generations of women who had found out what worked, and what did not, and passed the knowledge to their sisters and daughters.

She certainly had reason to appreciate Wren's skill with medicines, after her injury, and felt somewhat better about approaching the cottage, knowing that there was something she could say to justify her visit. But it seemed that she need not have worried. Wren was sitting on her doorstep, knitting something from heavy grey wool and watching an optimistic early bumblebee search her tiny vegetable garden for food.

"Ah, my Lady," Wren said, saluting her with both hands and the knitting. Belle could see what trouble it would have been for the old woman to rise in greeting, and hurried up the path to prevent her.

"Mistress Wren. I was getting lonely, back there in town," she said, setting down her basket at the foot of the steps and seating herself beside the old woman. "I remembered that you didn't mind talking to me."

"That's right." Wren had the sort of face that never truly changed, on a woman; fine boned and once beautiful, but now hidden by her stoop and by the sagging of ancient skin. She was tanned as a nutshell, almost as dark as the dark-skinned traders who sometimes brought exotic things to Belle's home town from across the sea, and she knitted the tough wool with fierce strength and nimble hands. "Don't mind them. They're only afraid he'll cuss them into pismires for looking at you wrong."

"Will he?" Belle folded her arms on her knees, and sighed. The ale had stilled her emotions, leaving her pleasantly weary and gratefully empty.

"I doubt it, not for talking to you, but the gods help anyone who harms or steals what's his." Wren was quite calm about it, showing neither approval nor disapproval towards her master. "Ain't never seen him do it, not here, cos nobody'd dare, but I've heard tell."

"But you don't fear him? Truly?" Belle had wondered, since their first meeting, whether Wren truly had no fear of Rumpelstiltskin or merely enjoyed having him think as much.

"What have I to fear at my age, child?" Wren cackled, her wheezing laugh, and coughed a little before she settled back to her knitting. "And he saved me as a babe, found me squalling a'tween my dead mama's legs and brought me here to be suckled, so I've always given him the benefit of the doubt, myself." She sniffed, finishing a row of knitting, and stuck her ivory needles into the ball of yarn. "How do you like your tea, then?"

With a long and creaking effort, Wren got herself to her feet. Belle would have helped her, had it not been for the woman's impatient wave when she tried.

"I like tea however it is," she said, uncertainly, as the performance progressed until Wren was as upright as it was possible for her to be. "Shall I make some?"

"I'm old, girl, not an imbecile," Wren said, amiably, and pushed open the door to her cottage. "The day I can't serve my own guest is the day they come and put me in a box."

Biting back an apology, Belle followed her into the cottage. Everything about it was small, and reminded Belle of the painted boat-homes she had sometimes seen on the rivers. A cast iron stove kept one room warm, which served as kitchen, parlour and bedroom. Bundles of herbs, dozens of them, hung drying from the low beams and all the way up the lopsided staircase, out of sight. As well as herbs, she saw mushrooms, onions, garlic and winter gourds hanging, and found herself so intrigued that she quite forgot to be polite. By the time she had looked her fill, and remembered her hostess, Wren was pouring boiling water into an enormous clay teapot.

"Come sit by the fire, girl." Unlike Rumpelstiltskin, Wren kept two chairs by the warm stove, one companionably facing the other. She waved Belle into the smaller of the two, the other being a rocking chair that looked every bit as old as its owner, with all manner of bags and pouches hanging from the arms and back. Into one of them, Wren stuck her knitting, before fetching Belle a heavy clay cup with her tea in, tinted with milk.

"Thank you." Belle would have accepted it with sincere gratitude had it been pond water, so relieved was she to be welcome. She smiled as Wren settled herself in the rocking chair, displaying great skill at keeping her tea from sloshing when the chair began to rock with her weight.

"So, are you frightened of him?" the old woman asked, once she was still. From where she sat, Belle could finally see her eyes properly. Her eyes were almost white, making her look blind, but it was obvious that she could see Belle well enough.

"Sometimes," Belle confessed, and then felt that she should not have said it. "I try not to be."

"That's the way," Wren nodded, blowing noisily onto her tea. "A girl with a head on top of her heart, that's what our master needs. Good for you."

"Need I be afraid of him?" Belle sensed, somehow, that Wren would tell her things, if she asked her questions directly.

"I'd say not, if you're true to him." Wren rocked herself, thoughtfully. It was awkward for her to sip at her tea, with her chin so near to her chest, and Belle tried to imagine how it would feel to be so old and stiff as she. "I'll say this, dearie, there's no man in these parts don't think twice and twice again before raising a hand to his wife, nor harming a child, nor about breaking a deal neither. That's his law, so I reckon he keeps it himself."

Belle nodded, and tried her tea while she thought about that. Some things too monstrous to allow, he'd said, and if Rumpelstiltskin wanted a thing stopped, then it would stop.

"Why do they hide away the children?" she asked, unhappily. "If he won't allow them to be harmed?"

"Ah, well." Wren rocked a while, and drank more of her tea, losing herself in thought for a long time before she answered. "He watches, that's all. Watches 'em play. Used to watch me when I was a girl, and I was a foundling so they'd fetch me in last of all." She laughed, at that, and a deep cough rocked both the old woman and her chair. She kept the teacup steady throughout the fit, and never stopped smiling. "Everyone knows he takes away babes in the night," she concluded, with a wink.

"That's terrible," Belle said, less fortunate with her own cup, which sloshed into her lap. "To teach the children to fear something that need not be feared."

"I didn't say he wasn't to be feared, my duckling. He's to be feared all right, by those with days left to lose. All magic should be, and he's steeped in it, our lord and master. All but drowned in it, I'd say."

"Oh." Belle had taken comfort from the old woman's words, and it had evaporated at that.

"Use you gently, does he?" Wren saw her naked astonishment at the question, and then her flushing cheeks, and there seemed no point in protesting by then. Belle looked at her cup, mortified. "Ah. That's proper, then. How old are you, girl?"

"... almost twenty," Belle said, meekly. She could not find the will to evade Wren's shocking directness, and still she preferred it to the wariness of the other townspeople.

"And him such an old man," Wren cackled, and subsided into a deeper fit of thin, watery coughing. Feeling helpless as she witnessed it, Belle gently took the teacup from the old woman's hands and refilled it from the pot. She crouched beside the rocking chair, and saw Wren's weariness as the fit passed and she took back the cup with a nod of thanks.

"Do you know how old he is, Mistress Wren?" Belle stayed, ready to steady the cup, but Wren drank with steady enough hands so she returned to her chair.

"Stories say he's older than the world, but I don't believe that," Wren said, thoughtfully, and began to rock the chair. "He's been master here a hundred years, and he ain't changed in all that time. He was legend then, when he came here. Hundreds of years on him, I reckon, and they all weigh on a soul like millstones after the first seventy, you mark my words." She nodded, soberly, all trace of her knowing smile gone. "A heavy life, his."

"I'll be a good wife to him, Mistress Wren," Belle said, solemnly. "I gave my word."

"It's just Wren, duckling," the old woman smiled. "So he named me, and old Wren needs her nap, now, cos the days get longer and heavier when you're old as well. You run along home to him, and visit me again the next time he's off about his dark and secret business." The knowing smile had returned, and Wren's eyes were growing heavy.

Belle gently took the cup from her hands and set it on the nearest table, and thanked her on her way out, even though she thought the woman was already asleep.

How had Wren known that Rumpelstiltskin had left the castle? Belle almost turned back to ask her, as she stooped to collect her basket, but her heart suddenly beat faster at the rest of it. Run along home to him, she'd said, and if Wren knew when Rumpelstiltskin was gone, perhaps she also had a way of knowing that he had returned?

Hurrying, kicking still more mud all over her skirts on the slippery road, Belle felt a little afraid. She had not thought that her husband might return to find her absent, and she was certain that he would know the difference between her disappearing into the far reaches of his castle, and being absent from it entirely. He had not forbidden her to leave, but nor had he given his blessing, and the stubborn anger that had carried her into town failed her on the return journey. What if Wren was right, and Rumpelstiltskin was waiting for her? Would he be angry?

The glorious winter day was fading, as Belle reached the castle gates. As they had opened easily at her touch to let her leave, so they opened again to readmit her, and she hurried at a half-run to the great doors. Her fear at the prospect of her husband's anger had given way to guilty remembrance of how he had behaved when she had refused the opportunity to run back to her father. It was not that he didn't trust her to stay, it was that he _expected_ that she would want to go, and, even upset as she had been by the letter and by his absence, the very least she might have done was to leave him a note stating her intentions.

Her fears played out when, leaving her basket and her muddied cloak in the hall but hurrying too much to remove her filthy boots, she went into the great room. It was brightly lit, and Rumpelstiltskin sat at the head of the table, his back to her. She could see, even from the doorway, that he held her father's letter in his left hand. At his right, on the table, his silver flask stood with the cap off.

Feeling like a naughty child about to be scolded, Belle went to stand beside his chair. Rumpelstiltskin's expression was unreadable, and he did not allow her to see his eyes.

"You thought that I had gone," she said, and it wasn't a question. She _knew_ it to be true, and neither his confirmation nor his denial would make her think otherwise. Rumpelstiltskin stared straight ahead. Belle wondered if the spirit flask stood empty. "I am your wife, Rumpelstiltskin," she said, and took the letter from his hand as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. He turned his face away from her, almost cringing, but his hand caught her wrist when she went to put the letter back on the table. It was a convulsive movement, and he seemed to have no idea of what to do next. It took him an age to work himself up to speaking.

"You... went into town."

"Yes."

"The letter." He seemed to be feeling his way towards a conclusion, baffled by the path he was taking. "It distressed you."

"I was lonely," Belle said, too quickly. "And then the letter made me homesick as well. I saw Wren," she added, in case he had any suspicions about what she might have been up to. "She gave me tea."

At that, Rumpelstiltskin nodded and let her go. His rigid shoulders sank a little, and he grasped the arms of his chair.

"And how is the old gutter sparrow?"

"She has a cough," Belle said, ignoring his attempt at a grudging sneer. He would not bother to ask after the old woman if he did not wish to know how she fared. "She speaks kindly of you." Grunting, Rumpelstiltskin turned his attention to his flask, replacing the stopper and slipping it into the upturn of one sleeve. "How was your journey?"

It was not the right question. Belle saw him scowl as he rose, and he stalked across the room to his spinning wheel.

"I am not fit company for you, at the moment," he said, standing with his hand upon the wheel and half glancing over his shoulder. "Leave me."

As frustrated as she was by the conversation, Belle was glad to do so, and went to her room, taking her father's letter with her. Rumpelstiltskin's brooding was too dark, and her own guilt made it seem all the worse. His business had gone badly, and he had returned home only to think her fled because of a letter. It was a poor start, if she was to be his comfort and his strength.

She would not be so careless again.


	20. Repent at Leisure

Hunger and thirst persuaded Belle to leave her room before retiring for the night. It would have suited her better to stay locked away from her husband's black mood, but she had eaten only a little breakfast, many hours ago, and hunger was making her own mood a worse one.

She had changed her dress and tried to bring some order to her clothing, keeping track of what would need to be washed and how soon. A search of the bed and floor had revealed only one of the hairpins that Rumpelstiltskin had discarded, along with one of her garters for which she could not find the match. Cheeks flaring, Belle recalled how he had untied them to remove her stockings while she wore nothing else; she thought back to how he had looked upon her nakedness, and called her lovely.

As much as she enjoyed his attentions, and as much as the carelessness seemed natural in the heat of the moment, she was going to have to be more careful with her belongings, she thought, as she placed the pin and the orphaned garter with their fellows in the wardrobe.

The memory of his affection eased her upset, a little, but it was still with reluctance that Belle made her way downstairs, and with trepidation that she opened the door to the great room where she had last seen Rumpelstiltskin. She would not have disturbed him, had she found him at his wheel, but the room was empty. Her muddy footprints still trailed to the table and back, and thoughts of how to remove the dirt kept her mind busy while she descended to the kitchen to eat. She contented herself with bread and butter, and a smear of the dark honey that had arrived as a gift. Her books had helped her little when it came to cookery, and she was too tired to attempt anything new tonight.

Belle sat for a while beside the kitchen fire, but could not settle herself. Rumpelstiltskin's behaviour upset her and, combined with the cool reception in town and her father's letter, she felt agitated. Angry. It hurt her, too, that her brief absence had pained her husband, and shamed her that she had not spared a thought for him before leaving. It was all too much, a great confusion of woes, and her own misery was giving her a pounding headache.

When the kitchen fire failed to comfort her, Belle made as if to return to her room but, as she reached her door, the sound of a clatter and a muffled shout from above startled her. She had heard Rumpelstiltskin make no loud noise whatsoever. He moved quietly, he spoke softly. Even his mad, unnerving giggle was a quiet sound. Concerned, she lifted her skirts and hurried towards the sound.

Rumpelstiltskin was in his turret, and still swearing until he heard Belle's footsteps on the staircase. At her approach he fell silent, and as she reached the top of the stairs she saw him standing nervously beside the window, several shining metal canisters clutched to his chest.

"Are you all right?" The concern that had carried her this far failed, upon seeing that he was unhurt. He had commanded her to leave him be, and she did not know how he would tolerate disobedience. "I heard..."

"A mishap," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot and staring at her too hard. After too long a moment, Rumpelstiltskin dragged his attention away from her and went to place the armful of canisters on a work bench. "There may be spiders," he muttered, his eyes briefly scanning the floor.

"Oh." Spiders held no terror for Belle, although it was a favourite tale of her father's that her poor mother had been terrified of the creatures. Her husband was clearly out of sorts, still, but not angered by her visit. She took a step towards him, but he held up his hand with a dramatic flourish.

"Don't step on them."

Belle looked down at her feet, lifting the hem of her skirts for a better look. She could see nothing but the long, unpolished floorboards of his turret, and the dust trapped between them.

"I can't see any spiders," she said, doubtfully.

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin scratched his head. "That's going to be a problem." And he laughed, that twittering, inhuman little laugh that seemed more a release of his nervous energy than an expression of humour, on this occasion. "Stay there," he said, soberly, and picked up a jar of pink powder. Taking a pinch, he threw it into the air between them and, when it slowly began to settle, Belle saw a shimmer over a multitude of tiny, moving bodies. There was nothing but a distortion in the air, but she could tell that they were moving in every direction away from the site of Rumpelstiltskin's accident.

"Can't you... magic them back in?" Belle gestured to the one canister that had no lid.

"They're delicate little things," Rumpelstiltskin said, turning to his left and throwing another pinch of the powder. "And costly," he added, sourly. There was less of the seething movement where the new pinch of dust came to rest. Belle could make out individual little shapes in their determined course of escape. Her husband trod lightly between them, and skirted the room to the stairs, and held out his hand for her to join him there. Belle stepped backwards, supposing that any spiders behind her would already have been crushed, and let Rumpelstiltskin guide her down the first two stairs.

Once there, a wall of blue light rose before her eyes, and Belle could see that it was a bubble, filling the entire room. It sparked and shimmered, beautiful as sunlight on a fast moving stream, and she stared at it with her mouth open until Rumpelstiltskin drew her away.

He stopped below the winding stairs, standing aside as though to let her pass. Belle stopped beside him, instead, and leaned her weight back against the wall. She resisted the urge to fold her arms in front of her.

"Are you going to send me away, again?" She managed to speak without reproach, but perhaps only because she was so weary, and had been so startled by the incident with the spiders. "Have I angered you so?"

Rumpelstiltskin turned his face away, trying to contain a pained expression.

"There are times when I am best left alone."

Shocked at herself, Belle found that she wanted to shake him by the shoulders, to raise her voice as though she might reach him better, that way, than with her customary patience and restraint.

"If you tell me what you expect of me," she said, her tone heated in spite of her attempt to tame it, "then you will find me an obedient wife. I cannot bear all this... guessing!" He stared at her, alarmed, and she could see that the whites of his eyes were lined with red, and that his lips were parched and cracked. That alone prevented her from saying more, in the heat of her frustration.

"I am unused to... to companionship," Rumpelstiltskin said, moving a few paces down the passage and keeping his back to her. "To these... distractions!"

"Distractions?" Belle wrenched herself away from the wall, her hands making fists at her sides. "Did you think a wife would be like your horrid puppets? Did you collect me like one of your prized possessions and expect to forget about me until I needed _dusting_?" She struggled with the unfamiliar anger, but outrage came naturally to her, and now it made her voice shrill and unladylike. "You didn't want my bed, or my skills, or my company. What did you want? Why _did_ you marry me?"

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes blazed with anger, when he turned sharply to face her, and his hands flexed at his sides as though he was tempted to grab her and shake her, as she had been tempted to do to him.

"Watch yourself, mistress," he warned, through clenched teeth. "When I say that I am best left alone, I mean it. Even your charms cannot tame a _beast_." Rumpelstiltskin struck at his own chest as he used the word, dripping bitterness. For the first time, Belle looked at him and saw ugliness. It was in his manner and in his sneer, and in the hateful way he narrowed his eyes to watch her. "Berate me when I am better company, for your own sake."

"You won't raise your hand to me." Belle lifted her chin, stubbornly, remembering what Wren had told her, and then how distressed her husband had been when she had been harmed by his spells.

"That's the thing, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, suddenly in front of her, wild-eyed and breathing a powerful gust of spirits and herbs in her face with every harsh word. "I wouldn't _need_ to."

Belle had shrunk back against the wall, buying herself a tiny bit of space, but she was unafraid. Shaken, disturbed, revolted by the realisation that he was quite drunk, but not afraid.

"Does it help, being so drunk that you drop your spiders?" She gestured to the stairs. "The only beast I can see here came out of a bottle, Rumpelstiltskin."

He tilted his head, less startled than when she had challenged him before. He narrowed his eyes, studying her as he had on their wedding night, when he had demanded truths from her.

"Have you no fear at all, girl?" Trying to hold his gaze, and her own defiance, Belle felt tears prickle her eyes. She looked away, turned her face from him as he so often did to her. After a moment, during which she heard them both breathing too fast, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his hand and drew his nails down her cheek, so lightly that it tickled. "Is there nothing from which I may protect you?" he asked, far more quietly. "Will you spare me nothing?"

"Spare you?" Belle shook her head, trying to look at him again but hating the rawness of his mood, and the frailty of her own. "I don't understand." How was she to be his strength and comfort if he shunned her when he reached his lowest ebb?

Rumpelstiltskin placed his hands beside her shoulders, leaning his weight upon the stone and bowing his head. Belle saw that his hair was lank, the curls lifeless instead of their usual, unnatural neatness. What had happened to him, in these past days? Was he ill, or was it only the drink?

"As I do not understand you, my Lady," he said, after a long silence. His anger had broken, his venom was spent, and he sounded so tired. "You offer your hand to a beast that bites. You remain when you are free to go. You sweep, you scrub floors, you embrace your ghastly fate with good cheer instead of weeping in your room. What am I to make of all that, wife?"

"Is that what you wanted?" Belle longed to comfort him, but kept her hands by her sides. He seemed more at ease, speaking thus with her trapped in place, and she would do nothing to break the moment. "A wife who would despise you and weep in her room? Should I mourn my fate, as Lotte did?"

A snort escaped Rumpelstiltskin, who pushed himself away from the wall and stood before her, head bowed and hands by his sides.

"She did go on, didn't she? Snotty Lotte," he added, with an attempt at his mocking lightness of tone, his nose wrinkling with distaste.

"You see, you'd hate it if I did that," Belle said, pleased with this small triumph of reason over his mood. "And so would I, and then we'd both be miserable." She tried to smile, to catch his eye. "What's the good of that?"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, but she could not tell whether he signalled agreement or merely defeat. Belle offered her hand, uncertain that it would be a welcome gesture, but what else could she do? Where was the use in quarrelling? It would not ease whatever ailed her husband, nor comfort Belle herself.

"I didn't expect any good to come of it, my dear," he replied, taking her hand with slow care and grasping it lightly. "None at all."

"Do you need to save your spiders?" Belle glanced up the stairs, to where the blue light flickered off the walls at the turn. "Or will you come to bed?" His hand tightened convulsively around hers, and Belle saw his indrawn breath. "Is it too bold, to ask you to warm my feet?" Belle brought her other hand over his, squeezing it between both of hers. Rumpelstiltskin stared at their hands, his expression blank.

"You have every right," he said, weakly. "To warm feet. The bubble will shrink overnight, and keep the spiders safe inside it."

Belle felt strange, hand in hand with her husband as they passed through the corridor and down the half-flight of stairs to her own room. She did feel as though she had been too bold, too rash, but she noticed that she felt no shyness, as she closed her bedroom door behind them. She still bled, and knew that he would not take her unless she permitted it. Wished it. She thought that it would be nice, simply to lie beside him, but she could pleasure him with her hand again, if he wanted it, and the notion gave her a pleasant shiver.

On her bed there was a book, one that she had not left there, and it lay upon the breast of a new silk nightgown that spread across the covers. This one was blue in colour, darker than the ribbon on the other, and laced with a ribbon of still darker blue.

Belle glanced at Rumpelstiltskin, who was making a show of examining the bed post.

"More gifts?" Belle picked up the book, turning it to read the spine. " _Of Hearth and Stove_ ," she read, and smiled broadly, opening it to see the first few pages.

"I am told that it contains much advice for the new wife," her husband said, plainly embarrassed. "About kitchen matters."

"Thank you," Belle said, again, and went to press a kiss to his cheek. Rumpelstiltskin inclined his head slightly to allow her to reach, and nodded. "Wait for me," she said, catching up the new nightgown. She put the book on top of her trunk, and saw Rumpelstiltskin sit upon the bed as she went into her bathing room.

She very much hoped that he would understand the message in her modesty. Her blood was slight, by now, but she did not wish to be touched. More than her sense that her bleeding was private, she had found herself without desire in the past days. The thrill at the thought of pleasing her husband in another way was one of discovery, not lust. The thought of lying beside him filled her with emotion, but none of the bodily sensations that had come so easily upon her before.

Changed into the new gown, Belle twirled, barefoot on the cold flagstones, and watched the hem flare and swirl. It was another wonderfully made garment, even more simple than the first because there was no lace at the cuff. The silk was lighter, cooler to wear, and felt delicious against her skin as she moved.

Rumpelstiltskin lay at the far side of the bed, facing the window, with the covers pulled up tightly to his ear. She watched him, while she finished her preparations for bed, slowly brushing her hair and braiding it to keep it from tangling. Was he pretending to be asleep?

Moving around the room, Belle blew out the candles and closed the curtains. She hesitated over the last candle, but reminded herself that there would be time enough to see her husband, now that he had conceded the issue. She blew out the flame and hurried to the bed, keen to share his warmth. When he did not move, she put her hand on his arm and kept a slight distance, waiting for a sign that he welcomed her touch. He was tense, and for a few moments unresponsive, but then turned himself onto his back and drew her against his side with great care.

"Do you like your gifts?" He pinched at the silk sleeve, when she had settled herself, her chilly feet beside his warm ones.

"Yes. You like silk very much, don't you?" Belle touched the front of his own gown, thoughtfully.

"More than I like most things," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, and settled a little as he spoke, exhaling gently as though releasing a great burden. "You haven't married a drunkard, my dear. Forgive me."

Belle smiled, moving her face a little nearer to his and prodding his foot with her toes.

"And you haven't married a scold," she said, and then frowned. "At least, I don't think you have." She felt more than heard his chuckle, and closed her eyes when he squeezed her against his side. Turning his head, Rumpelstiltskin kissed the top of hers. "You don't truly think that I'd run away, do you?" Belle pleaded, trusting to the tenderness of the moment to let her voice her unhappiness without repercussions. "I won't, you know."

"An obedient wife?" He gave her own words back to her, soured with doubt.

"A loyal one." Belle raised herself up on her elbow, to look down at what little she could see of him in the firelight. "Has no-one been loyal to you, before?"

Rumpelstiltskin's hand came to rest at the small of her back, and she saw him close his eyes.

"Yes. Once."

"Your wife?"

He swallowed, fingers curling against her body.

"No. Another."

Belle nodded, biting her lip to make sure that she didn't ask him more. His reluctance had been in each forced word, and she knew that there were things that a person might want to forget. How much loss and regret could someone accumulate in a life as long as Rumpelstiltskin's? A heavy life, Wren had said, and Belle knew that she had been right. She kissed his cheek, and burrowed a little further beneath the bed clothes, pillowing her head upon his chest. After a moment of hesitation, an inner struggle that she could _feel_ in his body, he began to stroke her hair.

"What will you do with the spiders, when you catch them?" Belle realised, too late, that she might not want to know. "Turn them into potions?"

"No, dearie. They're precious for their tiny webs. The luxury of their existence will rival that of any prince, and they will spin."

"Like you." Belle smiled, relieved. For all the stories she knew of Rumpelstiltskin, all the terrible deeds, and for all that she knew she would forgive him, as his wife, she did not want to know that he crushed harmless spiders in his mortar. "The Spinner."

"That's an old one," he said, his stroking hand settling into a rhythm, as if he brushed her hair. "Almost as old as I am. How did you hear it?"

"The name?" Belle tried to remember, frowning as she thought. The tales of Rumpelstiltskin were told to babes in arms, to naughty children, and in taverns and travelling shows across the lands. She felt that she had always known that they called him The Spinner. "I'm not sure. My nurse, perhaps. She liked the old tales, about how the world began and men came to be."

"I'm not quite that old," Rumpelstiltskin said, and Belle could hear his smile. He grasped her braid, sliding it through his closed fist until he came to the ribbon, then began to play with that instead. "What else do they say about me?"

"That you're a demon banished to our realm. That you're the most powerful man in the world. That your magic can do anything."

"Very nearly." His fingers slid the ribbon from the end of her hair, and he unwove the loose plait with slow care. Belle couldn't help picturing his hands as he toyed with his small trophies, as he wove the cat's cradle to keep from fidgeting. She liked to have her hair touched, so closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation, and on the rise and fall of her husband's chest as he breathed. He was not at ease, his breathing unsteady and his body all but humming with tension. "I'm not a demon. They have tails."

"I didn't think they were real."

"Oh, everything's real somewhere. Anything you can imagine, and a hundred thousand things you can't. That's the balance of things. That's why it all works." He spoke playfully, his free hand gesturing beneath the covers.

"Because of magic?" He had wound a thick lock of hair around his fingers, and allowed it to slither free. As Belle spoke, he began to gather up another.

"Who knows?"

Rumpelstiltskin seemed pleased with the direction of their conversation; Belle could feel that it soothed him, that his dreadful tightness was easing beside her, and that his game with her hair grew more lazy as he spoke.

"If you can't know, with all your magic, I suppose no-one can," she offered.

"Magic can't answer all the questions. We answer to it, not it to us."

"Even you?"

"Oh, yes." Another of his near-silent chuckles rocked her, gently. "It can be studied, collected, directed, but that's all. And to anyone using magic there is always a cost. The trick is... balance." Her hair slithered from his hand again, and Belle felt the last of her braid loosen itself as the hank fell. Rumpelstiltskin stroked it, from her crown to her shoulders, and Belle snuggled nearer to him.

"That's why you make deals," she said, her mind wrapping itself around the idea as he wrapped her hair around his fingers. It tried to slither away, just the same. "To balance the cost? To pass the debt to those who have need of your magic, so that you don't shoulder it yourself?"

He half-lifted his head, peering at her in the darkness.

"Clever girl." He sounded impressed, surprised, and Belle was pleased. She _was_ clever - she listened, she watched and she thought. If her husband could enjoy that, in her, then perhaps he might one day grow to love her? She felt him release his weight back to the pillows and the mattress, again, and his movements became less awkward. "Yes."

"And you're always repaid for your trouble."

"Always." For a moment, his voice became that sneer again, but Belle wondered if it wasn't mere habit. At ease, Rumpelstiltskin's voice was deeper and quieter still, and she liked to hear it.

"Why do you use magic for things that can be done without it, then?" Belle eased her feet nearer to his and, with some fidgeting, they conspired to sandwich their ankles together, her knee resting above his. "For the larder, and the candles, and the snow on the roads?"

"A man needs to have some fun," he quipped, too easily, but his hand went still against her head and he seemed to give her question some thought. "But perhaps I'm more magic than man, come to that."

"You seem man enough to me," Belle said, and then realised _what_ she had said, and how flirtatious she had sounded, and blushed furiously. Rumpelstiltskin only made a faint sound of amusement, but she suspected it was not without pride. He had been extremely pleased with himself for coaxing pleasure from her when they sat at the fireside, and again in the kitchen. Perhaps he liked to be reminded of his skill as a lover, as much as she enjoyed being told of her loveliness?

It would have been good to ask him more about his first wife, Belle thought, if only the subject did not pain him so. To what did he compare her, when he made assumptions about her wishes and fears? To a wife who had not shown him loyalty? Who had not welcomed him to her bed, either? It was no wonder that Rumpelstiltskin shrank from her clumsy affection, if that long-ago wife had shunned even her duty to stand beside him. Belle understood him a little better, for knowing that, and still... why _had_ he married again, if he expected his new wife to be no different? Had Belle done all that Rumpelstiltskin thought that she would - refused his embraces, kept to her room, wept for home and loathed him for his inhuman looks - then what would she _be_ to him, except a cruel reminder of another unhappy marriage?

He must have hoped for more from her than that. He _must_.

She only realised that he was no longer caressing her hair when his hand flopped to the pillow behind her. His breathing had become shallow, though still not peaceful, and Belle bit her lip. She would disturb him if she moved, but likely disturb him more if she was restless in her sleep, or got up in the night. Moving gently, she raised herself to press a soft kiss to his cheek, then eased her body away from his so that he could rest properly.

Rumpelstiltskin barely stirred.


	21. The Room

Belle was awake with the first of the sunrise, to find Rumpelstiltskin asleep beside her. He had turned face-down during the night, his head turned away from her and his hands buried somewhere beneath the pillows; it did not look as though he had passed a restful night.

Neither had Belle, whose nightmares had been repetitive and too vivid. Although it was early, she was glad to be awake and free of dreams. Glad, too, that her husband had slept beside her, and slept on so that she could watch him as the light grew.

His nightgown had bunched up about his shoulders and he had kicked the covers down to the level of his waist. She could see how slight he was, beneath the twisted white silk he wore; slight, but well-muscled. Only at the back of his neck could she see a hint of his skin, and only then where his hair had parted a little. His flesh had a greenish hue, next to the pure white of his nightgown. Belle reached out, cautious, and straightened his hair to cover the small patch of exposed flesh. The touch did not awaken him.

She must have rested beside him for an hour or more before she felt the least urge to move herself. Her dreams had disturbed her, but it soothed her to lie and listen to her husband's steady breathing. The days of isolation had affected her too much, it seemed; even dead to the world, Rumpelstiltskin was better company than her own.

When a visit to her bathroom became unavoidable, Belle slipped from the bed as carefully as she could, and stood watching him to see if she had disturbed him. There was no movement, no change to the shallow and steady rhythm of his breaths, and she was relieved.

It irritated her to find fresh, pale blood upon her cloth, and she only realised why as she placed it to soak in the basin she had taken from the kitchen for the purpose. She had hoped to be with her husband today, and hoped that he wanted to be with her. That was a strange feeling, divorced from bodily sensation; to want his touch for the sake of her comfort and not for her pleasure. Was that reasonable, or even rational? Belle had no idea, but her disappointment remained profound, regardless.

More than that, she did not want to disappoint Rumpelstiltskin. It was no longer any fear of failing as his wife, not when she had witnessed his response to her in daylight. Her body gave him pleasure and her willingness... she didn't know the words for what that brought him, but felt certain that it was entirely to his benefit when she gave it.

Freshened, and more awake from splashing cold water on her face, Belle crept back to the bedroom. Although she had left him sleeping soundly, she was not surprised to find Rumpelstiltskin upright in the bed, having made a bank of pillows behind him. He held the ribbon from her hair, and was drawing it slowly between his thumb and two fingers.

Grateful that he had stayed where he was, Belle went to his side at once, kneeling by his right elbow and watching him toy with the dark green ribbon.

"You tossed and turned," he said, as fascinated with the strip of silk as he was while he spun straw. "I hope my ill humour doesn't frighten you?"

Had she tossed and turned? Belle could barely grasp the memory of her nightmares, now. They had not been the sort in which she fought for air or tried to flee, but perhaps they had made her restless.

"No," she assured him, and then he reached his arm around her and welcomed her to his side, the ribbon dangling across her.

"That's good." He waited for Belle to get comfortable, then drew the bedclothes up to their chests. Belle smiled, her head on his shoulder, glad that he wanted to stay a while. "What disturbs your sleep, then?"

"Oh." Belle thought carefully before she spoke. "It was something Wren said to me, that's all," she said, as lightheartedly as she could. She was learning not to fear Rumpelstiltskin's wrath herself, but others feared it. She would never forgive herself if she brought it upon somebody else. "About how you found her."

"I see," he said, sourly, but it was as before; when he spoke of the old woman, he only pretended intolerance. "An unfortunate tale."

"And... well, I told you that my mother died in childbirth." Belle shook her head. The image that Wren had planted in her mind would not settle into the darkness with all her other memories. It had found out the memory of her mother, and joined with it, and her nightmares had been of blood.

"You need have no fear on that score," he said, patting her arm. He dropped the ribbon, in doing so, and caught it in the cupped palm of his other hand. "Wren's mother was but a child herself. Why she thought to call _my_ name with her last breath, I'll never know, but there I found her, and salvaged what I could."

"And brought Wren here. Eighty years ago." Belle shook her head, unable to fathom such a distance of time, except in terms of old battles and the lineage of kings.

"An uglier babe you never saw," Rumpelstiltskin sniffed. "But she blossomed, as babes do. And now she withers. I will make her a potion, and ask you to take it to her."

"Yes, for her cough." Belle felt relieved, when she had not known that she was worrying. "I will."

"She may accept a little magic from you." He sounded wistful, and tired, and had scrunched her ribbon up in his closed fist. "Tell her that the price will be her continued kindness to my wife."

"I will." Belle caught his hand, lifted it to her lips, and kissed it. "Everyone else is afraid to look me in the eye, or speak to me in case I'm offended, and you get angry."

"Yes."

"Do you _want_ them to fear you?"

"They'll not love me, dearie. They know what I am. But I don't tax them, I don't call their sons and daughters to arms in some pointless slaughter, and I don't claim my right to be the first with their virgin brides."

Belle gasped aloud and sat up, staring at him.

"No!"

"Those are the laws of this land," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, his expression quite calm, and drew the green ribbon between both his hands again. "I was not the monster who forged such a contract. They may fear me, and I may like it so, but they do not fear to go about their lives on my account."

"They hide their _children_ from you. From _me_. That's terrible!"

"I give them no cause, mistress," he said, too lightly, and Belle reached for his hand again. She ended up catching both, and her ribbon too, and squeezed firmly until he met her gaze.

"That's why it's terrible," she said, gently. "You won't punish anyone for speaking to me, will you?"

"Are we bargaining, or do you demand this as my wife?" For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin had his lopsided smile of melancholy humour. "Either way, I will not. You have my word."

"And your payment?" Belle stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, her smile quickly growing shy as he was startled into meeting her gaze. Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted, licking his dry lips, and Belle was delighted with the effect that her teasing had upon him.

"A kiss," he managed, after a long moment, and when Belle bent to give it, Rumpelstiltskin turned his head to receive it upon the cheek. Belle gave another, and another, each moving nearer to his lips. Could he resist her?

He could not, and met her fourth playful peck with his mouth, sighing deeply and pulling her to him, atop him. It was not a comfortable way to rest, but Belle had missed the kisses and kept still for as long as she could while they greeted one another. Rumpelstiltskin grasped her arms, slightly too firmly for comfort, and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut each time she sought to deepen their kisses.

A vestige of sense and modesty kept her from straddling his thighs and urging him to have all of her, there and then. He, too, seemed wary of things progressing too far, and although she felt that he might leave bruises where he gripped her, Belle liked to be kissed without a headlong rush for consummation.

She lost track of time, but broke from him when her own body began to sing with want, and saw him breathing hard and bright-eyed beneath her, his mouth slightly open. He licked his lips again, releasing her arms as if he had only just noticed how he held her.

"Payment indeed," he said, unsteadily. Belle smiled, but she felt sad that the moment had passed.

"I'm sorry that it wasn't more," she said, sitting back on her heels. His gaze took in her flushed face, the collar of her new gown, the swell of her bosoms and then he looked away, taking a deep and slow breath.

"Patience is among my few virtues," he said, with the tone of a man collecting his dignity about him after a stumble.

"I thought it was among mine," Belle said, feeling ashamed now for teasing him with no prospect of fulfilment. Did she dare offer to touch him again? His hands gave her pleasure enough, after all, and he seemed to think it only natural to touch her that way.

"You do... enjoy our bed, my dear?" He tried to look at her, and his struggle hurt her in the chest, as if something had squeezed out all the air.

"I do," she said, and touched his face, her palm against his cheek until he kissed it, closing his eyes. "Nobody ever told me that I would. It's been quite a shock."

"Yes?" He managed a wistful smile. Belle let her hand fall, touching his chest before she withdrew. Which of them had been more shocked by her enjoyment of him? She thought that she knew the answer, seeing that look on his face. How hateful it must have been for him to do his duty with an unwilling wife, when he valued a woman's pleasure. Or had he forgone that, with his first wife, as he would have forgone it with Belle had she shown disgust?

"Soon," she promised, and Rumpelstiltskin nodded, barely hiding a true smile from her.

Flustered, in a way that was unfamiliar to her, Belle left the bed and went to her wardrobe to choose her clothing for the day. Her work dress was dirty, as was the comfortable long gown that she had worn to town yesterday. Her betrothal gown was hardly suitable for sweeping or for experimenting in her kitchen, and her others, like that one, laced at the back. Biting her lip, glancing timidly over her shoulder when she heard her husband getting out of the bed, Belle caught a glimpse - just for a moment, before his magic clothed him in his customary high collar and a long robe of brocade - of his stiffened manhood poking at the silk night gown.

Mortified, her cheeks and ears suddenly hot, Belle occupied herself with the contents of her wardrobe. She could not ask him to help her dress, not if simply kissing had left him in that condition! She would have thought it uncomfortable, to say the least, but her husband seemed untroubled by the occurrence and had not noticed her glance. Belle, herself, was more concerned by her ignorance than by her unintentional effect upon him. She found that she liked to be wanted, that it satisfied a hitherto unrecognised need somewhere deep inside her, and her husband bore the proof of his desire. She wondered if her slippery wetness when he excited her pleased him as much.

"You brought all your clothing?" He startled her, speaking from close behind her.

"Not all," Belle said. "All that I had space for in the trunk."

"Perhaps you could write to your father," Rumpelstiltskin said, nervously touching her shoulder. "Ask him to send you whatever you need?"

"Oh, may I?" Belle couldn't help her reaction; she spun and threw her arms around his neck, leaving Rumpelstiltskin searching for a place to put his hands, and Belle quite aware of the hardness beneath his concealing coat. If she asked for her things, if she spoke of them each in turn, and of shared memories associated with them, then perhaps her father would be sure that she had penned the letter? And, besides that, she did need a better choice of dresses, if only to allow her to cut more of them short for housework.

Embarrassed by her outburst, she let him go, but could not stop smiling. The intensity of her reaction mildly alarmed her husband, who backed away with a wary smile and a flutter of his hands, nodding awkwardly to her as he turned to go.

Belle enjoyed a long bath before beginning her day. She had, guiltily, grown used to that particular magical convenience - hot water that rose in the copper bathtub at her touch, and vanished when she had finished with it. It was not so chilly as washing from a basin each morning, it left her a good deal cleaner, and it soothed the muscles that she had been giving such a rude awakening with her new chores. A bath had soothed her body after her last time with Rumpelstiltskin, as well, when her own eagerness had left her sore and aching inside. Belle didn't know whether or not her body would become accustomed to that, as it did to other things, but she knew that Rumpelstiltskin was afraid of hurting her. She doubted that he would be pleased to learn that she had hurt herself, seeking her pleasure.

Another search of the bed and bedclothes turned up her missing hairpin, which had fallen between the mattress and the carved wood. With no sign of her garter, she could only assume that her husband had added it to his collection of prizes. He had taken the old green hair ribbon with him, she noted, and smiled as she knelt to fetch another from her trunk. She could sew a new garter to match the orphaned one, but she had to wonder what Rumpelstiltskin could want with such a thing. Her ribbon for a bookmark, her satin cord for his fretful finger-puzzles; Belle could understand those things. What could anyone do with a garter but keep their stocking up?

Her grubby work dress won the day, with a shawl about her shoulders and crossed to tie behind her waist, in order to cover the worst of the dust and soot upon the bodice.

Belle gathered up everything else that was in need of laundering, and carried it down to the laundry room. She would soak everything, and then consult her new book to see what might be done with it all. The only things she knew how to wash were the bloodstained cloths, and that only because she had been shown how to wash a bandage. Salt and lye had been the secret to that. She doubted that her small bar of olive-soap would work, and it certainly wouldn't last to wash her muddy dress and all her petticoats.

Well, if her husband could bottle pleasure and capture invisible spiders in a bubble, surely he could find her lye soap? She would ask him, if the book he had given her offered no answers.

After a breakfast of eggs, Belle poured a single cup of tea and carried it up to Rumpelstiltskin's work room. She had expected that he would be busy with his spiders, but he stood at his spinning wheel instead, and had a distracted look about him as Belle entered.

"Some tea?" She felt like an intruder each time she visited the turret room, and her voice was apologetic. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, taking the cup when she brought it to him, and looking at it while he swirled the contents. Quite a lot of his tea had ended up in the saucer, but Belle knew he could conjure himself a lake of the stuff, if he wanted to. What mattered was that she had thought of him.

"I prefer the one with the chip," he said, thoughtfully tilting the white china this way and that.

"The one I broke?" Belle laughed, and Rumpelstiltskin smiled wanly. He meant it. "All right," she said, supposing that a man with scales upon his skin and the glower of a hawk must be entitled to a few oddities. She had kept the damaged cup, at the back of the cupboard where the set lived. Perhaps, like his other keepsakes, it reminded him of a tender moment with his wife. She liked that thought, and ducked her head to hide her smile.

"When you write to your father," Rumpelstiltskin said, carrying his cup to the window behind the wheel and gazing out at the lacklustre day, "do not speak of my magic, or my travels, or my past. My other restrictions were perhaps too severe."

"... thank you," Belle said, her voice faltering. To be able to write a proper letter, and to speak of her new home in words that would show her father that she was well... "Thank you."

"I have reasons for my caution, Belle. To cause you grief was never among them."

"I know." She went to him at the window, leaning against the wall. He had each of the turret's windows open, admitting a biting breeze, so she supposed that he had secured his costly spiders. The silvered canisters that she had seen last night were nowhere to be seen.

Facing the daylight, Rumpelstiltskin's pupils had narrowed to pinpoints, and the greyness of his flesh seemed to lighten to a more olive tone. Did it change, or was it only the light? Or was it only her eyes, trying to make sense of him and deceiving her in the process? The broken red veins had faded from the whites of his eyes, and his lips were less dry; at least his overindulgence had worn off, then.

Belle realised that she was staring at him, and that he was watching her in turn with his eyebrows raised in question and a hint of amusement. It was teasing and not mockery, and they smiled together, shyly.

She stayed until he had drunk his tea, then took the cup and saucer back with her to the kitchen. Naughty curiosity kept her mind busy, while she carried her broom and dustpan to the third floor, where the library was. Did a man stay hard, once it happened? She thought it would be horribly uncomfortable, if he did, and could not blame Rumpelstiltskin for his modest choice of clothing if that was, indeed, the case.

If he was uncomfortable, and if her presence made him more so, then he had shown no sign of it.

Too often, growing up, Belle had been told that she thought too much. From her father, they had been fond words; he tolerated her incessant questions, and told others that he was more proud of his Princess than he could be of any son. But Belle had always been careful that her questions were... proper. No opportunity had ever presented itself to discover exactly what a grown man kept in his trousers, and so Belle had puzzled over what she had seen of livestock, tomcats and dogs. She listened to married women gossip and giggle, and had learned... well, enough. Enough that she had known her husband would lie between her legs on her wedding night, and fill her up with that part of himself while he left his seed to grow, and that men often desired to do this thing with a pretty girl.

Had she thought any _less_ about things that a maiden ought not, Belle knew, then even Rumpelstiltskin's tenderness would have come as a cruel shock. Why shouldn't a girl know what was in store for her once she married?

Belle found herself sweeping the third floor corridor with unnecessary vigour, in her irritation. She had found that it was simplest to move all the dust to the top of the stairs, and then to kneel on the second stair and sweep it down into the dustpan with the smaller brush. Instead, her cross strokes with the broom had scattered the dirt down the first few steps. While she worked to collect it all into her dustpan, Belle wondered how many girls endured what they might enjoy, simply through their ignorance.

She had been lucky, in her own husband. Lucky that Rumpelstiltskin had been the one to bed her. Belle imagined how others would laugh to hear that, and then wondered what her father would think of her, if he knew how she felt. He had called Rumpelstiltskin a beast; he could not have been more disgusted had Belle offered herself to an ogre.

Would it disgust him more that Belle was not an unhappy bride? Her heart beat faster at the thought, and her mouth grew dry. She felt sick, weak and breathless, never having once considered, in her whole life, that her choices might sicken her beloved father.

Gods, but it was a dreadful thought. Beside the gaping fear of it, her homesickness shrank into nothing.

But Belle would not cry, not for herself and not for fear of what might not come to pass. She brushed down her knees, when the stairs were swept clean, and sniffed back her unhappiness.

A visit to the library might settle her, she thought, but there were other doors beyond that she had yet to try. All too aware that Rumpelstiltskin's castle possessed entire wings and buildings in which she had yet to set foot, Belle decided to explore this floor. It was near to her room, and to Rumpelstiltskin's own; the rooms might be as useful as the library or, if they were empty like so many below, she might look for ways to bring them back into use.

The far end of the passage was a window of stained glass, alternating coloured squares of ruby red, ink blue and emerald green. The glass was cloudy, blocking much of the daylight and distorting any view beyond recognition, but Belle liked it. It was not hidden away behind stiff, dusty drapes, like so many of the other windows. In the hope that the rest of the floor was better endowed with windows than was the library or the floor below, Belle started opening doors.

There were three, before the turn at the end of the passage, the first being the library. The second stood empty, but without the dusty sense of abandonment of the floor below. It contained a full length mirror, covered in a sheet, and had a large window behind faded old curtains.

Belle hesitated, in front of the mirror. She was growing used to never seeing her reflection, except distorted in bowls of water or the round of a silver spoon. It was the first mirror she had come across, although she had believed Rumpelstiltskin when he said there were some within the castle. His instructions to her had been few, and guarded, and one of them was that she must not uncover the mirrors.

Glancing down at her dusty and streaked dress, Belle sighed and left the room. Her appearance never seemed to meet with her husband's disapproval, whether it was her finery or her bare flesh, so what need had she of a looking glass?

The last door was locked, but an iron key was in the keyhole. She turned it and was startled when, like the other inhabited rooms, this one lit up with candle flame at her arrival.

Like her own suite, this room was well furnished with dark, heavy carved oak, and warmed with tapestries and carpets in deep reds. The bed was a narrow one, as her own had been at home, and like Rumpelstiltskin's it had fine sheepskins draped across the foot. Belle ran her fingers through the gorgeous fleece while she looked around her.

This room had two connecting doors, as did hers, and like her own they opened onto a sitting room and a bathing room. The sitting room was full of toys and amusements, from simple balls to an elaborately carved chess set of jade and glass; from toy animals to a wooden castle filled with intricately painted soldiers.

Next, she went to the wardrobe in the bedroom, and opened the drawers beneath it. The clothes there were, again, for a child - for a boy a few years from his maturity. The clothing hanging inside the wardrobe was the same. She found everything from shirts and knee-breeches to cotton nightshirts, all crisp and new, as well as simpler things that had plainly been worn - even torn and mended again, as Belle's clothing had often been in her youth. A few smaller, rougher garments were either for a different child, or had been outgrown and kept anyway.

Belle felt like an intruder upon the life of another, seeing those well-used things, and carefully shut the doors of the wardrobe. Rumpelstiltskin had not been a child here, he had told her so, but the belongings might be his. Perhaps he hoped to pass them to a son and heir? Or, perhaps, there had _been_ a son, with the wife who hadn't loved him?

The mystery and the sad stillness of the room had quite distracted her from her own anxieties, and she left it behind her with a thoughtful frown. She took special care to lock the door again behind her.


	22. Reunion

Before dark, Rumpelstiltskin summoned the coach to take Belle into town. She would have preferred to walk there, but rather than delay bringing the healing potion to Wren by waiting for morning, Belle allowed her husband to help her into the carriage.

"You could come with me," she pointed out, but he held up his hands with such a sickly smile that Belle thought it best to trust him and make the errand alone. Wren might accept from her what she would refuse from Rumpelstiltskin out of pure contrariness.

As she watched the trees whisk past the small window, Belle wondered if Rumpelstiltskin was simply unwilling to be seen doing a kindness.

The streets of the little town were empty, as darkness fell, while the windows of the old buildings glowed with the cheer of hearth and home. Belle heard snatches of laughter from the tavern, as she stepped down from the coach a short way from Wren's cottage, and gazed wistfully down the street for a moment before noticing that the driver was watching her.

"What's your name?" she asked him, craning her neck to see him, up on the box. 

There was no answer, no gesture of acknowledgement or dismissal, and Belle's flesh crawled. She smiled quickly, and hurried to Wren's door.

The windows of the downstairs room were dark, while upstairs glowed with candle and firelight. Belle knocked and waited, but she knew that Wren was stiff and frail, and would not have her clamber down the staircase only to have to go all the way back again, just for the sake of courtesy. She pushed open the door, and stepped inside, and called out to announce herself.

"Hello? It's me, Mistress Wren. Belle."

"I can see it's you, missy," the old woman called back, from above. There was laughter in her voice. "Who else comes in a fine coach to see old Wren?"

Taking that as a welcome, Belle shut the door behind her and climbed the stairs, ducking to avoid the hanging bundles of plants and roots. The scent of them grew stronger and stronger as she climbed, so she was not entirely surprised to walk, not into a bedroom, but a neat work room that reminded her of Rumpelstiltskin's turret of potions.

Wren sat on a three-legged stool beside a small hearth, her lap full of roots and a knife in her hand. She waved Belle closer with it, grinning to herself.

"What brings you after dark, girl?"

"Um." Thrown by the woman's lack of both surprise and reverence, Belle had to shake herself out of a fascinated silence. She knelt beside the stool, and looked up into the wrinkled face. "I brought this for your cough." She pulled the little glass flask from the pocket of her cloak, and offered it, uncertainly. Wren's grin returned as she took it. Belle saw that her hand shook, as she did so.

"Sends me magic, does he? He knows better than that, so I reckon that's why he's sent you with it. Am I right?"

"I think so," Belle admitted, smiling helplessly herself. It seemed so foolish that the mighty Rumpelstiltskin feared the scorn of an old woman. "But I was worried about your cough, and I think he made it as much for my sake as yours." Every sense Belle possessed told her that truth, and only truth, would ever influence this woman. "And his own."

"Ah, that's the meat of it," Wren agreed, nodding. Her smile faltered away, and Belle saw how shallowly she breathed, and how parched her thin lips were. "He can't save me from the mercy of the Reaper this time, duckling, but I'll drink his potion if it gives you peace." And, so saying, Wren pulled out the cork and drank the greenish muck from the vial, then smacked her lips in a parody of satisfaction, and grinned at Belle. "Tingly," she said, and Belle broke down laughing at her feet, until she was the one gasping for breath.

Wren only chuckled, and watched her kindly, and brushed the tears from her cheeks when she straightened. It hadn't all been laughter, that outburst, and Belle trembled and felt foolish, but somehow the better for it.

"What's his price, then?" Wren asked, when Belle stopped sniffing. "If it's my firstborn, he's off somewhere in the lands where they've deserts, last I heard."

"Y-your continued kindness," Belle managed, unsteadily. "To his wife."

Wren barked a laugh, and it did not make her cough even a little. She put a hand to her chest, looking impressed and rather surprised.

"Oh, contracts me not to die, does he?" She patted her chest and then took up her knife again, as Belle thought about what she meant. _Had_ that been Rumpelstiltskin's meaning? "You tell him I'll try, girl, and thank him for his kindness. Seems a good potion."

"You don't approve of magic?" Belle sat back on her heels, drying her face on her sleeves. Wren seemed not to judge her for her foolishness, and she was grateful.

"I don't trust it," Wren shrugged. Already, her voice was stronger and her breathing deeper. "But at my age, I don't suppose a little can do much harm. Nothing can."

"I'm glad," Belle said, bowing her head because gazing up at the old woman was starting to hurt her neck.

"What about you then?" Wren went back to peeling her lap full of knobbly brown roots, dropping the peelings neatly into a pot to her right, and the cleaned roots into one at her left. "You're getting skinnier every time I see you. Don't he feed you?"

"Oh." Belle made a face, embarrassed. "I scolded him for using magic to give me meals, so he doesn't," she admitted, "and I'm no cook."

In truth, she had not gone hungry; she had eaten all that she wanted, whenever she remembered, but if she thought back over the days since her wedding then Wren was quite right. She had not been eating enough, by far. She had not seen her reflection properly since she dressed for her wedding, so had to trust the old woman's observation. It would not do to make herself unwell through self-neglect.

"Take one of my cookery books, then." Wren nodded, encouragingly, as Belle looked up at her in surprise. "And the best of luck to you. Try porridge, nobody ever starved if they could boil a pot of oats and water."

"Good idea," Belle said, sheepishly. She had not thought of trying that, and it sounded so simple and sensible, now that someone had suggested it. "Thank you, Mistre--"

"Wren, little 'un. Just Wren." The old woman's smile was gentler, now that she was more comfortable in her breathing, and her eyes seemed less sunken. "He called me so because I was a tiny thing and full of fight. Didn't know my own size." She cackled, but it was a less alarming sound without her watery cough following on behind. "He should know the power of names, that one. Wren never tolerated no bother from no-one, especially him."

And Wren never said her master's name, Belle noted, feeling strangely comfortable there at the old woman's feet. It felt as if she might learn everything about everything, if she only listened long enough.

"Wren..." She felt small and childlike, asking questions of the woman, but Wren only waited for her to speak, calmly dealing with her roots. "How did you know that my husband was home from his journey, the last time I was here?"

"There's a change in the air when he's gone," Wren said, a little darkly. "A lightness, without the weight of him there. Like a change in the weather, maybe. Like knowing when thunder's gone away." She pursed her lips a moment, her hands falling still in her lap. "That's how powerful he is - enough to colour the world about him, enough for others to take note of it. Take my advice and never forget it."

"I won't," Belle said, quickly, but guilt stabbed at her. She did forget it, every time Rumpelstiltskin was kind to her, or gentle with her, or made her smile. She _did_ forget it, when sadness made him seem so small.

"You've questions, duckling," Wren said, matter-of-factly. "Confusions. I can see 'em in your eyes." Unable to stop herself in time, Belle looked away, and stared into the small fire. "That's all right by me, girl. You ask them in your own time. But maybe don't take so long that I'm buried first."

Belle wished that Wren wouldn't speak of her death so calmly. But... why? If a person had lived for eighty years, and knew that their body failed them, and there was pain, and the life had been a good one and well-lived, would death seem such a terrible thing? Less terrible to Wren, perhaps, than to those she was preparing to leave behind her. She sighed, and forced her mind to work.

"I do have questions," she said, firmly and deliberately. She had many, many questions, but she had yet to find the words for most of them, or to know which of them she ought to be answering for herself. "But, today, most of them are about how to wash my own clothes."

Wren barked her loud, startling laugh again, and once more seemed surprised that it didn't leave her coughing. She picked up the empty potion bottle from her lap, and looked at it thoughtfully. The green stuff had left no residue upon the glass.

"Let's begin with that, then," she said, gently, and Belle smiled.

~+~

The ride home gave Belle time to dwell on her conversation with Wren. She had made no further effort to speak to the driver, having emerged from Wren's cottage to find the carriage and horses facing back the way they had come, but there seemed to be no need to convey instructions. As soon as she seated herself, they sped for Rumpelstiltskin's castle.

In her lap, she had both the cookery book that Wren had offered, and a brown paper package containing laundry soap. These simple things filled Belle with a renewed sense of optimism. She _would_ learn to cook, and she _would_ learn to care for her clothing properly without the help of maids and laundresses. Eventually, she might even master how to be a good wife to a man such as Rumpelstiltskin.

She found herself breathless with hope and anticipation as, having started a pot of porridge beside the fire, she slipped into the laundry room to pull up her skirts and make a furtive check of her cloth. Finding not a trace of blood, she almost laughed aloud, and then felt embarrassed about that, as she placed the last cloth to soak with the others. Her glee at the prospect of enjoying her husband's embrace was unseemly, even if she was getting used to the idea that actually enjoying her husband was not.

Anticipating his touch felt quite wonderful, a warm sort of glow, and Belle tried to enjoy it as she sat down to a bowl of thick porridge covered with cream and sugar. As much as she felt that she signalled her lustfulness to the entire world, she knew that it was a private matter; that no-one but Rumpelstiltskin knew of her startling appetite, just as none but Belle knew of his shyness and tenderness. It was theirs, belonging entirely to their marriage, and she wanted to enjoy it to the full.

All the same, Belle felt shy about going to find him with such blatant hopes in her heart. She ladled out a second bowl of the porridge, and placed it on a silver tray along with a cup of tea. She could take it to him, and tell him how Wren fared, and not feel that she was such a... wanton. Yes, she feared that the word he had teased her with was becoming all too accurate, when she craved his embrace enough to seek him out with an excuse already prepared.

Rumpelstiltskin had returned to his spinning wheel in the great room, by the time she went in search of him. He smiled when she entered, setting aside his work and joining her at the table, where she set the porridge and tea at his solitary place.

"You cooked?" He peered into the bowl with exaggerated suspicion, taking up the spoon. "Thank you, my dear. But porridge?"

"Wren said that I was getting too thin while I try to learn how to cook," Belle said, dragging the other chair from the fireside so that she could sit beside him. "I've had mine, it's perfectly edible."

"You've only to tell me when you would like your meals," he said, unhappily, as if the failure to pay attention to her diet were somehow his fault and not her own. "There's no need for all this."

"I would like my meals with you," Belle said, arranging herself on the armrest of the chair, and only then knew it to be true. Rumpelstiltskin paused, a cautious half-spoon of porridge and cream on the way to his lips, and looked at her as though she had asked to dine with the coach horses. "At least once a day," she said, firmly, nodding with satisfaction. "Breakfast, if you like my porridge, or tea, if you'd rather be safe with bread and jam."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, round eyed, and gave his attention hastily to his food.

"... as you wish." He tasted the spoonful, meekly, and looked relieved to discover that she had done nothing intolerable to it. "Very nice," he said, noticing her expectant expression.

Belle knew that he was unused to anyone choosing his company when there was an alternative. That saddened her, for his sake, but it also reminded her of Wren's warning not to forget what Rumpelstiltskin was. How easy it would be to let him care for her with magic, to feed and clothe her and even magnify her pleasure with potions, until she became thoughtless about the small things, and forgot how the world beyond the castle walls was meant to work.

"Wren drank your potion," she said, when he had eaten enough that she could see he was losing interest. It baffled her how someone with so much energy could have so little appetite. "It seemed to help her." Rumpelstiltskin's surprise was obvious, but he blinked it away quickly and gave a sober nod, pushing away the half-finished bowl so that he could bring his teacup in front of him. Belle had used the damaged one, as he had asked, but he seemed not to notice. "She, um, thanks you for the potion," Belle tried, missing the relative ease of speaking with him while he held her against him, in bed. She supposed that any husband would appear less forbidding in his nightgown, and then considered that there, perhaps, pressed warmly against him in her own thin night things, she frightened him a little less also.

"I cannot save her from old age," Rumpelstiltskin said, frowning at his tea before he sipped. "Understand that."

"I do," Belle promised. "And so does Wren. She's... ready, I think." She felt sorrowful, speaking of it, but it was only the truth. "She doesn't fear death." She leaned across the corner of the table and put her hand on Rumpelstiltskin's arm. "She doesn't even fear my husband."

He caught her smile, and some echo of it brightened his eyes. Would he miss Wren? Belle lowered herself into the seat of the chair and tried to imagine being old enough to outlive everyone she ever met, and to do so by entire lifetimes. It was dreadful, and filled her with such sadness for her husband that, seeing her expression, Rumpelstiltskin immediately thought that something was wrong.

"What is it?" he asked, although without his usual uncertainty. Even he did not think it possible to offend her by sipping quietly at his tea. "If the stubborn old baggage upset you--"

"No," Belle said, quickly. Too quickly, and then she remembered his promise, and calmed herself. He would harm no-one for merely speaking to her. "I think I shall miss her, that's all. I think you will, no matter what you say about her. How could you not, if you've known her for so long?"

"Hmm." He hunched over his cup and gave no answer. Yes, he would miss Wren, Belle knew it, and hoped that she would be of some comfort, when the time came. But the potion had helped, no doubt of that. Perhaps they would not have to face the loss so very soon.

"I'll go to my room," Belle said, using the table to help herself rise from the chair. "I have a new book to read." She waited until he glanced up and saw her teasing smile. "I'm told that it contains much advice on kitchen matters."

"The more the better, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, but it barely even rated as an attempt at cruelty. "Shall I see you later?" He asked it as she stepped level with his shoulder, leaving Belle unable to see his expression as he spoke.

"Yes," she said, unwilling to chance anything that he might perceive as teasing for his uncertainty. "All's right with the world, again," she added, remembering Lotte's cheerful phrase for each release from blood and rags. She smiled to herself, hearing Lotte's voice so clearly in her mind.

Belle kissed Rumpelstiltskin on the cheek before leaving him, and this time he pressed towards her rather than flinching away.

Once washed and changed, Belle left her bedroom door standing open and, pulling one candelabra close enough that she would be able to read, took her new book to bed with her. _Of Hearth and Stove_ promised to be instructive, although it appeared to be written as a series of fictional conversations between mother and daughter. When it came to housework and cookery, Belle would much have preferred simple instructions.

Normally, any book would be enough to keep her absorbed, allowing her to forget her own thoughts entirely, but Belle was unable to concentrate properly on the first pages. Unbidden, she found herself thinking again of her father, or of Wren, or of her husband's reticence, or of that sad, empty child's room near the library. Furthermore, when the thoughts did come, she was unable to battle them into any constructive sense or order. They were no more than worries and distractions, leaving her irritated with herself for being so hopeless. She could write to her father, see that Wren was cared for, and prove herself to her husband with patience, affection and time.

She had managed to read the first of the 'conversations' before she heard Rumpelstiltskin's footfalls on the stairs. Although she had taken her time with the pages, being so distracted, she had not been in bed for very long, and felt warm at the thought that he might be as eager to resume their discovery as she. Of course, she told herself firmly, if he was simply on his way to make potions in his turret, that was all right. She would be patient, and would welcome him whenever he chose to visit her. All the same, she knew that she would feel a guilty disappointment if he passed her door rather than join her, and held her breath as his steps brought him level with her room.

"May I come in?" His voice was playful, as was the pose he struck as he stood in her doorway.

Belle giggled. She was not given to doing so, in general, but she enjoyed Rumpelstiltskin's showy pantomimes, when they were friendly, and laughter seemed to come more easily to her since she had broken down at Wren's knee. Something had been freed inside her, simply by knowing that there was someone to whom she could turn when everything became too much.

"I think you should," Belle told him. "My feet are very cold."

With a quiet 'mmm' of approval, Rumpelstiltskin approached the bed and sat, turning her book to examine the cover. He had left his robe and waistcoat somewhere, and wore only a rich blue shirt tucked into the high belt of his breeches.

"Are you enjoying your book?" He was running one fingertip across the cover, from side to side, and watching it move.

"It's a bit like being lectured by my governess," Belle admitted. "Very stern about the responsibilities and habits of a good wife." She tried to keep her face serious as she said, it, but was unable. "Apparently, I'm to insist that you allow me an iron stove for cooking, and at least one maid."

Rumpelstiltskin made a face, and pushed the book out of reach towards the foot of the bed.

"A stove you shall have, my dear, but magic is your only servant, here."

Belle didn't know what to make of him, she truly didn't. She would not really have asked him for a stove, yet he would see that she had one; she knew that he would. Without comprehending why it mattered to her that she learn to cook and care for the castle, he would provide everything that she needed. _Any gift_ , she thought. _I could ask him for anything and he would give it_.

But at what price did a wife make that bargain? Belle took his hand and lifted it to her cheek, pressing her face against his warmth and feeling his fingertips curl behind her ear, catching her hair with his nails. His hand trembled a little, and he was hesitant and watchful as he came nearer to kiss her - the lightest touch of his lips upon hers, like their wedding night when he had feared she would turn away in disgust.

Tonight, it was all that Belle could do to keep herself from throwing herself at him, bodily. The soft, shallow kisses were a torment, and even when Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes and tasted her more deeply, Belle felt ruled more by her own greed than by the pleasure of the moment. It wasn't the bodily urgency that had so disturbed her when she first felt it, although her loins felt heated and eager for him. Her wanting was in her heart, and the satisfaction she craved was in that companionable closeness with him that came only when he surrendered to his desires. She realised that she had missed her husband dreadfully, these past days, even in those moments when he had been beside her.

Instead of joining her in bed, Rumpelstiltskin drew her out from beneath the sheets and into his lap, astride him, settling her so near that her privates were against his leather without even the barrier of her nightgown. The sensation left her hazy, swaying with her arms locked loosely behind his neck, while he held her there and lowered his head, finding her left breast and suckling the nipple through her silk. He balanced them there, at the very edge of the bed, his hands flat against her back; she knew that she would not fall, not even if she thrashed and rocked herself there in his lap, nor if his enjoyment of her bosom brought him to distraction. Her husband was immovable, when he chose to be, and strength that might have terrified her served their pleasure, here, instead.

It seemed a wrench for Rumpelstiltskin to stop what he was doing, and straighten enough to kiss her mouth again. Belle buried one hand in his hair, offering herself enthusiastically, and he hitched her tighter against him; so close that she could wrap her legs behind him, and feel him hardening inside his breeches. Was that pleasant for him? She had imagined that it must be the same as her own frustration, before she had learned how to be sated. Was the heat of her, pressed against him through the leather, an enjoyable thing?

For Belle, it was a hot, present promise of what was to come, and she tried not to indulge herself in rubbing against him, but to enjoy the way his tongue dipped into her mouth instead, and how he shivered when she did the same to him.

"Oh, Belle," he whispered, clutching her against him and burying his face in her hair, "I must have you, may I have you?"

She gasped, both at being squeezed so tightly and at his confession, his plea. His consistent patience had given her a sense of safety in his embrace, but his raw passion thrilled her and she was not afraid. She nodded, urgently, and kissed him as he lifted her to lay her upon the bedclothes. That Rumpelstiltskin took the time to position her with her head upon the pillows surprised her, for a moment later he was covering her, pushing himself between her legs faster than she could open them to welcome him.

For a moment, while he propped himself above her and fumbled with his belt, Belle was a little afraid. Not that he would hurt her, but at the lack of joy in his twisted expression of almost-pain as he struggled with his clothing.

When magic might have served him best, he'd forgotten it entirely, using his hand to expose himself and then fumbling as - even then, even like that, even as his entire body shook with want - he dipped his fingertips inside her to spread her moisture, to protect her. A moment later, he pushed himself inside her with a moan of need and relief, and Belle's breath caught at the sudden change of sensation. No pain, but she felt tighter than she had since the first time, and for a moment she feared that her body would battle him when she wanted only to welcome him, to satisfy his urgency. But, no, the clenching spasms in her were expressions of her own want; her body grasping for her husband, encouraging his hasty, shallow thrusts.

As she found herself able to breathe again, albeit in short gasps between his thrusts, Belle locked her ankles behind his thighs and buried her hands in his hair, her palms cupping his temples. How wonderful it was to be desired so; enough to undo even the great Rumpelstiltskin; enough to make him moan as he enjoyed her, and clumsy in his thrusts, as though he could scarcely keep pace with his own lust.

Belle could not find her own release, in that hasty embrace, but there was pleasure enough - a delicate, dancing, almost stinging thread of fire through the deeper, dull heat of wanting. And the revelation of seeing her husband's tender calm shattered by his need would have been enough for her, had there been nothing more to relish about being taken so; simply to have Rumpelstiltskin speak her name, in his urgency, had been a gift.

He finished with a cry that was almost a sob, his arms weakening so that Belle had all of his weight upon her before he was still. Inflamed as her own passions had been by the teasing, she wanted nothing more than to cling to him, for those long moments while he caught his breath and clutched at her, overwrought with emotion. She stroked his hair, and kissed his temple, and felt him press his cheek closer against hers in shaken gratitude. It was enough; the soft and tender moment after the frenzy. Belle relished it with an entirely different kind of greed.

Rumpelstiltskin was not a large man, but still a good deal heavier than she. Belle had to push him away before she wanted to, in order to take a full breath. She had expected him to roll and lie beside her, as he always had, but instead he sat back upon his heels, between her knees, and stared at the tangle of blue silk around her midriff as though appalled at what he had done. Looking down at herself, Belle almost expected to see blood again, but there was only the twisted and crumpled fabric, and the wide, wet patch where he'd suckled on her, and the sticky thatch of her hair below that. Her thighs glistened with the proof of her acceptance and desire.

"Husband," she said - tried to say, rather, but her panting had left her throat dry, so it came as a whisper. She offered him her hands, but instead of returning to her embrace, Rumpelstiltskin drew her up to sitting, his head still bowed. "You won't break me, Rumpelstiltskin," she said, croaking with dryness and emotion. "Truly, you won't."

Belle felt dishevelled, shivery and both hot and cold. Tired, as well, as though she had shared in all of his storm of feeling. She held his face between her hands, and kissed him when he lifted his head at last. There was a sticky indignity to the moment, with her displaying all her wares, and with Rumpelstiltskin barely covered by his untucked shirt over the scrunched up leather about his thighs. It was private, and theirs, and Belle wanted nothing more than to banish doubt from this place between them, forever.

They could begin with a kiss.


	23. Hunger

Kisses became caresses, side by side with Rumpelstiltskin atop the bedclothes. Belle would have been content with that, with having reassured her husband that she was no frail blossom, but _he_ was not; he slipped his hand between her legs and sought her pleasure with almost as much urgency as he had sought his own.

It came quickly to her, with his two fingers inside her and his palm against the tender mound; she had been ready since he took her, and their prolonged kissing had heightened her readiness so that when the touch came, the waves broke almost at once. Belle stiffened all over and twitched, biting her own lip until it hurt, and didn't cry out. It had been a sharper sensation than before, and somehow less satisfying for all the shuddering thrill of it. It only left her hungry for more of him, throbbing inside, and soaked with perspiration.

"No need to be so silent, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin crooned, his mouth against hers. "There's no-one to hear you but me." He dabbed at her with the tip of his tongue, and Belle realised that she had bitten herself to the point of bleeding. It was tender where he touched, and in her state of heightened senses, even the little sting of it felt good.

"You try to be quiet," Belle said, reasonably. She wanted to wrap herself around him, now, and his state of semi-undress made that awkward. His boots were flattering on him, but uncomfortable to lie beside. "I thought I should, too."

"Oh." Frowning, Rumpelstiltskin propped his head on his arm. "Do I?"

"Yes." Belle was even more thirsty than she had been before, and for all that she wanted to continue what they were doing, she knew that she would be distracted if she did not drink something. "Can your magic bring me some tea?"

"Magical tea?" He smiled, showing teeth. "I thought you disapproved."

"As long as it's real tea. And real water. In a real pot. _Fetched_ by magic."

"With real milk that came from a real cow," he said, hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. As he placed it there, Belle heard a clink of porcelain and the tea tray had appeared in the middle of the bed, behind Rumpelstiltskin's head. "I told you," he added, sitting up at the edge of the bed, while Belle crawled inelegantly over to sit cross-legged beside the tray, "magic is your servant, here."

She glanced at him as she poured herself a cup of the black tea, and saw that he had exchanged his dishevelled breeches and shirt for a nightgown of the deepest black.

"Do you want some tea?"

Wordlessly, Rumpelstiltskin reached for the chipped teacup and held it steady while she poured for him. If he thought it odd that she'd asked for refreshments in the middle of their business, he gave no sign of it. Belle felt more collected, sipping her tea, as though she had given her scattered thoughts time to catch up with events.

Rumpelstiltskin drank his tea quickly, untroubled by the scalding heat of it, and then Belle watched him move around the room, pinching out the candle flames one by one. He left one flame burning in the candelabra that she has placed near to the bed, then waited in the bed for her, patiently building the slope of pillows that he seemed to prefer to lying flat.

As soon as Belle placed her cup back on the tray, the whole thing vanished again. Magic confused her eyes, and thinking about it tended to hurt her head. She would need to try harder to understand it, she knew, but not tonight. Not with her husband waiting for her to join him, and the promise of more than they had already shared. Rumpelstiltskin was ready for her, arm outstretched, when Belle got in beside him. She made herself comfortable with her head resting on his upper arm, so that she could see more of him than when she used his chest as a pillow. Her choice earned her one of his hesitant smiles.

"You look at me," he said, the mildest of complaints.

"May I not look at you?" Belle plucked at the twisted gold cord that laced his dark gown, drawing it loose at his throat. "You said I must do what pleases me," she added, when Rumpelstiltskin grimaced. "It pleases me to look at my husband."

Her effort had won her a mere couple of inches of exposed flesh beneath his collarbone; less than the open collars of his shirts showed her every single day, and less than she had been able to see as he took her, wearing the blue shirt. Yet she had made him uneasy, and that saddened her. She had spoken truthfully; she _did_ like to look at him, and to watch his ever-changing eyes.

She would have liked to explore his skin, to see if it pleased him as much as when he did the same to her. He liked to be touched through his nightgowns, and seemed well enough pleased when her palms found bare skin at his neck or face. She would have welcomed the warmth of skin against skin all over, knowing how she liked it when their ankles and knees wound together, and where his bare thighs and belly pressed against hers while they coupled; she enjoyed the heat of him, the firmness of him, and knew that he enjoyed her softness and her smoothness, and to gaze upon her naked. Why did he deny them that final closeness?

"Are you hideous beneath your clothing?" Belle moved to seat herself upon his thighs, her heels tucked beneath her buttocks. "Or do you just think that you are? Is that why you cover all the mirrors?" She caught his hands, as he reached for her breasts, and held him just shy of touching her. "Tell me truthfully, and these shall be yours," she added, smiling at her own game, and at the perplexity knitting his brows together.

"I must bargain for your favour, now?" He smiled, but strangely. "Can a man not be modest?"

"Not when he debauches his wife in the kitchen, and likes to see her without her clothes on," Belle said, enjoying the gentle game of resisting his hands as he tried to reach her bosoms. "I don't think that he can, no."

"And if I am hideous?" Rumpelstiltskin, too, seemed to be warming to the playful tug of war. He could have dodged her in a moment, Belle knew, but he allowed her to keep him at bay. "Deformed, unnatural, scarred, rotten?"

Tilting her head to one side, Belle laced her fingers through his and thought about it.

"I'd get used to it." She thought of his teeth, which truly were hideous even when his smiles were otherwise sweet; she thought how she had shuddered, at first, at the thought of touching his skin. She had been so sure that it would be cold, and he had been so warm. "Besides, I don't really know what any man looks like," she added, and blushed to hear herself say it. "I might not even notice."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, at that; his deep, quiet laughter that Belle could feel more than she could hear. He stopped pushing at her hands, dropping his arms instead and reaching around her to coax her higher up his thighs. She went willingly, and only gasped a little when the movement brushed her little bud against the swell of him. He wasn't hard, not now, but the mere knowledge of the thing was enough to excite her; to brush against it, even without meaning to, even through their gowns, felt terribly wicked. He had meant for it to happen, she could see from his grin. He was trying to distract her from her question!

In a spirit of revenge, Belle went back to unlacing his gown. The neck was not as generously cut as her own but, with it open, she would be able to touch at least his chest. Rumpelstiltskin did not prevent her, but his growing tension warned her that she must not take this game too far. It was not the same, teasing excitement for him as she had felt when he first undressed her; it was only acquiescence, on his part. Nevertheless, she felt triumphant when she drew the cord free. It was made of his own golden thread, cleverly bound and unnaturally light. After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin took it from her fingers and, capturing her left wrist, doubled the cord and tied it there with a large, neat bow.

"It is not the reason why I cover the mirrors," he said, when he had made a show of perfecting the bow to his satisfaction, and grasped her wrist again. His hand fit right around her, easily covering up the golden bow. "Mirrors can be used for powerful magic, so we must treat them with caution," he said, soft and sing-song as he stared at where his hand met her wrist. Belle looked too, and felt a tingle of magic there, like a breath of warm wind against her skin. When Rumpelstiltskin released her, the soft cord had become a smooth, close-fitting bracelet of solid, bright gold. He giggled with mischievous delight, and looked to see her reaction. His eyes were wide and shining with self-satisfaction.

"It's lovely," Belle said, with a helpless shake of her head. She would not have asked him for jewels or gold, but she had enjoyed having her ring as a small reminder of her new position, and of his peculiar courtesies. She would enjoy having a bracelet to remind her of this, as well. For a moment, seeing how it fitted her slim wrist, she wondered how she would ever be able to take it off, but her fingers found the most delicate hinge and catch. The fineness of it would put any master craftsman to shame. She lowered herself to kiss Rumpelstiltskin in thanks, and felt his arms come around her, pulling her down close against his body. She had intended to give one, small kiss, but found herself devoured instead, her body growing eager again with no more encouragement than that.

Tucked so firmly against him, Belle could feel everything as he grew hard. It was a gradual, gentle thing, to her surprise, for she had imagined that part of him to be more insistent in its demands. She wiggled herself against it, and Rumpelstiltskin went still, holding his breath until she relented, then breathing heavily in her ear.

"Wicked wife," he whispered, and plucked at her earlobe with his teeth. "You'd finish me before we begin, would you?" At the encouraging tilt of Belle's head, he carried his hot kisses to her throat, and then up her chin, along her jaw to the other ear where he nipped her with his teeth. "Or is it your own pleasure you're so greedy for, my dear? Does my sweet wife need to come, again, so soon?" He sounded entirely delighted by the prospect, and had grown harder than ever where she sat snug against him, soaking their nightgowns with her wetness.

"C-come?" Belle tried to give her mind to the term, to find its full meaning. "Is that what it's called?"

"As good a word as any. I have others, saltier and saucier." He licked her earlobe, lifted his hips towards her, making her gulp and lose hold of her curiosity. "Shall I whisper them to you while you shudder with pleasure, my dear, or shall we keep your ears pure and simply make you _come_?" This last he punctuated with another twitch of his hips that lifted her with him, yelping softly as her body did, indeed, shudder.

His voice... Belle was lost in his voice, in the heat of him between her legs, in the teasing of his lips and his words. How could _words_ stir her so? She managed to place her palms against his shoulders and push herself up a little, and Rumpelstiltskin stroked the hair back from her overheated face with both hands, beaming at her in utter delight.

Well, she had been no less delighted to see him undone by lust, even if it had not made her gleeful. He, too, must enjoy being desired with urgency, but she felt, now, that she understood why his own behaviour had shocked him so. She felt so unlike herself, so wild!

Rumpelstiltskin unfastened her pale gown, his movements teasing her as his words had done. Belle felt every tug and slide of the blue silk ribbon; watched him draw it between thumb and forefinger with an expression of exquisite enjoyment. He had never given her his pantomimes in their bed, before; his exaggerated expressions and gestures, his wordplay and his wicked sense of fun. She was not sure that she could bear it, not when her body thrilled even at the sight of him fingering her ribbon.

Leaving it hanging loose from the lowest pair of eyelets, Rumpelstiltskin scooped out her left breast and drew her towards him again, this time bringing her chest close enough that he could taste her nipple. But he did not indulge himself in the greedy sucking that pleased him so; instead, he teased her with teeth and tongue, with kisses, until each touch there sent a grasping sensation through Belle's body, a clenching, like a softer echo of the relief she craved. Satisfied with her restless fidgeting, Rumpelstiltskin abandoned the sensitised breast and sought her other, the right, latching his mouth to her like a babe and squeezing her nipple between his tongue and the roof of his mouth before letting it slide out, grazing with his teeth on the way. Belle cried out, grabbing for the headboard behind him, and as she rose up to escape his torment of her breasts, Rumpelstiltskin pulled up her skirts and grasped her backside, tightly.

It was a new shock of sensation, his sharp nails curled between her buttocks, sliding down and back and - as she rose up helplessly on her knees, arching over him and gripping the headboard so hard that her fingers hurt - found her wetness from behind.

Belle knew that she was in a ridiculous condition, but the pleasure was too much, every sensation more than she could bear and still keep a thought in her mind.

"You'd better ask me, lovely," Rumpelstiltskin called, very softly, while he rubbed the backs of her thighs with his wet fingertips. "Ask for what you want."

"I... I... want to... to come," she managed, feeling absurd that she stammered over a few simple words, but her body was no longer entirely her own to control. Every word took an effort of will. "Please..."

At once, Rumpelstiltskin delved between her legs from the front, and gave her his hand to use as she pleased. Belle cried out, her own hand flying to join his, to guide his, while with the other she gripped the headboard as though she would fall a thousand miles if she dared to let go. What she felt, now, was beyond pleasure; it was a roaring, raging demand for satisfaction and cessation, and she writhed on their hands, his fingertips inside her and his palm flat while she rubbed, rubbed, rubbed.

It took her entire body, when it peaked; sharp, fast waves that shook her from head to foot, forced cries from her lips that sounded as though a stranger had made them, and locked the muscles in her limbs so tightly that she felt they would snap. But nothing broke, nothing snapped, and as she came again to her senses, and to a measure of self-control, Belle felt Rumpelstiltskin still rubbing her, his fingers still questing inside her, as though to find and free every last possible whisper of her pleasure.

The last time that she had succumbed so violently to her desire, his touch afterwards had been nearly unbearable. Now it was welcome, teasing faint new sparks from whatever fire had raged hotly in her a moment ago, and Belle was almost afraid to think there might be no barrier to continuing. How could she ever stop, if her body didn't simply say 'enough'?

Her hand shook violently as she pushed his away, and sank back onto her heels, trembling all over. Rumpelstiltskin's smug expression faded at the sight of her so shaken, and he beckoned her with both hands to lie beside him, his arm about her as before. The bedclothes were tangled around his knees, and his hardness was elevating the damp black silk of his nightgown quite impressively. Belle put her hand there, pressing with her palm, too startled out of herself to feel shy, and was rewarded with a strained noise as Rumpelstiltskin endeavoured to keep still.

"Is it... it's not uncomfortable if I touch it?" she asked, timid in spite of her recent behaviour.

"No," he breathed, squeezing her gently. All his showmanship had fled, but Belle was reassured when he kissed her head. She wrapped her hand around the shaft, as before, and found that she was better positioned to hold him thus, this time, and to rub him up and down through the silk. He halfway reached for her hand, to guide her again, but forced it down by his side and nuzzled into her hair, instead, kissing her and breathing hotly against the crown of her head as his excitement grew. "A little slower, my dear," he whispered, after a while, "a little firmer." As she complied, Belle watched fresh wetness seep through the cloth, just a little at a time every time she drew her hand upwards. She wanted to pull the nightgown out of her way, to touch him properly, to _see_ what she was doing down there, but his dreamy pleasure dissuaded her; he was very much enjoying her attentions as it was, and to peek at him would spoil it.

With her arm becoming tight and uncomfortable, Belle fidgeted a little, unintentionally tightening her grip on him as she momentarily stilled her hand, and Rumpelstiltskin moaned, lifting his hips towards her hand and once again almost reaching to guide her. This time, he closed his hand about her arm, softly, and caressed her skin with his fingertips when she began to pull on him again.

Belle had readied herself for the wet rush again, and for his shudders of pleasure, but her husband stilled her hand with his own, just as he began to breathe hard.

"Very nice," he said, gently pushing her ministering hand away, "but I must have all of you again, my treasure."

She'd no objections to that, to being rolled onto her back, or to his eager kiss while they worked, between them, to gather up their gowns to allow them to join. She caught a glimpse of him, as they did so, from belly to knees. While most of her attention was captivated by his extremely erect manhood, the glance nevertheless satisfied her that her husband was concealing nothing that she found unsightly. There was only more of his strangely coloured skin over lean muscles.

Belle forced her gaze elsewhere before he could notice her interest, and accepted him eagerly when he at last pushed himself inside her. One arm beneath her among the pillows, Rumpelstiltskin kept the other between them, after guiding himself into her, and teased her while he took her. She had thought herself very far from another spasm of bliss, but when he kissed her throat as well, it simply took her, lifted her, carried her away, all the sweeter for being unexpected. It had not the violence of emotion and sensation that she had experienced before, nor was it so brief; Belle was still writhing in the throes of it when her husband thrust himself deep and stayed there, panting, expressing himself with a long sound made through tightly closed lips.

He kissed her again at once, at first eager but growing languid and tender when he had withdrawn from her body. Belle found herself trembling, head to foot, and it grew worse as he kissed her; without wanting to, she had to stop him with a clumsy half-push with the heels of her hands against his shoulders. Her teeth began to chatter the moment he left her mouth alone.

"Cold?" he asked, anxiously studying her eyes.

"N-no," she managed, clinging to his arms to keep him from pulling away. "Can... can a p-person c-come t-too much?"

He chuckled, relaxing again, and didn't seem to think her question foolish.

"Not that I've heard," he said, gently closing her nightgown about her chest, then petting her hair while he watched her with great fondness in his eyes. Belle felt ridiculous, all the same, quivering beneath him when she ought to be so comfortable, sharing the warm peace of the aftermath with him. "Not enough, perhaps?" he suggested, a little less certain as her tremors continued despite his soothing.

Belle laughed, and that broke the strange spell, freeing whatever had gripped her body; the very idea of attempting _that_ again seemed impossibly funny to her, at that moment, yet she was charmed by his attentiveness, and by his implicit offer to please her still further.

Rumpelstiltskin watched her, his expression moving from mild alarm to mild pleasure, as he became certain that her laughter was only relief. He resumed the gentle stroking of her hair, and then the kissing, and Belle gave herself to it, closing her eyes.

When she next opened them, the room was in darkness. Even the fire had burned low, either in response to the changing weather or because the castle's master had been thoroughly distracted; her husband was a shadow above her, warm and solid in the darkness.

"We're a mess," she said, hearing her drowsiness before she had registered it for what it was. "Let's take these things off? It's dark," she added, sensing his unhappy reluctance. "I won't peek in the morning."

He could, she knew, have restored their gowns and their persons to their pristine state. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin complied with her request, sitting up, helping her up too, and dragging his nightgown off over his head. Belle did likewise, taking the silk from his hands and, bundling it with her own, throwing them gently towards the foot of the bed.

The bed, too, had seen the worst of them, but Rumpelstiltskin did use his magic to see to that, muttering something about not letting her get cold. Belle buried herself beneath the restored, crisp bedclothes and waited to see if Rumpelstiltskin would opt for covering himself over his preference for lounging on a mountain of pillows. After only a few moments, he sought her out beneath the covers and made her giggle by pushing himself tightly behind her, knees tucked behind hers, face buried in her hair. She could feel _everything_ of him, warm and snug there as they relaxed for sleep, and it was a sweet feeling.


	24. Porridge or Jam

It took Belle a long time to drag herself from sleep. Had she been alone, she might have indulged herself longer on the edge of dreaming, warm and comfortable in a nest of bedclothes and pillows, but her husband was with her, and Belle was eager to greet him.

The previous night had been a wonder to her; the sleep that followed had been deep and restful. Not so for Rumpelstiltskin, she feared, turning onto her side and finding him at the far edge of the bed, curled up like a child with his knees to his chest and his hands beside his face. He had thrown off the bedclothes, all but the sheet, which tangled between his legs and barely covered him to the waist. As much as Belle wanted to stop and stare at him, so exposed, pity for his nightmares moved her to draw up the blanket to his chest, and to content herself by stroking his hair until he awakened. She liked that, she discovered; to touch him when he was unawares, and to indulge herself with his soft, wavy hair.

Her touch woke him up, but gently, and Rumpelstiltskin peered over his shoulder at her, bleary-eyed and, she was sure, startled to find her there. It was gone in a moment, that look of bewilderment, and then he stretched himself out flat and pulled her into his arms to kiss her, without a word.

Their coupling was soft and easy, this time; he simply rolled her beneath him and had his way with her, catching her by surprise and making her laugh with wicked delight while he grinned against her neck between teasing kisses there. Belle clung to him while he rocked, enjoying his bare flesh against all of her; she gripped him with her heels and caressed his back with her hands, determined to experience everything that he would allow. Her pleasure seemed remote, this morning; just a sweetness where he filled her and a tingle where he kissed her, where he clasped her shoulder-blades. The position they assumed mattered, she discovered; like this, the rocking of his hips making each thrust slight and shallow, no part of him rubbed against the nub to excite her - there was only a hot pressure there, pleasing her without exciting her to distraction.

Belle thoroughly enjoyed the drowsy simplicity of it, and the chance to explore his bare flesh with her hands. Hard skin rose almost to a peak over Rumpelstiltskin's spine, but softened at the hollow of his back until it felt almost like her own. Likewise, his outer arms were coarse, his inner arms softer like his palms. Her unhurried touching added a note of excitement to her husband's affectionate nudges between her legs, and he pushed deeper as he lifted himself to kiss her mouth. For a moment, deep inside her and holding himself still, Rumpelstiltskin watched her eyes with the incredulity she remembered. How could she accept him, how could she desire him? She could see the questions and, with them, such pain.

"Husband," she whispered, bringing her hands to cup his face, and to stroke his hair and tuck some behind his ears. "Rumpelstiltskin, I'm yours," she said, speaking to that shocked sadness, and wrapping her legs tightly about his thighs as she did so, for if she was his, then he belonged to her also, and she wanted him very much.

He trembled, as though her words or her touch made his arms go weak, and kissed her again, closing his eyes. She heard him swallow hard, settling back down to his patient rocking; felt him exhale shakily against her collarbone, and kiss her there as though he were suddenly afraid to. His hands clasped her shoulders, his nails scratching her lightly when his fingers curled with each little thrust. "Yes," she whispered, and found again that words could pique her body to new heights of eagerness. Her own, as well as his? Belle did not understand, but she could reap the benefits, and buried her right hand between them, as he had done, to touch where they joined. Rumpelstiltskin gasped, at that, and froze for a moment, moaning against her skin.

Body tightening around him as her finger rubbed alongside the sensitive place, Belle gasped as well. She had not meant to drive herself wild, only to add to the sweetness of feeling between her legs. She had liked it better when it was her husband's hand, but her body demanded, and Rumpelstiltskin took her harder, and it seemed to take too long before her greedy body spasmed with the helplessness of bliss. Her contortions and her excitement had left her damp with sweat, and their bodies clung a little as he moved over her, each thrust adding a fading surge to her satisfaction until she could feel the throb of her own heartbeat down there, adding to the heat.

She felt weak and lazy, as it passed, her body wanting to be limp rather than wrapped tightly around Rumpelstiltskin as before. She buried the fingers of her right hand in his hair, and rubbed her ankle lazily against the back of his leg, moved to express her affection now that her passions were finally spent. She truly felt that she would never _come_ again, as though all the need had been wrung out of her with the last convulsions inside.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed lost in his enjoyment of her, noisy exhalations making a counterpoint to his steady thrusts. Belle thought that she heard him mumble her name, with his face pressed tightly to her throat, before he shuddered and finished, letting out a long, heavy groan.

He, too, seemed lazy after his satisfaction; he gave her a quick kiss, sleepy-eyed, then lay on his back beside her, quietly, until his breathing returned to normal.

It was a very nice way to wake up, Belle thought, turning onto her side so that she could watch him. In the rising light, she could see her husband's bare shoulders, and his arms where they rested above the covers; his skin was the same there as his face and hands, greenish grey and with the faint sheen of gold. What else did he think she might have expected, but that the rest of him matched the parts that could decently be shown in public?

Belle leaned over and planted a shy kiss on his shoulder, causing Rumpelstiltskin to open drowsy eyes and extend an arm to catch her up and bring her close against his side. She rested her head against his chest and slipped her hand beneath the sheet to touch more of him. If he hated her to look, then at least he didn't seem to object to her touching. She found thin, unobtrusive nipples, as her own had been before she blossomed, and rubbed them curiously with a finger to see if they behaved as hers did, firming at a touch. Little seemed to happen to them, but her husband chuckled slightly and kissed the top of her head.

"Again so soon, my dear?" He combed his fingers through her hair, finding and patiently easing tangles. "We may need a little magic for that."

"I didn't mean..." But he was teasing her, and she realised it before she finished her nervous apology. Belle wrinkled her nose, caught between laughter and dismay. "Can you not, then, so soon? If you wanted to?" She recalled Mistress Elena referring to how often a man could 'manage it'. Thus far, Rumpelstiltskin had seemed in no difficulty as far as that went. "How often should we?" All pleasure aside, all affection aside, Belle supposed that there had to be some persistence involved in the getting of a child.

"That depends if you're content with 'wanton' or care to try for 'depraved', mistress."

"Oh!" Belle swatted his belly with the flat of her hand, and made him laugh out loud. It wasn't his soft chuckle or his childish giggle, but a true laugh from the belly and the heart. She was glad to hear it, even if it came at her expense. "Don't pretend that you don't enjoy my ignorance of these things," she scolded, but smiling.

"Your innocence, my dear. It's charming."

"It's still ignorance," she sighed, smoothing the flat of her hand over his skin, from his ribs to the dip of his belly. The muscles there twitched at her caress. "I like to know things, to understand. That's not..." She sighed, deciding, too late, to hold her tongue.

"Not a quality that every man seeks in a wife?" He spoke gently, lightly, as though to draw her out, his fingers working at a particularly stubborn knot in her hair. "I think your Gaston might not have liked it."

"No." But she had known why Gaston wanted a wife, hadn't she? For sons, for the lands and titles that she'd inherit and, yes, for her beauty. So that others would think highly of him for having such a wife as she. "But you don't mind?"

"Not a bit. But I'd not have your innocence despoiled too quickly, either. It's a lovely thing. Allow me to steal it a little at a time, hmm?"

Belle sighed, but without bad feeling. She had no reason better than impatience to deny such a request, and he sounded so sincere about it. So wistful, as though he might have longed for such an opportunity. She imagined, again, how these first nights might have been with another husband, with Gaston, who was always simple and direct in everything; she wondered if she would have known these pleasures, or these quiet moments of learning one another, or naughty laughter. And she would have been too busy to dwell on her unexpected lustfulness, having taken on a household and all the duties that came with it. Rumpelstiltskin asked for time, but gave it to her in return. She had time to think of herself, now, as well as others.

"Tell me, at least, if I'm doing everything that I should be?" She heard herself sound impossibly young, and far more worried than she felt. "And nothing that I should not?"

"Everything," Rumpelstiltskin said, and kissed the top of her head. "And nothing. And I?"

"What?" Astonished, Belle lifted herself so that she could look at him. Rumpelstiltskin gestured vaguely with his hands, looking discomfited by her surprise, and failed to notice that, in sitting halfway up and lifting the covers with her, Belle had given herself a fine view of his bare chest and arms.

"Am I doing everything a husband should be? And nothing that I should not?"

"I don't know," Belle admitted, her shoulders sagging a little. "I'm not really sure what husbands are supposed to do. I didn't know about... about _coming_." She looked her fill, while they both thought about that, and thought that her husband should eat more. Although he was well muscled, she could count his ribs just by looking. "Is that what it's called when you..." Gods and stars, how _stupid_ it was to fall over her own tongue, trying to speak about that which she had just been _doing_! How ridiculous it was to blush over words when she savoured the deeds! "When you spill your seed," she went on, firmly, in spite of how her ears suddenly burned. "Is it called the same as when I..." and, there, she merely ran out of words. Nothing fit, nothing described that pulsing, aching peak of bodily sensation accurately.

"As good a word as any," Rumpelstiltskin said, a small smile brightening his bemusement at her struggles. Seeing it, Belle dared to meet his gaze. "Have you questions that frighten you, mistress?" He reached up to her face, arranging her hair gently. "I'll not have that."

Belle shook her head.

"I haven't been frightened since the first time," she said, surprising herself with the truth of it. "And even then I was too tired to be properly afraid." That was a little more careless with the truth but, all the same, not a lie. How much more frightened might she have been if simple exhaustion had not numbed her, that night? She smiled, and leaned down to touch her lips against Rumpelstiltskin's. "Thank you, for being kind to me," she said, when she had kissed him, and remembered that she had thanked him thus on their wedding night, too. It seemed long ago, somehow, although she knew that it was only weeks since she was a bride and still a maiden.

"You are too kind," Rumpelstiltskin said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, "to an old monster."

While Belle would gladly have stayed all day in their bed, pursuing the whims of either body or heart, a call of nature defeated her. She saw Rumpelstiltskin stare as she crawled halfway down the bed and fumbled into her crumpled nightgown, his attention given wholly to her bosoms and his eyes full of delight. Were all men as fascinated with a woman's soft chest, or was it one of Rumpelstiltskin's own whimsies? Belle caught herself taking her time in arranging her nightgown, and watching him as he watched her draw the collar closed. It really didn't seem fair that he stared at her so openly, when he already knew all that a woman had to hide, yet kept himself beneath the bedclothes and denied her the satisfaction of her curiosity.

"Breakfast or tea?" She paused, after climbing inelegantly out of the great bed, to wait for her husband's answer. Rumpelstiltskin sat up, holding the sheet to his chest as though his own tiny nipples were not to be seen, and looked quizzical. "Our meal together," she reminded him, and his expression warmed with understanding. "Porridge or jam?"

"I don't much care for breakfast," he admitted, delicately, as though this were some tremendous fault on his part and he begged her pardon for it.

"Tea, then," Belle smiled. She had secured his agreement to one meal together per day, and she would not be denied. "In the kitchen at three o'clock."

She enjoyed her husband's wide-eyed, helpless nod; she enjoyed the small victory over his absurd idea that no-one could desire his company. She did, very much. She wanted to _know_ her husband, and not only in the carnal ways upon which they seemed able to agree.

Belle was unsurprised to find him gone when she returned from her bath. Her bed was pristine, and she carefully placed her new bracelet upon the nearest pillow, looking at it while she combed out her wet hair. It had grown longer, since her wedding, and she liked the way it fell, prone to curling at the ends if she left it untended. She took her time with it, this morning, wishing heartily for a looking glass as she tried to weave two ribbons into two thick braids and join them at the back, to keep the hair out of her face and out of her work. That her husband might covet the ribbons when he saw her again gave Belle a warm glow inside that had nothing to do with lust.

Her work dress needed washing the most, yet she would need to wear it to do the laundry. Belle took her pen, ink and parchment down to the kitchen with her, already thinking about how to word her next letter to her father. To ask for her clothes and other belongings would give her an opportunity to sound more like herself, and let him know that she had the sort of life where clothing both fine and practical had a use. Should she tell him about the housework? Belle pondered that, while eating a breakfast of cold porridge with honey. She would not have her poor father thinking that Rumpelstiltskin had made a servant of her, yet she knew that her father would prefer that to some of the other possibilities that must be going through his mind.

She knew that her father had grown to love her mother, and that he had hoped to see his daughter find a fortunate, fond match also. But Belle knew her Papa, and knew that he would not believe that she spoke freely or truly if she said that she was fond of Rumpelstiltskin, already. Her husband had seen to that. Nor could she speak of the discoveries of the marriage bed, where she had found a true happiness with her new husband; she could not speak of his gentleness with her, nor of his sweet shyness, nor of the wonders he had taught her in their bed. It would not be right to divulge any part of it, to anyone, even if she thought that it would comfort her father to know it.

In truth, she did not imagine that it would comfort her father at all to think that Rumpelstiltskin touched her, even kindly. Even as a husband should.

So, while she worked to wash and wring out her clothing, Belle's mind was busy with other things. She was careful to apply Wren's advice, and only had any real difficulty when it came to rinsing out the soap. Had she not had an entire room devoted to laundry, and on a grand scale, at that, she thought that it would have been an even more chilly and backbreaking chore. No doubt that, at home, several maids had shared the task of washing the clothes and bed linens, making lighter work of it for everyone, but Belle still felt rather ashamed that she had not known quite how much effort was involved in keeping her belongings nicely.

It had been her responsibility to know these things, once she had taken over the running of the castle's domestic life; it was her failure that she had not known.

Belle had tried her hand at ironing before, at least, though never with clothing. She knew how to heat a flatiron, and how not to burn a hole in bed linens while she worked out the creases. If she began with her heaviest petticoats then, with any luck, she would have mastered the technique before touching any layers that might show. She had learned that cotton and linen were best ironed while damp, so she would need to pay attention to the progress of the garments on the clothes horse, this time. Rumpelstiltskin had spared her the chore, the last time she had attempted laundry. After she was hurt, he had no doubt waved a hand and her clean clothes had arrived in the neat, immaculately pressed pile that she had found upon her trunk.

With her only wearable dress soaked through from chest to knees, and her petticoats too, Belle was sorely tempted to ask her husband for a little assistance. But... no. Why should she? There was nothing that could not be accomplished without magic, with better organisation. If she had planned ahead, procrastinated less, perhaps bought cloth to sew herself a new work dress, then her need for clean clothing would not be so dire.

All the same, she rather hoped that her husband might take pity on his soggy bride, when he came for tea, and dry her out. If not, then she would have to change into her golden dress, and ask for his help in fastening it, and Belle had a strong inkling that this would lead to no work being done at all, and to her cottons drying to a crisp by the fire before she got near them with an iron.

She wrapped herself in her travel cloak to keep warm, and sat as near to the fireplace as the kitchen table would allow to compose her letter home.

The task brought tears to her eyes. Time and again, Belle paused to gaze at her beautiful glass pen. She loved it, and it comforted her to twirl the stem between her fingers and see how the spiral of colour within changed as it moved in the light. A childish thing, probably, but seeking the words to comfort her father, Belle felt in need of childish things, and of small comforts of her own.

She was still struggling with her letter when she heard Rumpelstiltskin's footsteps descending, and hoped that he would not notice that she had been tearful. She had meant to prepare their tea, to slice bread and put out some of the honey and preserves that had been their wedding gifts, but had managed only to check, intermittently, on the progress of her drying petticoats and smalls. She rose at once to move the kettle to the fire, and tried not to feel as though she were a servant caught being lazy. Given his lack of enthusiasm for meals, she doubted that Rumpelstiltskin would be angry if he had to wait five minutes while she organised herself.

Rumpelstiltskin stopped at the doorway, regarding the loaded clothes horse with something close to suspicion. Belle managed a flustered smile of greeting, and he a cautious nod when he saw her. Belatedly, she remembered putting on her heavy travel cloak, and looked self-consciously down at herself.

"I got a bit wet," she admitted. He had complained about her having done so on the last occasion. At least, this time, she had kept herself warm and not allowed her fatigue from the hard work to make her careless of her safety.

"And you've not a stitch left to wear?" Rumpelstiltskin approached her with prowling, playful steps, and with his hands held before him as he grew near, Belle thought for a moment that he meant to tickle her ribs. Instead, he parted the folds of her cloak and tutted disapprovingly at the state of her dress. "I find my wife in sodden rags," he complained. Playful, yes, but something about his manner warned Belle to tread carefully. He did not take her wellbeing lightly, she knew.

"Hardly rags," she said, needing no effort to appear contrite. "But I've nothing else that fastens at the front, you see."

Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head, eyes narrowed in thought, as though it took him a moment to realise her meaning.

"Ah!" He stepped back, giggling lightly, and Belle felt a brief, unpleasant pressure all about her, along with the tingle that she recognised as magic. She tasted honeysuckle and tar in her mouth, and then, feeling lighter, looked down to find herself dressed in her golden betrothal gown. She had not been laced so tightly since her wedding night, and it took her a moment to recover her voice, her hand resting against her ribs as she caught a breath.

"You'll have to help me get out of it again, as well," she said, trying to laugh but she had not enough air in her lungs. The magic had squashed it all out of her, and the bodice prevented her from taking enough of it back in. Her betrothal gown had been made to conceal the lacing, and made use of several hooks and eyes as well; getting into and out of it was what Lotte had described as 'a big old performance'.

Her husband seemed pleased with his work, watching her with his hands pressed together and his eyes alight with mischief.

"Undressing you is no chore, my Lady," he said, and, spreading his arms wide, bowed deeply and elegantly. "I will be honoured."

Belle simply blushed. She knew that the gown made her look beautiful. Even her father had told her so, when he led her to be betrothed to Gaston, and it was the only time, since leaving girlhood behind her, that Belle recalled her Papa speaking proudly of her beauty rather than of her other qualities. When first she wore it, her women had cooed over her. Belle, for her part, had felt as though she had been gift wrapped or polished up for market, and had thought of the expense of the gold cloth more than of the appeal of the dress.

With her shoulders bare, her blush had to be crimson all the way to her bosoms. Belle, torn between hiding it and allowing her husband to enjoy looking at the confection he had just created, found herself wrapping her arms about herself protectively by way of a compromise. Rumpelstiltskin's grin softened to an easier smile, when he rose and saw her discomfort.

"You prefer your dusty rags, my dear?"

"I prefer breathing," Belle admitted. Without a mirror, she had simply not paid attention to the look of her clothing since her wedding night. She had grown used to comfort, with her laces looser and her warm woollen stockings beneath her petticoats. She found that she greatly preferred her practical, shortened dress to the ones that prettily skimmed the ground or tickled her toes. Had Rumpelstiltskin thought her a sloven all that time? After all, she had been wearing this very golden gown when they first met, and he had seen her next in her bridal finery. He might have expected her to continue dressing so. "Does it please you?" Shyly, she spread out the skirts for him to see. They were beautifully made, with deceptive simplicity in the clever cut of the cloth, for Belle had insisted that none was wasted. The petticoats beneath, too, were exquisite and she had never worn them with a different dress, saving them for the times when her golden gown would be appropriate.

"Well, I'd rather have a wife who can breathe, on the whole," Rumpelstiltskin admitted, but his gaze was admiring nonetheless. He took her hands and looked at them until Belle looked as well; they were ink-stained, red and raw from the cold water and the scrubbing, and cold too. "Have you written your letter, then?"

Grateful that he chose not to mention her raw fingers, Belle nodded to the table where her letter lay, half finished.

"I think I'll start again," she said. "Perhaps tomorrow." Hastily, she snatched a cloth and swung the kettle away from the fire as it boiled. "Our tea! I'm so sorry!" It was unlike her to be forgetful, and it embarrassed her to be seen to be so disorganised. There was no excuse for missing an appointment when she had the entire day to do whatever she liked!

"It's no matter," Rumpelstiltskin replied, a little alarmed at her reaction. "It's only tea, dearie. Come." With a wave of his hand, the kitchen table was laid for two. Thinly sliced bread had been arranged on a platter, several dishes of butter and preserves were ready, and the teapot stood waiting with a wisp of steam emerging from the spout. "Come," he said, again, and led her gently to her seat.

For himself, he took the place at the head of the table, which made Belle smile and think of his lonely chair at the large dining table, one floor above them. How often had he sat there to dine alone, before she came to the castle? Had he bothered at all with proper meals there, or simply fed himself when he remembered to at the spinning wheel, or in his turret? Had he taken tea from one of the dainty tea sets, all by himself?

"Thank you," Belle said, gesturing to the food. "Perhaps I'm a bit tired."

"You look peaked, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, failing in his attempt to sound casual about it. "I do not like that these letters upset you, especially if they are the cause of... this." He indicated the laundry with a flick of his fingers, and glanced again at her reddened hands.

A protest came automatically to her lips, but Belle bit it back. He was right, of course. The letters had upset her, both writing them and receiving one. She should be thankful that he had noticed her distress, not fearful that he would find reason to forbid her any further letters.

"I get homesick," she said, making herself busy by putting bread onto two plates, and passing one to her husband. "That's not terrible, is it, to think of my father and my friends?" A part of her was anxious that it was, at best, ungrateful. She knew that Rumpelstiltskin offered her a life of ease; she hoped with all her heart that it might also be a life filled with affection and joy. Perhaps, in time, with love as well. For all that, she could not help missing her father, or the place where she had grown up. She would feel wicked if she did _not_ miss them, and sometimes long for them.

"I'll not be so jealous of you forever, Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly and gravely. His butter knife was poised over a slice of bread, held perfectly still. "Not forever. Is he a kind father?"

Taken aback by his words, Belle felt her mouth moving without any sound coming out. She closed it, firmly, and took a moment to take as full a breath as her dress allowed. Her answer needed no thought, of course, but the reason for his question did.

"Yes," she said, and hid her confusion by reaching to pour the tea. "Might I be allowed to visit, one day?" Her hand trembled, but she managed not to rattle the spout against the chipped cup.

"Would you like that?"

"Of course." She hated that she sounded so eager, even as she tried not to be. She had thought, until now, that she might never see her father again. The prospect of being able, one day, to visit him... it filled her eyes with tears.

Rumpelstiltskin's hands cupped hers, steadying them and guiding her to lower the teapot and cup before they, or she, came to grief.

"I do not keep you prisoner," he reminded her. "Not now. But here I wish you to be, my wife. I'll not be so jealous forever."

After a moment, releasing her hands, he offered her a handkerchief of dark blue silk with which to dry her tears. It smelled, as did his shirts and nightgowns, very faintly of herbs and of meadow hay. Or straw, she realised, breathing it in while she dabbed her cheeks back to a state of respectability. Yes, straw. It comforted her.

"Don't think that I'm unhappy here, with you," Belle pleaded, seeing how he had folded his hands in his lap and was staring at them, his expression grim. "I'm not. If my father could only know that, believe it, then I wouldn't worry so."

"But you'd miss him still?" Wistful, sad, Rumpelstiltskin buttered a slice of bread with slow precision. He sounded as though he truly did not know her answer.

"Of course." Belle held out the handkerchief to him, determined to show him that she was done with tears, but he waved it away with a flutter of his fingers. "You must have had parents," she said, uncertainly. _Had_ he? "Children of your own?" She thought of the colourful story books in the library, and of the little boy's clothes upstairs, and _believed_ it. Had it been so long ago that he could have _forgotten_ how a father loved a child, and how a child loved their father? "You keep a child's things?"

"A boy," Rumpelstiltskin said, haltingly, his expression frozen. "A son." He stared at his plate, quite unseeing, Belle was sure. "Long ago. Of course you miss your father," he said, suddenly brisk and busy reaching for the tea that she had poured for him. "Of course you do. You will see him again, my Lady, I promise you. Whether you await my pleasure or not."

Belle reached across the corner of the table to put her hand on his wrist, stilling him gently. He spoke so infrequently of his past, and always it left him in this skittish mood, hiding himself behind false cheer or a sudden preoccupation. She would not apologise for wishing to know her husband better, but if such revelations disturbed him, upset him, then she was sorry for that.

"Thank you, husband," she said, and relaxed a little when he turned his hand palm-upwards and caught her fingers, squeezing and flashing her a nervous smile. "Don't think me a foolish, weeping girl," she begged, sheepishly, as they both gave their attention to their meal. "I'm not, truly."

"And not unhappy here." Glancing sideways at Rumpelstiltskin, as she buttered a slice of bread, Belle could not decide whether or not he had meant it as a question.

"No," she promised, quietly, and saw his frown become a look of quiet pleasure. "You thought that I would be, didn't you?"

"I suppose I did." He pursed his lips, clearly embarrassed by her directness. "I hoped otherwise, of course."

Remembering how he had enjoyed alarming her, impressing her with his cleverness and power, Belle limited her response to a tolerant little smile, and helped herself to some of the plum jam which she had been longing to try. It was sticky and wonderful, and the enjoyment of her first bite quite restored her appetite.

As ever, Rumpelstiltskin ate little, although she saw that he enjoyed a liberal amount of honey on his bread, and committed the fact to memory. She would never have guessed that the Spinner had a sweet tooth.

Their meal ended when the teapot was empty, and Rumpelstiltskin left her with a nod of thanks, as though he were a guest in her home. Belle did not fail to notice his disapproving glance at the clothes horse on his way out of the kitchen, but he said nothing.

Was it foolish to make heavy work for herself? Belle wondered about that, as she cleared away the plates and returned the uneaten food to the pantry. Her golden dress made heavy work even of that, and she had grown so used to the freedom of movement in her work dress that she kept feeling she might trip on the hem, and could not reach properly because of the bodice. Her shoulders felt chilly and she wondered where she had left her shawl.

A renewed appreciation of comfortable clothing set her back to work a little on her letter, before she turned her attention to ironing the heaviest cottons and linens among her drying wardrobe. While the scrubbing and rinsing had been a chore, Belle found that she enjoyed the art of chasing creases from the still-damp cloth. The size of the kitchen table made easier work of it than the ironing tables she had occasionally played with at home, and she found herself humming a favourite tune as she worked.

Her failure to scorch or spoil anything left her with a feeling of deep satisfaction, and she took loving care with the ironed garments as she returned them to the clothes horse to dry properly. She looked forward to wearing things that had been pressed and not folded away into a trunk.

Still struggling for the words to finish her letter, Belle left it for the night and went upstairs. Rumpelstiltskin was working at his wheel, deeply preoccupied, and Belle did not disturb him, as much as she would have liked to sit close by him and watch. She had always appreciated skill in others, whether sewing or crafting or mending, and enjoyed watching those who made their occupation seem effortless. There was an added pleasure in watching her husband's hands being so deft and delicate with his thread, and of course there was the magic of his spinning humble straw into gold. His expression, too, intrigued her, for she had seen it otherwise only while he loved her with his gentle, patient rocking movements, before passion carried them away; such focus, such seriousness. Such inner quiet in his concentration.

It distracted him then, too, if she watched too closely.

Nevertheless, Belle found that she wanted to be with her husband. She fetched her book from her room, and the small basket in which she had arranged her sewing things. Rumpelstiltskin glanced up from his wheel, surprised when she returned and momentarily flustered by it, but she could see that he was pleased. Belle gave him a smile before settling to her work. With the offcuts from her shortened petticoat, and some of her girlhood ribbons, she would sew a new pair of garters; a light enough task that, thanks to the wide armchair beside the fireplace in the great room, she could combine with reading.

She had finished the garters, all but threading the ribbons, and reached the end of another chapter of the stern book about housekeeping, before she heard Rumpelstiltskin abandon his spinning wheel and approach her. He hesitated beside the chair, watching her work a wide, red ribbon through the tunnel of cotton. Belle had no objection to being watched at her craft, not one she was reasonably good at, anyway, and smiled a little as she remembered his fascination for her ribbons.

And, yes, after a few moments his hand stole to her hair, to the braids which she had taken such pains to weave through with ribbon that morning, and he caressed them with inquisitive fingers.

Belle had thought to suggest that he bring up the other chair, to sit with her by the fire for the evening, but the message in his hesitant touch was clear enough, and she smiled as she blushed, flattered by his interest in having her again so soon. Perhaps he looked forward to helping her out of the restricting golden bodice?

"I may have an early night," she said, not going quite so far as to feign a yawn. She _was_ rather tired, but would do nothing to discourage Rumpelstiltskin from joining her for the night.

"A grand idea," he said, softly. "You'll need help with your, um, clothing?" he added, unable to conceal the hopeful note in his voice as he offered a hand to help her from the chair.

A husband need not ask for permission to come to his wife's bed, Belle thought, keeping hold of his hand once she had it. He need not be so hesitant, so respectful, but oh, she liked very much that Rumpelstiltskin did those things, and seemed to cherish every opportunity to lie with her.

Sometimes, she thought, seeing his wide eyes and his nervous anticipation, there might be profit in delaying a while - in having them both wait for what they desired, until they could bear the wait no longer. She smiled, and kept his hand in hers to lead the way.

Sometimes, perhaps. But not tonight.


	25. A Bed of Thorns

They had each grown a little shy by the time they reached Belle's chambers. Belle felt rather silly about retiring so early when sleep was not what she wanted. She imagined that she should be flirtatious and seductive; Rumpelstiltskin gallant and eager. The truth of it was that they exchanged a sheepish glance at the threshold of her room, and smirked helplessly at one another.

"Old monsters should not take lovely young brides," Rumpelstiltskin declared, releasing her hand and going over to her window to close the thick drapes. He paused with the job half done, gazing out at the evening. There was a fresh fall of snow. "Bad for the concentration. Bad for the reputation."

"Well, you should have thought of that before," Belle smiled. "It's too late, now."

"Probably bad for the magic, as well," he grumbled, snapping the curtains closed, but his shy smirk had not entirely faded, and his gaze drank her in, face and finery and, most of all, the way the bodice displayed her chest. "I'm a creature of the darkness," he said, approaching, taking her by the waist and backing her gently against the bottom bedpost nearest the door, "and you tempt me from my work, mistress." It was hardly a complaint, given that he kissed her bare shoulder a moment later. Belle grasped two handfuls of the bed's thick drapes and shivered, as surprised by how that first kiss felt as she had been by anything on her wedding night. Where his lips touched, hot and moist, her body seemed to sing with enjoyment of it.

She had not been given to imagining the activities of lovers, as a girl, but whenever she had thought of kisses they had been soft meetings of two mouths, or lips to cheek, or perhaps a kiss to the hand - each of those with its own tender meaning. Rumpelstiltskin's passion for mouthing at her throat and her breasts left her without a point of reference and, always, too swept up in how his attentions felt to consider much what they meant.

Her husband indulged himself for a while, kissing her throat, her jaw, and at last seeking her mouth where they met with a mutual sound of approval. Belle forced her hands from the tapestries before she tore them down in the effort of containing herself, and placed them against Rumpelstiltskin's chest instead. He hesitated, his lips against hers but still, thinking that she meant to push him away, but kissed her again when Belle tried to unfasten his waistcoat. It would have been a great deal easier to do so had they not been standing so close together, his knee between hers, but the very last thing she wanted was more distance from him. And all this without her body yet burning with any great desire for his; she simply craved his closeness, his attention - _his_ desire. The selfishness of passion frightened her more than a little, yet it led to such tenderness between them, and such giving. How could it be wrong?

Reaching the last fastening of his waistcoat, Belle pulled it open and hugged him beneath it, excited by the silk beneath her hands where she clasped his back. His collar was still an obstacle, when she would have liked to kiss his neck in return and see how it took him, but she could not have everything at once. For the moment, his body pinning hers to the bedpost, his tongue teasing hers, would be enough.

"This dress is... inconvenient, isn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin breathed, when he tried to press his hips closer to her and was rebuffed by the volume of her skirts.

"Yes," Belle laughed, and half expected him to whisk it away with the same magic that had dressed her in it but a few hours before. "And uncomfortable, and silly."

"But very pretty," he said, slyly dropping his gaze to the peaks of her bosoms. "Very alluring." He trailed a fingertip across her chest, where the satin met her skin, and Belle shivered. "It's like having a present to unwrap."

"Oh, is it?" Belle smiled, rather ruefully remembering how she had thought herself giftwrapped for her betrothal feast with Gaston. "If you unwrap it then I can breathe and kiss you at the same time."

Rumpelstiltskin looked intrigued, and drew her away from the bedpost, watching her expression as his fingers sought the fastenings behind her.

"I once ate so much, wearing this, that Lotte nearly had to fetch the scissors to let me out," she said, preventing herself just in time from mentioning the betrothal feast. She did not think that her husband would wish to hear that part of it. She rested contentedly against his chest, while he explored the back of the dress.

His breathing was shallow and fast, and he swallowed noisily every few breaths. Did he want her as urgently as he had before? Would he beg again for his immediate satisfaction, or would he be patient and sweet? Imagining either one made her feel the pleasant sting between her legs, and the clenching heat low in her belly. She rubbed her hands against his shirt, against his back, and tried a little kiss to the side of his neck. Behind her, he fumbled and, she was sure, drew breath to swear but stopped himself.

"Is this one fastened to deter husbands as well?" he asked, instead.

Thinking of how she had quaked while he unlaced her wedding gown with its playful knot, Belle closed her eyes and pressed herself nearer to him.

"No. Just slouching."

"Well, it would have been more effective than a silly knot in a bit of string." At last, he found the trick of it - to slide his fingers beneath the stays and catch at the bow hidden inside, opening the stiff garment just enough to reveal the first set of hooks and eyes. "Gods, girl, you'd still be a virgin if you'd worn this," he complained, and Belle laughed as he turned her around, firmly, to see what he was about.

"Your clothes are no better," she pointed out, grasping the bedpost with both hands to hold herself still while he tugged and rummaged near her spine. "I think that's why you use magic to change," she said, grinning at the thought. "Because you'd be there all night otherwise, and half the morning getting it all back on again."

"A good reason not to go to bed," Rumpelstiltskin said, and Belle remembered that it had not been his habit to do so, before discovering that he was welcome to sleep beside her. Or was it that he had discovered that he was able? He had reached the fastenings at the middle of her back, where the bodice pulled tightest beneath her bust. Belle exhaled as much as she could to loosen it for him. "You were wearing this when I came for you," he said, as though he had only just noticed the fact. "Did you expect to be ravished?"

Belle sucked in a breath, as the tightest clasp came free and Rumpelstiltskin was able to unweave the rest of the laces in a couple of gentle tugs, leaving only the final hook and eye.

"Do ogres do that?"

"They do as they please," he said, sourly, and unfastened the last catch, baring her back. Belle felt suddenly exposed, as if that last fastening had been a barrier, and now she could feel how he stared at her. She supposed that he had not spent a great deal of time gazing at the back of her, naked. It was new. So much was new.

After a moment, taking hold of her waist, Rumpelstiltskin kissed between her shoulders, where her hair had parted to uncover bare skin.

"My lady, you appear to be free." His hands slid up in front of her, beneath her breasts, and Belle shivered, remembering how he had spoken to her on their wedding night; how afraid they had both been. She had not recognised his fear for what it was, then; the fear of doing her harm while doing his duty on her. She had not known him well enough to understand that his gruff courtesy signalled concern, or his trembling body meant desire. How far they had come. "Are your skirts going to fight me for you as well?" His hands rose to cover her breasts, rubbing at them with his thumbs, where his skin was roughest.

"No," Belle whispered, surrendering her grip on the bedpost and leaning back to meet him. There was no urgency in his touch, as keen as they had both been to retire for the evening. Although she felt the thrill of it, and of everything between them that was still new to her, his slow kneading of her breasts gave her, more than anything, a deep sense of contentment and belonging. She had hoped for as much, from marriage, but never supposed that she would find it like _this_ , with her husband's hands beneath her loosened clothing and his cheek resting against her head.

It seemed an effort for him to move his hands, having claimed her breasts, and Belle heard Rumpelstiltskin's sigh when he finally did so. He sought the fastening of her skirt, feeling his way with fingertip lightness around her waist from front to back until he found it. As the golden fabric slithered down to pool around their feet, Belle shrugged the bodice down her arms and let that fall as well. Once more, she felt exposed, and fought with her sudden urge to shield herself by hunching forward or folding her arms. Her husband had seen all, his hands had been everywhere, and the sight of her in her petticoat was unlikely to shock him now.

Rather than remove that, Rumpelstiltskin caught her hand and led her to the bed, escorting her as though in a dance, his fingers hooked around hers and his steps jaunty. Puzzled and charmed by his playfulness, Belle seated herself and watched him drop to one knee before her. He caught hold of her dangling foot, her left, and eased off the satin slipper. A moment later he removed its twin and set them both aside with care, glancing up to see if his game met with Belle's approval. She smiled, wiggling her stockinged toes. They were the same stockings she had put on that morning, she noticed - thin knit, old woollen ones, not the delicate silk that accompanied her finer gowns. He had not changed _every_ stitch she wore with magic, then.

"You aren't too cold?" Rumpelstiltskin gazed up at her with anxious, eager eyes.

"No." Curious, and growing used to being so brazenly bare from the waist up, Belle leaned back on her elbows and offered him her right foot. Rumpelstiltskin delved beneath her petticoat, almost tickling her he touched so gently, his fingers exploring upwards until he found her knee, then then the frilly hem of her drawers, and beneath those her garter and her stocking top. He smiled, rather nervously, and untied the garter so that he could draw down her stocking with the same tickling lightness. Her other leg received the same, patient attention, and her stockings and garters were placed carefully atop her shoes. Patience was the game, she decided, watching his face settle to that expression of intense concentration that he wore while spinning. He could whisk her clothing away with a thought, as he had dressed her, but wanted, instead, to linger over every fastening that kept her from him. Still he remained on one knee before her, his back straight and his leather boots creaking with the strain of holding the position.

Her husband seemed in no discomfort from kneeling there. He didn't hurry, lifting her petticoat above her knees, caressing the backs of her legs and even playing briefly with her feet. Belle, who was horribly ticklish on the soles of her feet, snatched them away from him and did her best not to spoil his absorption with a giggle. He smiled, anyway, giving her the distinct idea that her weakness would not be forgotten, and eased his hand up beneath the petticoat to explore her thighs.

Belle's breathing quickly became shallow, at that. A touch there reminded both mind and body of how good it was going to feel to be with him again, and patience became an effort almost at once. Rumpelstiltskin saw, and glanced once more to her face for reassurance that she was content to allow this. At her wry smile, he looked away, becoming shy, but his gaze lingered on her breasts a moment before returning to the hem of her petticoat, now bundled in her lap.

"Is it like unwrapping a present?" She grasped at the bedclothes as his hand crept deeper between her thighs, yet stopped short of touching her intimately.

"Perhaps... solving a puzzle?" Belle adored that whimsical look that came over her husband, sometimes; she could see wisdom in it, and his years, but something childlike as well. "A riddle of beauty." He smiled, crookedly, pleased with his words, and as he pushed his palm up the front of her left thigh, his thumb dipped into the crease between, brushed her sensitive place through the cotton of her drawers, and made her gasp aloud, shifting her weight on the edge of the bed. "But yes, a gift," he went on, dreamily repeating the movement of his hand until Belle had to bite her lip to keep from making some undignified sound or other, "to see your pleasure as well as your beauty. To be permitted your favour. A gift."

With her body intensely interested in the activities of Rumpelstiltskin's right thumb, Belle found it difficult to spare a thought for his words. Excitement was making her shoulders tighten, her hands curl like claws into the bedclothes, and perspiration prickle all across her exposed skin. He had barely touched her, just sought out the little bud and begun teasing it with his thumb, but an ache was building in her. She would come, if he persisted. She tried the word in her mind, again. _Come._ As good as any, he said, and Belle supposed that he was right, even if the precise meaning eluded her. He was bringing her rapidly towards that point of ultimate tension and unwinding, she could feel it.

Why, then, did she wish that he would stop? She felt that she should be, if not grateful, then at least appreciative of such a direct effort to ensure her pleasure.

A muffled sound did escape her, as the heat built within. It was without the outlying shocks to the rest of her body; it burned just inside her, and where his thumb flicked the peak of flesh, and became almost unbearable after a little while. Rumpelstiltskin paused at the little noise of protest, yet again seeing permission and reassurance with a glance at her face.

"I... I'm not sure I like it," she stammered, without meaning to give voice to the tiny half-a-doubt. He had given her nothing but pleasure, before tonight and now, but there was something passionless and pleasureless in the building heat, and he seemed so distant from her, kneeling at her feet. It had seemed harmless enough to accept the caress, but as she spoke the words, she knew that it was not what she wanted done. Her husband's hand went still at once, gripping her thigh with the teasing thumb tucked out of harm's way. "I'm sorry."

His eyes gave away his mortification, even though his expression remained soft. He shook his head, quickly, and rose to sit beside her on the bed, his arm across her shoulders.

"No apologies, mistress," he said, his voice walking the edge of his nervous giggle. "I'd not displease you in this for all the world."

"Nor I you," Belle promised, with fierce, slightly tearful sincerity. The burn and the ache had subsided as soon as he stopped playing with her, but she felt as if she had been wound up tight. Like the uncomfortable day she'd passed before he had stroked her by the fireside, in his lap - a bodily need that was not pleasant, that made her feel unlike herself in the wrong ways. She leaned into Rumpelstiltskin's side, and felt his relief as he understood that she was not upset, only confused again by these new feelings.

"You dislike to be touched... there?" Even his gesture was cautious, and Belle clutched at him, shaking her head urgently before she found the words to answer him properly.

"No!" Oh, how could he think that, when he'd given her so much pleasure? "I can't explain why it felt different." She managed to swallow another apology before it was born, and rested her head on his shoulder. "Now I've spoiled things," she said, instead. "You were enjoying yourself."

"No, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, slowly, "I was enjoying you. Forgive an old man his... quirks."

"There's nothing to forgive." Belle plucked at the front of his waistcoat, reassured by his concern and reminded of his gentleness. "How will I know that I like something unless I try? You thought I'd enjoy none of it."

He made a soft 'mmm' of approval, kissing the top of her head.

"It makes me glad," he said, haltingly. "That you enjoy it so. That I may... enjoy you." Belle waited, grasping the front of his shirt, feeling how he struggled with such words. "I'd not hoped for that."

"I know." Belle moved herself so that she could kiss his cheek. When she tried to watch his eyes, he avoided her gaze. "I'm glad too." She gave him another kiss, nearer to the corner of his mouth, and lingered over it longer. "We should know each other's quirks." She thought of his growing collection of ribbons, and of her garter, and of a way to restore the ease between them after such an awkward moment. "Would you brush my hair?" He looked at her, surprised, but nodded. As she went to rise to fetch her brush and comb, he held her gently in place and, extending one hand, made them appear there. "That's a waste of magic," she said, but without real reproach, for she was charmed by his small, showy tricks.

"It's mine to waste, my Lady," he said, mildly. "Put on your gown and be warm," he added, when a shiver came over her. Belle looked down at herself and saw her bosoms puckered with goosebumps, and her arms too. He took the silk gown from the foot of the bed and passed it to her, watching intently as she wriggled her way into it and, after a moment's hesitation, out of her petticoat and drawers. The change left her much more comfortable, in mind as well as body, and Belle hoped that he didn't mind too much that she had denied him the final unwrapping of his 'gift'. There would be another opportunity, she told herself, and made it a promise. A better time, when her mood was better suited, she would enjoy being undressed and admired again. Perhaps, one day, he would allow her to admire him also.

Belle sat cross-legged on the mattress, facing the pillows, and her husband knelt close behind her, carefully working to untie her hair. She had taken some pains with it, to weave in the ribbons to tease and please him, and it took him a while to find that she had secured the two braids with a hairpin, concealed beneath an overhanging tress of thick hair. She said nothing, did nothing, and allowed him to discover it for himself.

Her hair had not had the opportunity to tangle very much, but Rumpelstiltskin took his time over it, removing first one braid and then the other, and making a small, pleased sound in his throat as the ribbons came free. When he found no tangles with his fingers, he set to work with the brush and worked patiently from her left to her right, methodical and missing nothing. Belle felt thoroughly spoiled by the gentle indulgence, more than by the new gift of gold that still sat upon her pillow. While he brushed her, she looked at her left hand and studied the ring he'd given her, the day after their wedding. It was the purest gold, bright and soft, yet her new enthusiasm for household chores had not marked it at all; it still had a perfect polish.

"You would like more jewels?" Rumpelstiltskin lifted the hair away from her right shoulder, and placed his chin there in its place, embracing her from behind. "Something for your throat, perhaps?" He kissed her neck, and she could feel his longing.

"You've spoiled me," she said, and would have laughed if it did not seem too ungrateful. She adored the gifts, of course, but she would not demand them or they would not be gifts, nor half as precious to her. "I've nothing to give you except... ribbons."

He went still for a long moment, and Belle thought that she ought not have mentioned it, but he seemed unconcerned, and eventually sought her breast with his right hand while he gave her shoulder a moist, slow kiss.

"I wouldn't say that," he squeezed her breast, thumbing her nipple through the silk. She could hear his smile. "I never thought to know such gifts as these." His other hand claimed her other breast, and Belle laughed. It was pleasant when he touched them, and when he devoted his attention to her nipples it added to her deeper pleasures, but his fascination with her bosoms mystified her as much as his interest in her ribbons. But... they were hers, and perhaps that _was_ the allure? She placed her hands over his, rubbing them as they rubbed at her.

"And children? Will that be a gift?" She had doubted it, seeing his reticence when she spoke of the prospect, and his sadness about his long-ago son. To outlive a child...

"You're only a girl yourself," he said, leaving her breasts in favour of embracing her gently, his arms wrapped beneath hers. "And you think of children?"

"I'm healthy, strong," she said, uncertainly. "It won't be long before..."

"You long to be a mother?" He released her, sat his weight back and away from her, and she felt abandoned.

"...no," she admitted, turning herself to face him, sitting upon her heels. She could make nothing of his expression. "But we..." she gestured with both hands, to the bed, confused and trying not to seem foolish. "We're married." How many times had he left his seed inside her, already? She had known girls far younger than she fall pregnant within a month of their wedding, and nobody was surprised. "If you don't want children then we mustn't--"

"I'm not a man, Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, his brows knit together as he looked down at his hands. Her brush and comb were by his knees, along with her ribbons and hairpin. "New life can't ever come of... what I am." He waved his hands at his own body, then let them fall back into his lap. Belle reached over and took his hands, firmly.

"You had a son."

His confusion, as he stared at her with his mouth slightly open, made Belle wonder how little she knew about her husband. He was telling her something that, to him, was an obvious truth.

"I was not always thus," he said, unsteadily, trying to take his hands from hers. Belle held on to him, tightly. "Not always a monster."

"You're _not_ a monster," she all but snapped, ruled by her own confusion and upset by his.

"I am," Rumpelstiltskin said, carefully twisting each of his hands from hers in turn. Something cool had replaced the distress she'd witnessed a moment ago, and he spoke with clipped precision. "I've not pretended to be otherwise, dearie. Not pretended that you were getting the best of this bargain, have I?" His singsong voice warned her to be wary. "Think of what deformed and desperate creature might grow in your belly, if it came from me."

"Don't," Belle pleaded. She tried to shout, but could only choke the word out.

"A monster, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, slipping lightly from the bed and spreading his arms wide as he stood, displaying himself in the attitude of a proud, posturing courtier while he sneered his mockery. Not of her, but of everything. Of the entire world and, most of all, himself. "There's no point denying it, no matter how much my cock pleases you. You bed a monster, a _beast_ , so be glad nothing will come of it."

Belle shook her head, and turned her face away so that he wouldn't see her tears fall, nor how tightly she pressed her lips together to suppress a sob. She hugged herself, wanting him to go before he saw her weep, but knowing she would choke if she tried to command him. And, upset as she was by his manner, and even by his news, she didn't truly _want_ him to go away. Only that he wouldn't see her cry, see her too choked with outrage and desperate pity to speak her mind.

Rumpelstiltskin was right; he had not pretended to be otherwise. All that he had given her, all the kindnesses and concessions, had cost him dearly. Yet she had never felt that they went against his nature, only that he spared her some other part of him that ran alongside her careful husband - the part that laughed like a cruel child as it wielded a power beyond imagining, and reduced the world to a balance sheet. And nowhere, in their strange and terribly simple bargain, had he promised or demanded children.

He would have spared her even the consummation of their marriage - even knowing that, without it, she would not truly be his wife. That she would not truly have paid his price.

Well, she did not regret becoming truly his wife. She did not regret the bargain that spared her people from the ogres. She refused to regret looking for happiness in a marriage that might, so easily, have become her bed of thorns. And she did not believe that her husband was a monster.

Praying that he would take it, Belle stuck out her hand towards him, still looking blindly towards the window and still fighting her tears. When he did not take it, she forced herself to look, and saw him standing with his back to her, fists clenched tightly by his sides and his body quivering. Quickly, Belle wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her nightgown, and tried to compose herself.

"Please," she said, as steadily as she was able. She felt as if she might choke on just one word, but he was so still, and she couldn't bear his silence. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

As he turned, the harshness falling from his expression the moment he saw her, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, helplessly. He looked so afraid. Of her? Of her anger, or her scorn? Belle didn't know, and offered her hand again, pleading with her eyes. He took it, gingerly, and let her draw him back to sit at the edge of the bed, his back to her and his head bowed, his shoulders stooped.

"I did not imagine that I'd lie with you, even once," he said, grasping her hand as a drowning man might grasp a rescuer's rope. Belle's own grip was desperate. "That it would ever matter to you."

With an effort, Belle swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath. Had she refused him on their wedding night, or shunned him afterwards, the question would never have arisen. He had _expected_ that.

"Why did you marry me?" Her voice sounded flat to her, and hoarse with the unshed tears. "Did you even want me more than my people's gold, or was it only to be cruel? To remind people that you're not to be dealt with lightly?"

His hand almost crushed hers, but he remembered himself and his strength before she even had time to hiss with protest.

"You seemed as strong as you were lovely," he said, his voice as dull as hers. "Enough to endure, here with me." She heard him swallow; saw him shake his head slightly. "I'd grown tired of being alone."

"So much that a wife who refused to look past _this_ was a better prospect?" She lifted his hand before his face, shaking it, showing him his own flesh, and he nodded. Belle crawled up close behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders, and felt him sigh. Whether it was relief, sorrow or despair, she could not tell. "And are you glad that you have me for your wife? The truth, Rumpelstiltskin," she added, as he made to speak. The conviction in her own voice surprised her, as she returned his own words to him, with interest. "These things matter."

"Belle." He whispered her name, so softly that she barely heard him. "I'm glad."

"Then I'm glad," she said, too hurt by his behaviour to give the words warmth, but sincere. "To have a husband who wants me, not just as a vessel for his sons." She swallowed, summoning her nerve and her strength. If he had seen her strength as something to be admired, then she would make use of it. "Stop blaming me, being angry for things I've never done, just because you expected me to do them. Please."

"Do I?" His bleakness of tone moved her; he sounded so defeated. Belle untucked his hair from his collar with both hands, arranging it fussily. It was a small gesture of affection, but she could not bring herself to do more to comfort him.

"You thought I'd leave when I had the chance. What reason had I given you for that?"

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. She heard him swallow, noisily, and wondered if the lump in his throat was as big and as painful as her own.

"None."

"I won't pretend that I'm glad, about children. I won't lie just because you try to frighten me. I could never despise them for being born like you."

"Of course not." Chastened, quiet and sad, her husband was the pitiful opposite of that prancing, taunting creature he became when he wanted to remind her of his power. She could not be angry with him, not truly, when she could see his sorrow. "You've enough kindness even for monsters."

"And for stubborn husbands." Belle gave him a feeble push between the shoulders, barely moving him. It was a childish gesture, a ridiculous revenge, but it made her feel slightly better. "What happened to you? If you were a man once, an ordinary man..."

"Magic," he said, gravely. "The darkest. This--" he pinched at the flesh on the back of his left hand "--is the least of it, I promise you."

"I saw the books in the library. Books for a child, some of them are new. You keep a room ready and fill it with toys, as though he might come back at any moment. You loved him, you miss him, so you keep his memory close. No monster does those things." Belle tried to turn him to face her, hand upon his shoulder. While she could not move him, it seemed that she could command him, for he turned himself to look at her, tucking one leg beneath him. "What happened?"

"I lost him," Rumpelstiltskin said, eyes downcast. "As I did his mother."

"I'm sorry." Belle was, and touched his cheek. Her hand shook, and he held it gently, shutting his eyes and kissing her palm. "You're not alone any more. If I'm not to be a mother then I'll just have to try being an even better wife."

"Belle." Kissing her hand again, then clutching it to his chest, Rumpelstiltskin met her gaze for a moment. "I don't know how to be the husband who deserves you." He snorted, and his voice gained a little more strength as he found his black humour again. "I'm not sure any man could."

"Then you'll have to try as well," she reasoned, and shrugged her shoulders. "That seems a fair bargain, to me."

Belle offered her arms, longing to push away the sorrow and the hurt, for both of them; to forgive him, before her hurt became a poison. He came to her, and held her tightly.

When a few tears fell, soaking into Rumpelstiltskin's shirt as they lay close and chaste, Belle didn't try to hide them, and her husband didn't try to brush them away.


	26. Dark Justice

It was the first time Belle had known Rumpelstiltskin to be both awake and truly still, beside her. He'd made himself her bolster, her head on his chest and her knee resting on his thighs, and done nothing more than drape his arm across her back. She knew that he wasn't sleeping, any more than she was, and when she began to grow cold, Belle pushed herself away from him. Her head felt cloudy from crying, her face swollen and probably as unlovely as could be imagined, but the tears had passed. She was only tired, heavy all over after her day's labours and the painful confrontation with her husband.

He was wide awake, but lay still and watched her without meeting her gaze. They had come to rest in the middle of the bed, surrounded by her hairbrush and comb, her ribbons, and her golden bracelet where it had slipped from the pillow in answer to their weight. Belle collected the things up, carefully, and even slid her hand beneath Rumpelstiltskin's back to find her hairpin. It gave her something to do, and put off the moment when she would have to speak to him, or be spoken to. She could think of nothing that it seemed right to say.

She made a visit to her bathing room, washing her face and cleaning her teeth so vigorously that she made her finger raw where her teeth were sharpest. Would Rumpelstiltskin wait for her, or would he slip away while she wasn't looking? Thinking about that only left her more weary, made her very heart weary, and she shut herself away for longer than her business in the little bathroom actually demanded, spending a while leaning against the wall until she was too cold to stay where she was.

Rumpelstiltskin had tidied the bed, turned back the covers and plumped the pillows. He'd been sitting at the edge, but sprang up when Belle emerged, and faced her with palpable anxiety. He'd extinguished most of the candles, as well, and collected her fallen clothing to drape it across her trunk.

"Thank you," she said, taking it all in and then going to him, and giving him a light kiss to the cheek. "Will you stay, if we only sleep?" It sounded more an accusation than a question, and Belle winced to herself. She had hardly been a reluctant participant in their other activities in the great bed; she had as good as demanded that he bed her to begin with. "I'm very tired," she added, touching his arm on her way to climb into bed.

"I'll stay," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. The last candles went out as he followed her into the bed, finding her at the very middle. Belle tucked her arm beneath a pillow, beneath her head, and let him make himself comfortable behind her. He did not push himself against her, but touched her shoulder uncertainly and, when she made no objection, gave her a soft kiss there before lying down. He was close enough to her that she could feel his warmth. "I never meant to deceive you," he said, once they were both still.

Had he? Belle sighed, as quietly as she could manage. As his wife, she had assumed that it was her obligation to give him children and, therefore, to lie with him. Her whole life had been little but a preparation for marriage, to whichever husband promised the most good for her people, and she had always known that children would be expected of her. Would she have refused Rumpelstiltskin, on their wedding night, had he told her then that he had no such expectations? Would she have been with him so willingly, since then, if she had known that she need not try to conceive for him?

Children or no, she would still have thought it her duty to give herself to her husband. If he had been unkind, or harsh with her, or if she had found the business to be a trial, then perhaps she would not have been so willing, but she would not have _refused_ him. Would she?

Her husband wanted her forgiveness, and Belle couldn't even be sure what he had done wrong, other than to hide behind the monster he sometimes tried to be.

"I would have done nothing differently, if I'd known," she said, because what else could she believe? Better her own, very slight uncertainty on the question than for Rumpelstiltskin to think he'd won her favour under false pretences. "I'm no less your wife, am I?"

No, she would change nothing about the past, even if she could. It was the future that had changed with an unexpected cruelty; it was a future in which she lacked a purpose that had always been hers to own. To bear children.

"It grieves you, that there will be no children?"

His pleading tone irritated her, making her feel petty and, therefore, guilty.

"I don't know," she told him, managing to keep her own tone civil, at least. "Please, let's sleep."

"Belle--"

"Please," she begged, because the tears were still too close and, in truth, she could not have told him why. She wanted time to herself, to think, yet something within told her that to push her husband away now, when he had confessed his inability to father children, would only do harm. Whether he wanted sons or not, surely no man wanted to think himself incapable of getting them, any more than a woman wanted to think herself barren? "My feet are cold," she said, small voiced and truthful. "And I'm very tired."

Wordlessly, Rumpelstiltskin eased himself nearer, so that his shoulder and hip almost touched her back, and Belle smiled a little as she curled her legs to find the warmth of his with her feet. "Thank you," she said, giving all of her mind to the small, familiar kindness.

Fatigue did carry her off to sleep, for a while, but Belle was restless enough to register that Rumpelstiltskin remained by her side, and that he did not go to sleep himself. Her efforts to get comfortable after each half-waking left her facing him as she usually did, her head resting on his outstretched arm and, after a little while, feeling his lips against her forehead. The kiss soothed her, somehow, and she reached her arm across her husband's belly to pull herself nearer to him, before sleeping again, this time until dawn.

Feeling groggy and wrung out, Belle comforted herself that Rumpelstiltskin had not left her in the night. It must have been hours since she curled herself against his side and went properly to sleep, and he hadn't moved at all in all that time, content to be her bolster and foot-warmer. He was awake, she knew. His breathing was different, while he slept, and his body looser. Had he lain awake the whole night, forcing himself to be still for her sake?

Lifting herself so that she could gaze down at him, Belle could see his eyes reflecting the small amount of light that peeked around the curtains. Rumpelstiltskin moved, now that she was awake, and collected his nest of pillows behind him at the very head of the bed, watching her the whole while.

Belle yawned, longing for more sleep. There was a lingering soreness below her ribs, the memory of last night's hurt and sorrow, but it was a dull pain, and if Rumpelstiltskin was the cause then he was also the remedy, for she felt better once she put her arms around him again and nestled close against his left side.

After a while, as sleep left her, she began to touch him. It began as a whim, a distraction from her unhappy thoughts, but curiosity soon took over and guided her hand. She had never explored him with real purpose, being always interested in their pleasures; now, she simply ran her hand over the front of his nightgown, and fingered inside the neck of it, and felt out the whole shape of her husband's torso for the sake of knowing it.

It caused Rumpelstiltskin to breathe faster, especially when her hand found his right hip and the inside of her wrist brushed against his manhood on the way. He was soft, and the thirst for knowledge drew her fingers back there to feel him, cautiously, through his nightgown. Of course, if she played with it then it was unlikely to _stay_ soft; he seemed not to need even her touch to cause it to harden in readiness for her.

"It won't bite your hand," he said, with a seductive warmth that she had not expected to hear, this morning, any more than she had expected to awaken in his arms. With a kind of mental shrug, Belle covered his groin with her open hand and curled her fingers, feeling the size and weight of him, and the heat too, for his skin seemed much warmer there. Impatient, and for the first time not caring how he felt about his nakedness, Belle drew up the front of his nightgown with a few businesslike tugs, much as he had done to her, on their wedding night. She hadn't died of it, and nor would he; she wanted to touch him, to know all about that part of him, and every instinct told her that, today of all days, he would do nothing to prevent her having her way.

 _Cock_ , he'd called it. She thought about that, following the crease of his inner thigh with her fingertips and feeling him tremble from head to toe. Well, she'd known the word, and even if she hadn't been sure exactly what was meant, she'd been capable of an educated guess. It suited the proud, silly, forward thing, she thought, smirking to herself as she felt it begin to thicken when she lifted and moved it.

"Can you stop it getting hard?" she asked, peering at as much as she could make out in the half-light. "Your cock?" She said the word with an emphasis that, she hoped, would let him know that his attempt to shock her with it had neither worked, nor been forgiven. It delighted her when he fidgeted and lost his grip upon her shoulder, spluttering his reply.

"Self control only goes so far when..." he waved his hands, urgently, indicating what she was doing to him. "It doesn't bother doing much at all, except when you're nearby," he added, an obvious effort lowering his voice by an octave.

Between his legs, behind his cock, he was dry and soft and a little wrinkled - a heavy bag of thin, loose flesh that hung limply in her palm. She knew it to be a fragile part of any man, having witnessed a few brawls and heard tales of others, so held him with care. It seemed better protected by its positioning than that part of most animals, perhaps because only people understood how to be cruel when they fought. Or, perhaps only so that the man could fit the woman, she mused.

Her methodical exploration had left Rumpelstiltskin trembling, his cock grown long and thick to rest against his soft belly. She could see the shape of it, now that the morning had advanced a little further; she could see where her own hand moved, grasping him and giving a couple of slow pulls to feel the thing grow harder still.

She liked that it was so easy stir him, and he seemed to like it much better than she had liked his direct attentions to her tenderest part, the previous evening. When she moved herself lower, her head on his upper belly instead of his chest, his cock all but jumped in her hand, and he petted her hair, clumsily.

Belle knew that she wouldn't have dared, in full daylight, but she kissed him just beneath the rucked up hem of his nightgown, and felt his lower belly tighten and twitch in response. When she did the same again, lingering longer with her mouth upon his skin, and moved her hand up and down his shaft at the same time, Rumpelstiltskin's back arched, almost throwing her aside, and his hand tightened painfully in her hair for a few heartbeats.

Why did he cover himself, if he liked to be kissed as much as she did? She thought of applying her mouth, her tongue, to his nipples and seeing if that met with a better response than her fingertips had, but fascination with what was in her hand kept her still. As she stroked him, her nervous care giving way to a slow and gentle rhythm that matched his shallow breaths, Rumpelstiltskin stroked her hair and made soft, inarticulate noises of approval.

Her curiosity had become his pleasuring, but Belle liked it well enough - and she _was_ learning. As before, when she'd taken him in her hand, Rumpelstiltskin stopped her after a while, his hand wrapped around hers to keep her there but keep her from moving it. Belle studied his breathing, and the sounds he made, and wished that she could see him better when she felt a trickle of wetness reach her grasping fingers.

"Why do you stop me?"

A soft but nervous laugh shook him, beneath her cheek, and he buried his fingers in her hair.

"I don't want it to spit in your eye, my dear."

"...oh." Belle hadn't considered that possibility, and felt her face grow hot. Whether it was the thought of what might have happened, or merely because she'd failed to realise it, she couldn't say.

"Unless you'd like that," he added, with another chuckle, which only added to her confusion and her blushes.

"Don't tease me," she complained, but halfheartedly. It was her ignorance that she minded, not his fun with her. "Not while I have hold of this," she added, and gave him a squeeze that caused his legs to stiffen and his restraining hand to clench around her own.

"As you wish," he managed, through clenched teeth, his dignity flown and his heels digging into the mattress. "I really should move, dearie, if I were you," he panted, when Belle tried another, wetter and slower kiss to his bare belly. She did move, sitting up and gazing down at all she could see of his midsection; the bundled up nightgown, his slim hips and the joining of their hands around his shaft. He released her hand at once, and she realised that he had been quite serious; his completion was near. It took only a few more strokes of her hand, done firmly, and Belle watched what she could of his contortions, now certain that his pleasure came in building waves much like her own, then ebbed away into a languid state of satisfaction once he was empty of his seed.

It satisfied Belle, in a strange way of her own, to see her husband so easily undone by a few movements of her hand; to have roused his desire so deliberately in the first place. She covered him gently with his nightgown, and curled beside him in the nest of pillows, listening as his breathing returned to normal. Rumpelstiltskin stroked her hair, combing it with his fingers, and made a sound of contentment when Belle pressed herself nearer to him.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

"So... you stayed to keep my feet warm?" Belle hooked one foot over his leg, smiling.

"Because you wanted me to stay." He took a deep breath, and forced strength into his voice where none had been a moment ago. "I have business in town today. It's market day. Do you want to come with me?"

"Yes, of course." Whether it was a request or mere courtesy she didn't know, and didn't care. She would not let the opportunity to be with other people pass her by. Belle drew herself up to give him a kiss on the cheek, meaning to get out of bed and begin her day, but Rumpelstiltskin met her with his mouth instead. It seemed too long since they had kissed, but Belle didn't want to be stirred to excitement, so drew herself away from him after a few slow, shallow kisses. "Breakfast or tea?"

"Tea," he said, after a moment's hesitation. She had confused him with her behaviour, with her bold curiosity, and could not help feeling that it was his turn to be the one left reeling.

"Good. I'll buy more of the little pastries."

"As you wish."

Belle gave him a last kiss before climbing out of bed, not wanting to seem cold and unforgiving, but not wanting him to offer to see to her pleasure, either, because then she would have to refuse him. Desire seemed a distant prospect, this morning. Whether it was because she had slept badly, or because he had upset her so, she could not tell, and certainly didn't want to have to try explaining to _him_ until she had cleared her mind. Besides, her mood had given her an insight into another piece of Mistress Elena's advice, about how often she would _let_ her husband enjoy her. For the first time, neither her sense of duty nor her desire for pleasure held any sway with her. She had not minded pleasing him with her hand, but it had been her quest for knowledge, merely coinciding happily with his enjoyment of her touch.

Would she dare to refuse him, if he came to her tonight?

She had to venture down to the kitchen in her nightgown to fetch suitable clothing for the day. She chose the things she had ironed so neatly, scurrying back upstairs with the warm bundle in her arms and her feet freezing upon the stone floors. By the time she returned to her room, Rumpelstiltskin had gone and her bed was, as always, neatly made for her.

Although she had been young when her mother died, Belle remembered clearly that she had shared a room with Papa. A part of it had been hers, a part of it his, but they shared the rest, and always the same bed. Belle couldn't imagine sharing this room with Rumpelstiltskin, nor that _he_ would want to give up his solitude for the sake of a shorter journey to her bed.

Dressing with care, knowing that she would be seen in town, Belle made an effort with her hair as well. Lotte had seemed to have some magic at her beck and call, when it came to hair; whether caring for it, untangling it or pulling it up into showy styles with nothing but a comb and a few pins, Belle's hair had simply obeyed her maid. Her own effort was simple; one braid on each side pinned beneath the rest of her hair to keep it back from her face without concealing any of its length or fullness.

It was only as she headed back down to the kitchen in stockinged feet, to find and clean her muddy boots, that Belle realised she had not used any ribbons in her hair today.

~+~

Odstone had been relatively quiet during Belle's earlier visits. In spite of the fresh fall of snow overnight, the roads were clear and the town was simply heaving with people. Their carriage stopped outside the gates, and as Rumpelstiltskin helped her down Belle could see why. The market had spread from the crossroads down the main streets and it looked as if everyone in the district had come to buy or sell today, and perhaps from far beyond as well.

"The quarterly market," he explained, mistaking her pang of homesickness for confusion at what she saw ahead of them. "Livestock, and there will be a fair, and the court of justice."

Belle kept hold of Rumpelstiltskin's arm as they went through the gates, and they went almost unnoticed in the crush of busy people. It was a relief to be jostled and ignored rather than carefully avoided, and Belle had hopes of being able to move around the stalls and speak to people who did not know her, or fear her husband. She had brought a larger basket with her, on this occasion, hoping to find cloth to sew herself some aprons, and Rumpelstiltskin had asked if she needed more coins. She still had more gold than she had ever carried in her life, she told him, and saw him at last try to smile.

It had not even been a quarrel between them, last night, but it had left a rift and she did not know how to mend it.

"You're here for the court," she said, forcing her thoughts back to the present and leaning more heavily than she needed to on Rumpelstiltskin's arm, simply to prove that she wasn't shunning him in any way. They were being noticed, as they threaded their way up towards the square, and the crowds became more subdued and deferential as word of their arrival spread. Rumpelstiltskin walked erect, a swagger in his step, and Belle would have sworn that he had polished his horrid coat of stiff leathery scales.

"Yes. Only the most serious matters are put before me."

"You aren't disturbed for trivialities," Belle said, absent mindedly. Rumpelstiltskin stopped in his tracks, one foot held theatrically in mid air only to be placed on the ground with exaggerated care as he turned to face her. "You... told me that," she said, slightly alarmed by his predatory smile and glinting eyes. "In the coach, the first time we came."

"So I did." His smile was a flash of danger, and Belle recoiled, certain that she had done nothing to earn his displeasure. "Take care in the crowds, my Lady," he said, as she pulled her arm from his. "I'll be at the town hall." He pointed with a flourish to the building behind her, and Belle turned to look at it. Other than the brightly painted carvings above the door, nothing marked the building out as being special in the street of larger houses, with their fancy shutters. "There's seldom any business to speak of, but I must play my part."

Catching her hand, Rumpelstiltskin bent low and kissed it before striding towards the town hall. He did not wait for anyone to move out of his way - they simply cleared a path without slowing him down for one step.

Unnerved by the sudden change in him, Belle drew up her hood and made her way up the rest of the street to the square while people were preoccupied with Rumpelstiltskin's entrance. With any luck, she would be forgotten in the excitement and could browse the many stalls without all eyes following her.

Her hopes were quickly dashed, for word had spread and even her cloak was recognised by those who had seen it before. They pointed her out to others, leaving her once more dealing with overly cautious, fearfully polite people who would take her coin but were too afraid to give her a real smile. Defeated, for the moment, Belle went about her business as quickly and as politely as she could, filling her basket and not trying to encourage anyone to speak with her, other than by her simple courtesy.

She had not the strength, today, to be where she was not welcome.

It took her longest to find the cloth she needed, and to search out the stall where she had bought paper on her first visit to the town. Although the array of goods interested her, the reluctance of the sellers kept her from approaching any stall from which she did not intend to buy something. Feeling horribly alone, in such a crowd, Belle longed for home.

And it was not Rumpelstiltskin's castle that she thought of, when she thought of home. That weighed on her, as she made her last stop and bought six of the small pastries from Master Hadley. He, at least, was able to give her a smile and something approaching a welcome, and he asked her very politely to try a new type of bun and give her opinion. Belle was so grateful for his friendly welcome that she would have pretended to enjoy stale bread, but the sugared bun he proffered looked truly delicious. When she bit, she found the plain bread full of dried fruits.

"I think it's wonderful, Master Hadley," she said, when she managed to swallow the doughy mouthful. "One of these would make a fine meal. I'll buy this one and two more, thank you."

"They say food don't go stale in the castle," Hadley said, as he carefully took her coins, returning to her a few coppers in change. "Is that true, my Lady?" He placed the two buns neatly in her basket beside the pastries, and Belle tucked the one she was holding in next to them.

"Yes. In the larder, anyway." Belle said it with a smile, glad to be drawn on any topic if it kept her from feeling so lonely in the town, but Hadley seemed to have made as much effort as he felt able, and gave her a slight wave when she nodded to him and moved on.

As alone as she often found herself, at the castle, she felt it so much more keenly here in town. For a moment, Belle thought of visiting Wren, but it was likely that she was out among the crowds, or even had a stall for her herbs somewhere, and, in any case, what would she say? Her own self-pity irritated her, and something told her that Wren would be no more impressed with it than she.

Belle could not blame the townspeople for fearing her husband. Even she, with whom he had taken such great care to be kind, sensed that Rumpelstiltskin would punish anyone who wronged her, and do so harshly. Were she the sort of woman to take advantage of that for her own gain, or even to complain about imagined slights, it could make her very dangerous indeed.

On her way back to the town hall, Belle found that she was drawing less and less attention. Her relief at this changed to curiosity as she realised that people were beginning to gather in the street outside the painted building. As she grew nearer, she could see that people were spilling out of the large double doors, and others were gathered at the windows.

She recognised it. Even the tedious sessions of the magistrates, at home, brought an enthusiastic crowd of onlookers - some to support the accused, but most came to gawk and entertain themselves with the spectacle of it, or with the misfortunes of others. Belle had attended only with her father, when hardened criminals were to be tried or sentenced, since this fell to the Councilmen.

Belle disliked the strange hunger that came over a crowd, when justice was seen to be done. She could feel it now, as she threaded her way through the press of bodies, ignoring the hasty apologies from those who noticed her. It seemed an unusually attentive crowd.

"What's happening here?" she asked, when she could go no further towards the building without using her elbows to force her way through the people. As soon as those around her glanced at her, they shrank from her, leaving her in a circle of respectful space, and Belle held herself as upright as she could, clutching her basket tightly. "Who is being tried, and for what crime?"

"A stranger, my Lady," a thin and worried woman provided, and curtseyed when Belle's eyes found her among the sea of faces. "He took a little girl away into the snow, and she never came back."

"He was found dead drunk over Marden way, blood all over his clothes, and won't say what he done with the little mite," a man offered. He, too, gave an anxious nod of respect when Belle turned to look for him. "He'll hang, if he's lucky."

"Lucky?" Belle stared at him, but the man had returned to staring at the town hall. The crowds around the door and windows were falling back to join their fellows in the street, and a wiry, filthy prisoner was being led out by two much larger men, his hands bound before him. The prisoner had been beaten, she could see; his eyes were swollen almost shut, his mouth torn at the left corner, and he stumbled as he was driven ahead of his guards.

Emerging behind the prisoner and his escort, Rumpelstiltskin walked easily beside the tall man Belle had seen him speak to on her last visit to market. He was dark skinned, richly robed, and younger than she had supposed from her distant glimpse of him; it was his bearing that had given her to believe he was an older man, for he looked to have the weight of the world upon his shoulders, along with a heavy, multi-layered and intricate golden chain of office.

This head man stopped at the street, and waited for the crowd to gather and fall silent around the grim party.

Seeing her, Rumpelstiltskin cocked his head and smiled, but something in the gesture left Belle cold. She returned a hesitant wave of her hand, and only thought to go and stand beside her husband when he extended his hand with an overdone pout of mock hurt. She could not refuse him, not in front of his people, but her steps were hesitant. The shine in his eyes was beyond mischief, beyond cunning, and his pupils were so large that they all but obliterated his irises. It reminded her of when he had warned her against leaving the castle, and his eyes had turned almost completely black; it reminded her to be wary of magic, and most especially of his.

When she took his hand, he shivered with naked pleasure and grabbed her across the shoulders, keeping her close.

"My dear."

"Husband." Belle nodded to the bound prisoner, as the man with the chain unrolled a small scroll and cleared his throat. "Is the man to die?"

"Certainly. But we may persuade him to tell where he left his victim, before that happens." Rumpelstiltskin's smile was a leer, and Belle recoiled from it. There had to be justice, of course there did, and sometimes there had to be a death. A life for a life, before still more were taken either in vengeance, or in the madness of the murderer. Belle had seen satisfaction or victory in the eyes of those whose loved ones had been victim to such a man, but never pleasure at the prospect of an execution. Rumpelstiltskin looked as he did when inflamed with lust for her, all but quivering on a knife-edge of barely suppressed enthusiasm for the proceedings.

"This man," Belle managed, tearing her gaze away from Rumpelstiltskin's glee and pointing to the one with the chain about his shoulders. "What's his name?"

"Janek."

"Is he mayor?"

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin's fingers tightened and relaxed upon her upper arm, his fingers moving in turn, in sequence, as though he played some kind of instrument or one of his string puzzles. He was as tense and watchful as a cat eyeing an unwary bird, his eyes never leaving the back of the prisoner's neck.

The sentence was read to the silent crowd. The man had refused to give his name, or say where he hailed from, and had not admitted his guilt. He had refused to say where the dead child lay, and Belle could see that he had been _persuaded_ at some length.

Behind her, she heard a woman begin to weep. When she tried to turn and look, with a vague notion of offering her condolences or some comfort, Rumpelstiltskin held her immobile with the simple act of tightening his arm.

Janek finished reading from his scroll, and turned to regard the prisoner, his dark eyes cold with disgust.

"The body of Yrsa Littlehip," he said, with a venom that did not suit his kindly features. "Allow her to be put to rest, and properly mourned by her parents."

The prisoner elbowed his guards away and spat at Janek's feet.

"Another thing," Rumpelstiltskin said, releasing Belle suddenly and striding to Janek's side, his presence stilling the prisoner's contempt somewhat. "Who sent you?" With a casual flick of his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin directed the guards to step away from their prisoner. Belle saw that they were only too glad to do so, and that their fearful gaze fell upon Rumpelstiltskin, not the bound murderer.

His boots clicking upon the cobbles with each prancing step, Rumpelstiltskin circled the man, amusement lifting his calm expression into something that Belle found quite grotesque to watch.

"A nameless killer who happens upon my lands, steals away a child and makes certain that he is captured in the wake of his bloody deed." So fast that there wasn't even a blur of movement, Rumpelstiltskin stood before the prisoner, hand beneath his jaw. That the man was at least two heads taller than Rumpelstiltskin did not matter; he was all but lifted onto his toes by it, and choked for air, his hands clawing against Rumpelstiltskin's arm. "Where is Yrsa Littlehip?" His voice had become a hiss, and Belle could feel magic in the air. She could not tell whether it came from her husband or was being drawn towards him. It prickled the back of her legs, the base of her spine, and lifted the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. "A man can take long, frantic minutes to strangle to death at the end of a rope," Rumpelstiltskin told him, an intimate whisper that somehow carried to many of the surrounding ears, including Belle's. "I'm sure I can see to it that minutes become hours. Possibly even days. Where is the child?"

Belle's heart was in her throat. Behind her, a mother wept.

"There's a well," the man choked, his face beginning to turn from red to purple. "In the woods."

Rumpelstiltskin dropped him, nodding, and the man staggered back, coughing and pawing at his neck with his bound hands. Belle thought that he would fall to the ground, but he kept his feet and, doubled over, stared up at Rumpelstiltskin with hatred.

"And the other matter?" Rumpelstiltskin fingered his chin, eyes turned upward and a small smile playing with his lips, as though he was merely introducing a topic for conversation at a dinner table. "Who sent you here?"

"For that you spare me, demon," the man growled, and Rumpelstiltskin looked at him, one eyebrow raised and the small smile becoming a smirk.

"Oh, do I?"

Belle stepped hastily backwards as the man staggered back in her general direction, but she was too slow, and the crowd prevented her from moving far enough; before she could cry out, he was behind her, had looped his arms over her head and pulled his bound wrists tight below her breasts, dragging her with him into the scattering crowd. Her basket smashed to the ground and spilled, her bolt of pale fabric unwinding like a streamer towards the road. It took but a heartbeat to happen, but the moment fixed itself in her memory like a slowly shifting dream; the rush of movement, the pressure against her ribs, and the contents of her basket spilling out across the newly laid carpet of white cloth.

"I leave here or your woman dies," the man barked, over her shoulder. With a gasp, Belle realised that a small blade, or a shard of something sharp, had been between the man's palms. It probably couldn't kill her unless he sliced her throat, the cut would be too shallow, but he had it against her chest now and she cried out in alarm as he pressed it into her clothing.

Rumpelstiltskin stood before them, head tilted to one side. His eyes were colder than ice, his smile become a frozen grimace.

"I think not," he said, and snapped his fingers. Belle felt the pressure of her captor's arms vanish, and heard the shouts of horror from the crowd before she felt and heard the warm water splashing behind her. She leapt away from it, and Rumpelstiltskin caught her, snatched her to him and clutched at her while she turned to stare at where her desperate captor had been standing.

Those nearest, who had been trapped between the drama and the walls of the town hall, had been splashed to the knees, as Belle had at the back of her skirts. Nothing remained of the prisoner but a great, spreading puddle of water upon the cobblestones. Rumpelstiltskin, rigid with rage, held her so tightly that she could barely breathe. Belle was glad of it, for the first few moments, for she could be no safer than under his protection and she felt sick with fright.

Even the grieving mother had fallen silent. Belle saw her, tearstained and leaning against an older man who might be her father, staring, as was everyone else, at the water, or at Belle herself. She looked down and saw blood on her dress, seeping slowly through her bodice midway down her ribs. At her gasp, Rumpelstiltskin held her away from him and looked too, and his lip curled in a snarl of rage.

He pressed his hand to her chest, magic shimmering purple where he touched her.

"It is a cut," he said, tightly. "A flesh wound." She felt the magic pulling at her skin for a moment, flooding her with both warm and cold in the bone beneath. She tasted coal, and saw bright green swirls before her eyes, and then he withdrew his hand, slowly. "All mended," he crooned, once more tucking her close against his side and, turning, leading her towards the road.

"My Lord," Janek began, hurrying to meet them, "is my Lady Belle--"

"I'm fine," Belle said, her annoyance at his speaking to Rumpelstiltskin and not to her momentarily pushing aside her fright and horror. Rumpelstiltskin pulled her closer, squeezing her shoulders tightly.

"There would have been no need for this, had your men persuaded him to talk."

"N-no, my Lord." Janek's brown skin was almost grey with fear.

"Well," Rumpelstiltskin said, loud enough for all to hear. The arm that wasn't around Belle was raised in a sudden flourish as his voice rose towards his manic giggle. "At least we've saved the price of a rope."


	27. Fit Company

Rumpelstiltskin gave Belle no choice about returning to the carriage, and she could not have mustered a protest had she tried. Her fallen basket was left abandoned before the town hall, and the crowds parted in fearful almost-silence as her husband hurried her towards the gate and the waiting coach.

Having bundled her inside, Rumpelstiltskin flung himself into the seat between Belle and the door, slamming it shut with unnecessary force. It was only as the carriage began to move that Belle began to breathe properly again, and to feel her rigid shock dissolving into a sick, weak-limbed sensation. She could not stop looking down at the front of her dress, where the bloodstain surrounded a cut in the fabric. Such a small cut, really. She fingered it, her hand trembling.

"Belle." As if unaffected by the rocking of the carriage over the rutted road, Rumpelstiltskin knelt at her feet and, grasping two great handfuls of her skirts, stared up at her. His eyes were still too dark at the centre, with more of the prowling predator about them than his usual sharp, hawk-like stare. She stared back at him, dumbly. "I would have killed him slowly," her husband said, clipped and terrible. "For touching one hair of your head. But for this..." He put his fingertips over the bloodstain, and while he quivered as much as she, Belle could see that it was pure rage, on his part. Had he been able to restore the villain to life again, only to subject him to a slower and more terrible punishment, Belle was certain that he would have done so.

She felt sick, and no better at all when Rumpelstiltskin surged up at her, grabbing the seat behind her shoulders and kissing her, fiercely. After a moment, he grasped the back of her neck with one hand, trying to deepen the kiss with his open mouth, and as he pushed his weight between her knees Belle could think only of the time that Gaston had surprised her with an unwanted kiss, and how very much she had wanted to go and wash her face afterwards.

Undeterred by her stillness, Rumpelstiltskin leaned his weight into her body, applied his hungry kisses to her throat, and began to pull up the hem of her skirts with one, clumsy hand.

"Don't!" Belle pushed at him, suddenly and frighteningly aware that, should Rumpelstiltskin defy her, there was nothing that she could do to prevent him having his way. Her push didn't move him so much as a fraction of an inch, but he obeyed her command and dropped his handful of her petticoats, head snapping up to regard her, eye to eye. His eyes were narrowed, as though he struggled to see her, and his tongue flicked nervously at his lips.

Carefully, Belle applied a more gentle, steady pressure to his shoulders and he pushed himself quickly away from her, sprawling into the opposite seat and planting one boot upon the upholstery. Hand drumming upon his knee, he continued to stare at her, unblinking and, Belle was half sure, unseeing as well. She tore her own gaze away and gulped for breath, dragging aside the little curtain at the window to give herself a distraction. Snow was falling, again, and she could see little but a grey and white blur until they reached the castle gates and the carriage was still.

When Rumpelstiltskin did not move, she opened the door for herself but then, in one smooth, swift motion, he swung himself out of the door and waited for her, offering his hands to steady her step down. Belle fixed her eyes upon their joined hands, as she did so, feeling a sharp anger begin to consume her shock at his behaviour. Tangled around it was the realisation that her husband had gladly killed a man, yet it had been his unwanted advance upon _her_ that provoked her to revulsion. She felt dry-mouthed, her stomach roiling, and could not bring herself to look at him.

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice high and light, " _there_ it is." He still had her hands, grasping them at the level of his chest. He leaned closer as though to kiss her, and Belle recoiled, but he only stared until she looked up at him, then cocked his head and gave her a smile without warmth or humour in it.

"What is?" Belle managed, truly worried that she might vomit at any moment if she could not sit down and catch her breath, alone. She was wet through, and the snow came with a chill wind that made her teeth begin to chatter.

"Disgust," Rumpelstiltskin said, drawing one fingertip slowly down her cheek and savouring each syllable as though it were a sweet and sticky treat. Smug.

With an inarticulate sound of, yes, disgust, Belle pushed him away from her and started walking towards the castle. That he allowed himself to stagger theatrically from her feeble assault, and that he giggled horribly as he did so, brought hot tears to her eyes. She all but ran to the castle doors, which opened at her touch, but glanced behind her as she crossed the threshold.

Rumpelstiltskin remained at the gates, hands wrapped around the bars at the height of his head, his forehead resting against the iron. As Belle watched, she saw him deliver three, vicious kicks to the base of the gate. Snow and icicles showered down around him as he did so.

Gulping, Belle picked up her damp skirts and ran for the stairs.

Above all, Belle knew that she must take off the dress. It was soaked with all that was left of the prisoner, and the very thought of it made her feel ill. She locked the door to her chambers, for all the good that it would do if Rumpelstiltskin chose to disregard her wishes, and fought her way free of first her skirts and petticoat, and then of the bloody bodice and her stockings. Only her drawers were unspoiled, her soft chemise having been cut through and as bloodstained as her stays.

Leaving everything in disarray upon her bedroom carpet, she shut herself away in the bathing room and washed every inch of her skin, until she could be certain that none of the ghastly water still touched her, anywhere, and that not a spot of blood remained.

It calmed her, although dry, hurt sobs came while she scrubbed. When she climbed out of the warm water and wrapped herself up in towels, Belle no longer trembled and no longer feared she would empty her stomach at the slightest further provocation. She perched on the rim of the copper bath and let her topmost towel fall open, touching her wet skin where the wound had been. There was no trace of it, after Rumpelstiltskin's magic. Not even a faint white scar.

To turn a man to water, then brush away a bleeding wound as though it had never been... Belle wrapped herself tightly with the towel, again, and hugged her torso. All that had happened in the village was becoming sharp in her memory, startling her in vivid flashes the way her recollections of her wedding night sometimes would. Would she always feel that water, warm as blood, upon her skin, the way she could still recall how it felt when Rumpelstiltskin first kissed her?

Her body remembered, too, those first moments when he took her; the not-quite-pain of it, the awkward uncertainty of it, and how his ragged breaths had felt and sounded close to her face. Few other moments in her life stayed with her so vividly, not even the sound of her mother's weakening cries in childbirth, nor the assaults upon her town walls as the very castle shook and crumbled about her. She could remember them, but not those merciless details; the memories flooded her with emotion, of course, but did not cause her body to echo the experience anew.

Belle shivered, realising that the rest of her clean clothing was still down in the kitchen, drying before the fire. She could wear her nightdress, again, and fresh underthings beneath it, but unless she was willing to put on her sodden cloak, she would have to venture out half clothed and hope that Rumpelstiltskin did not mistake her choice for an invitation to approach her again.

What had come over him? For one moment, in the carriage, she had thought he might simply take her no matter what she did or said. She might have welcomed his comfort, then, or even a gentle kiss, but she scarcely recognised the man who had emerged from the town hall, all but dancing with bloodlust.

Hangings were dreadful. Rumpelstiltskin had not lied to the nameless man - it was no merciful ending to choke in the noose, if the drop failed to break the neck cleanly. Belle had stood with her father and witnessed three such executions. The first time she had stared with a child's uncomprehending awe, the second she had buried her face in her father's robes and allowed him to cover her ears until the struggles on the gallows ended. The third, but a year or two since, she had been able to clutch his hand in reassurance and, that night, kiss his cheek with the forgiveness that she knew he craved.

There had never been anyone, in her limited experience, who toyed with a condemned man nor boasted of the killing. Rumpelstiltskin's only qualm was that he could not have killed the man twice over, and brutally at that. And then he had _wanted_ her. That was... horrid.

Belle pulled her heaviest nightgown from her trunk, and put on stockings beneath it, with the slippers from her golden dress. She stepped carefully around the discarded clothing, knowing that she would have to collect it up and clean it, but unable to face the task for the moment. She was rather afraid she might catch herself throwing it all into the fire, in her disgust.

To her dismay, her heart beat faster when she unlocked her door and ventured out onto the landing. She could not spend the rest of her days afraid of bumping into her own husband, so she could not start by being afraid now. All the same, she would prefer not to see him again until his mood had settled - until she could see something of her kind lover in his eyes once again.

She toyed with the word, as she made her way to the kitchen. _Lover._ It was a word that featured often in the books she had enjoyed as a girl; it hinted at little beyond the kissing of a hand or a meeting by moonlight, and had never before meant to her what it meant now. Passion, and sharing, and humility and laughter, and pleasure in those private things they did together. In the storybooks, lovers became husbands in the way that wives became mothers, the one state giving way to the next. Belle had found that husbands could become lovers, and now that, as a wife, she might not be a mother at all.

It wasn't that she'd thought the childish stories to be the unvarnished truth. Of course not. But they had, perhaps, deceived her into expecting marriage to be more straightforward than the reality had proved to be. A lover could be a virtual stranger, and a wife could feel like she was still a child, on the inside.

Belle saw no sign of Rumpelstiltskin on her way to the kitchen. He had warned her that there were times when he was best left to himself, had he not? She had argued with him, then, but today she could see the wisdom in his position. Perhaps there _were_ times when he was not fit company, for her or for anyone? The gentle man who treasured her in their bed would be mortified about upsetting her, when he came to his senses, but he would still be the _same_ man who had taunted the stranger, and killed him. The same man who had wanted her so thoughtlessly in the carriage, who mocked her unhappiness and kicked at the gate in his temper.

Belle found her work dress and its petticoats and chemise, clean and folded on the chair beside the fire. Rumpelstiltskin must have done that, some time after changing her into her golden gown; taken those dirty and wet things that he disapproved of, and made them ready again for her to use. Had they been there, on the chair, when she fetched her clothes from the drying rack this morning, or had he thought of it only just now?

She sat down in the chair, the bundle of slightly warm clothing in her lap, and stared into the fire. Her own people knew little of magic, except the rare places where it came naturally into the world. There was a healing stream near the border, said once to have been so powerful that great armies warred over it. In living memory, it had only ever been able to ease a fever for a few hours or better clean a wound; small magic, fading into the background of history. Belle wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had known of it when the armies warred for it, lifetimes ago.

He had healed her wound with a touch. Belle placed her hand over the spot, remembering the strange sensation as his magic worked. A flesh wound, he'd said, so the healing of it would claim only a modest payment from her. All the same, she would have preferred that he ask her, as he had done when she was injured before. His imported medicines and potions had been less costly to her than his own magic, when she was gravely hurt. A salve and a stitch or two might have done just as well, for a cut, and carried no debt at all.

The time got away from her, sitting there and watching the comforting flames. It was time enough to calm her, and to replace her hurt and prideful anger with a dull sadness, along with the realisation that she missed him. The aspect of Rumpelstiltskin who touched her as though he did not quite dare to, and surrendered himself to the possibility of her scorn; who warmed her feet with his own when he could have used magic or bought her bed socks; who cherished her ignorant innocence, but enjoyed her curiosity and her willful discovery as well. He vanished, sometimes, that tender husband, and Belle missed him more when he retreated into his shell of hardened scales and glinting mockery than when he was not there at all.

With her queasy stomach settled, Belle got up to warm herself some milk and cut a slice of bread. She took the last of the apples as well, and ate in her place beside the fire, slowly peeling the apple with her knife. A childhood game, once she had been old enough to eat with her own knife; to make a long, thin, unbroken spiral of the apple's pitted skin before enjoying the fruit itself.

The apples in these lands tasted different from the ones she'd always loved, being sweeter and softer to the bite, and added another tiny weight to her homesickness.

Belle spared a guilty glance towards the kitchen table, where her half-written letter lay. Yesterday, she had struggled for the words. Today, she felt lost for _anything_ that might be written down as a solid and simple truth. She would not allow her unhappiness, nor her confusion, to colour her letters home and trouble her father. Her doubts and fears had no place on the parchment, any more than did the aspect of her marriage in which she had found the greatest happiness.

Well, it had to be done. To delay in answering her father's letter would be cruel, if the only thing stopping her from writing was her own self-pity. She took her warm milk to the table, set aside the failed letter and smoothed her palm across a new sheet of parchment. She needed more, but all that she had bought at the market had been left behind on the cobbles when Rumpelstiltskin hurried her away. The wastefulness of that offended her.

With but one sheet of clean parchment left, she would just have to make her next attempt the last one. That was a simple enough truth and so, taking her warm shawl from the clothes horse and tying it over her nightgown, Belle sat down to write her letter.

It _was_ easier, with the sense of purpose and urgency lent by her guilt at delaying the letter. She wrote smoothly, sacrificing her best penmanship for the flow of her thoughts, and told her father that Rumpelstiltskin had been a good husband to her, considerate in all things. It was as much as she dared say concerning her marriage, no more than a hint, but her father would be anxious to know that she was not mistreated. Even if she thought it right to tell him so, she doubted that he would believe her if she wrote that Rumpelstiltskin gave her pleasure instead of pain. Her Papa had seen Rumpelstiltskin as he had been today, in town - strutting and arrogant in the certainty of his own power, and smug in his casual enjoyment of a frightened audience.

Papa would be at home, without her comfort, and thinking that she had married that cruel and selfish man who had demanded her as his payment for services rendered. Would a few, guarded lines on paper ease his pain?

No. Belle felt empty of tears, today, but her throat tightened until it was painful to swallow. She wrote of her experiments with cooking and cleaning, and tried to convey her enjoyment and satisfaction, saying that her husband did not require her to do these things. Her loyalty to Rumpelstiltskin conflicted with so much of what she wished to say; she could not very well undermine him by saying that she had taken on her chores in spite of his objections, as much as she knew it would make her father smile.

Lastly, she wrote that she would visit her father when she was more settled, and that Rumpelstiltskin had promised her that she might. She lingered a long time over the wording of that, strangely guilty about knowing that she was free to return home at any time. And it was not because of Rumpelstiltskin's wishes that she remained - not even, truly, because of her loyalty to her new husband. She had taken this marriage upon herself, and would do all that she could to make a success of it. She could not very well run for home each time she felt homesick, or missed Papa. Her life was here now, with Rumpelstiltskin, and it was forever.

Her letter finally finished, Belle signed her name to it and went to wash her glass pen at the pump. Splashing herself, she remembered that she still wore only a nightdress, and hurried into the laundry room with her bundle of proper clothes to change. Her gold satin slippers didn't match and looked silly over her thick stockings, but Belle chose to ignore it for the moment. She was comfortable again, and warm once she re-tied her shawl.

Upstairs, her discarded, wet dress needed attending to, but her skin crawled at the thought of touching it again. It was unlike her to be so foolish, so impractical, and Belle set her jaw firmly and carried a large basket up to her room, collecting the stained things into it. It was only water, upon her skirts, just as it was only blood upon her bodice. Her horror at how both had arrived there should not prevent her dealing sensibly with a little laundry.

The chore took her far too long, once more, but Belle managed to get the carefully washed clothes through the mangle and hung before the fire without completely soaking herself, this time. The achievement pleased her, brightening her mood considerably, and she remembered that Rumpelstiltskin was to join her again for tea. Would he? Belle made a face at the fire, guessing that he would not. He had looked so very angry, shaking the snow from his gates. Angry with her?

Belle knew that she had done nothing that ought to deserve his anger, but anger was surely the least rational of emotions. She remembered when Gaston had tried to kiss her - how he had sulked for days at her rejection, all the while pretending a cool disinterest. Was Rumpelstiltskin furious at her rejection? How could that be, when he knew that he had only to come to her, his quiet and gentle self, and she would give him what he wanted?

She bit her lip, buttering two large slices of bread and spreading them with honey. _Did_ he know that? She had rejected him last night, as well, when he had tried to please her with something new, and had she ever told him that she would gladly lie with him for his pleasure alone, just as he would sometimes pleasure her without taking his turn? No. No, she had not told him any such thing, for there had been no need. Their impatience had been mutual.

The last of the chamomile flowers went into the teapot. Belle found the brew pleasantly calming, herself, and if they had a similar effect on her husband then all the better. There was a nervous, excitable edge to him when he became that dancing creature. Perhaps it could be soothed, and his acid tongue tempered along with it. It was the words she minded the most - that reflexive cruelty and the dripping scorn, as though the world was so far beneath him.

Perhaps it was. When he looked at her with those hollow, chilly eyes, she always thought of a hawk hanging easily on the wind, so far above the world that everything must look insignificant but the prey.

Belle waited until four o'clock, reading the cookery book that Wren had given her, then poured hot water into the teapot and ate her meal alone. Although faintly relieved that Rumpelstiltskin had stayed away, she could not help but be stung. She had asked him for very little, held him to very little, and one meal together each day did not seem very much for a wife to ask. But she had her letter and wished it sent without delay, so she would take a tray to him and ask for that, at least.

As she climbed the stairs towards Rumpelstiltskin's turret, Belle realised how silly she would feel if he wasn't up there. She could not scour the entire castle for him, not carrying a tray, but she could leave it and he would, at least, know that she had thought of him. She grew nervous, as she reached the final, awkward flight of steps, and had to remind herself that she had not been forbidden to seek him out, this time. Finding that she had braced herself for his unpleasantness, Belle let out a breath when she reached the top of the staircase and saw Rumpelstiltskin sitting quietly at his spinning wheel, his long clay pipe dangling from his lips as he carded fibres. He appeared excessively preoccupied, and did not immediately look up, but Belle knew that he must have heard her coming, what with the things rattling on the tray.

When Rumpelstiltskin did lift his eyes to acknowledge her, his expression was one of careful neutrality. Taking her cue from his deliberate preoccupation with the white fluff, Belle adopted an air of bustle herself and carried the tray to the end of the table nearest him, sliding it carefully into place and then rearranging the cup, teapot and plate unnecessarily while her back was towards him.

"You missed your tea," she said, when she could procrastinate no longer without seeming foolish. "So I brought you some." That her cheer was false sounded far too obvious, to her own ears, but one of them had to be the first to make amends. She could not manage, as well, to pretend that she found it easy.

"Thank you." Rumpelstiltskin's voice was deeper than before, but a hardness remained and Belle's heart sank. She turned to face him, clasped her hands in front of her, and he set aside the basket of fibres before taking the pipe from between his lips. He held her gaze for the barest moment before staring at her ill-matched shoes instead. "Lock your door tonight, and take out the key."

"I'm not afraid of you," she answered, hotly, but knew that she had lied when he surged to his feet, the carding combs falling from his knees to clatter at his feet. The movement sent her pounding heart into her throat.

"You should be," he said, tightly. "I have business that will take me away for some time. I will leave at first light. For tonight, you will lock your door."

So he was leaving again. Belle remembered long, lonely days and cold nights, and homecomings that had not been kind. And, this time, he meant to slip away while she was locked away in her room, so that he could avoid even a simple goodbye?

"What good would that do, if you decided to come in?" She tried to sound angry, but something older than herself held her back. _He_ was afraid that he might do something that she could never forgive, yet here they were, speaking face to face, and whatever demon had crawled out of the darkness in him today, Rumpelstiltskin was the master of it for as long as he chose to be.

"The lock will keep you safe," he said. "Please, go."

"All this because I refused you when I'd been frightened for my life in town?" Belle could not keep her disappointment from showing. She snatched her letter from the tray and held it out to him. "For my father." Rumpelstiltskin took it, nodding curtly. "I won't hide from my own husband," she told him, turning to go. "I won't refuse you if you come to me. If you intend to hurt me then a lock won't keep me safe forever."

And if he hurt her, _would_ she forgive him? Could she ever?

Belle honestly didn't know.

"Belle." His voice, strained and quiet, halted her at the top of the stairs, her hand upon the panelled wall. "I intend never to hurt you. Intent is meaningless."

"No, it's not." She looked back over her shoulder, and saw his white-knuckled grip upon the rim of his wheel. He watched her with a mixture of frustration and incomprehension, but there was no rage there. No glee, no mockery, no spite, but still he seemed to be looking at her across a great divide. He seemed unreachable. "Thank you," she said, managing to keep her voice steady. "For sending the letter."

Rumpelstiltskin looked down at the parchment in his hand, as though he had forgotten he held it next to his pipe.

"Yes," he frowned, thrown. "Of course." After a moment, he returned the pipe to his lips and drew the smoke, deeply. He blinked, twice, and some of the distance seemed to be gone; he felt somehow _present_ again, and Belle could not account for the change. There had not even been the tingling change in the air that she associated with his tangible magic and its moods. "Thank you for the tea." He spoke slowly, carefully, as though trying to remember how to be courteous and gentle. Was it really such an effort? Was it really only a mask he wore to conceal the disdainful creature within?

"How long will you be away?" Belle felt another pang, asking that. She did not want him to go away from her, and least of all with a quarrel between them. She did not want to be alone in his castle, either.

"A few days." Rumpelstiltskin drew again on his pipe, exhaling a small, white cloud of smoke that drifted towards the open window behind him.

"Do you go away because of me?" The last word caught in her throat, betraying her upset to him, and she looked away, ashamed. All the same, she wanted his answer. If she drove him from his home for days on end then she was failing as his wife, and that would have to change.

"No." He sounded faintly surprised, affronted, and Belle was relieved. "I mean to find out who sent our murderous friend. It is not the first such incident. I'll not have it. I'll have _no-one_ threaten my wife."

The chilly anger had crept back, as he spoke, and Belle nodded and held her tongue. She would have asked much more, about why Rumpelstiltskin cursed the man to death when he could have restrained him or made him unconscious, instead. Then, he might have had his answers already, and Belle would not now fear that her husband found a perverse satisfaction in killing.

She did not ask, because she was afraid to know the answer.

"A safe journey, then," she said, weakly, and barely waited for his nod before she retreated down the winding stairs.

Belle took her time about tidying up her kitchen. She had yet to learn how to cut bread without showering crusty crumbs everywhere, even if she could, by now, manage a straight slice that didn't break when she buttered it. Once the kitchen was swept to her satisfaction, her few tea things washed and dried, she allowed herself the evening with a book in front of the kitchen fire. Wren's cookery book was very old, and bore every sign of heavy use over many years. The cover was cracked and torn, the pages swollen and distorted from once being soaked through and carefully dried again. Notes and measurements had been written on many of the pages, some of them no longer legible while others looked fresh and recent. It was a well-used book, with the occasional pressed flower or leaf between the yellowed pages, smelling of herbs and age, and Belle loved it.

More than that, it was instructive, laying out the steps for kitchen tasks that _Of Hearth and Stove_ supposed a woman must already know how to manage for herself. Belle resolved to try another stew, if Rumpelstiltskin was going to be away. It would feed her perfectly well for several days, even if it proved to be another disaster, and he would not be around to make fun of her if it did.

Yes, Belle decided, snapping the book shut, she would use her husband's absence to learn how to make stew, and surprise him with her success when he returned.

Perhaps, by then, he would be in a more approachable mood. She hoped so, climbing wearily back to her room. After her fright in town, she would have welcomed his comforting warmth and weight beside her tonight. She felt safe, beside him. But would she still, if he came to her tonight?

She wanted more than anything to mend their quarrel and to forgive his unkind words; to prove to Rumpelstiltskin that her loyalty was not given lightly, nor lost because she disapproved of his behaviour. But he had hurt her, seizing yet again upon her least moments of hesitation and unhappiness, as though he almost wished that she _would_ reject him, and admit that he had disgusted her from the moment they met. If that were truly what he expected of her, she thought, as she made ready for bed with her door left stubbornly ajar, then his loneliness must be beyond her imagining. How could he ever trust anyone, let alone give his heart?

Belle's own heart had little room for distrust. Even Papa said that she was too trusting, but no-one had ever betrayed her. She had never had intimacy enough with anyone other than her father, save Lotte and Rumpelstiltskin, for the betrayal of her heart to be a possibility. Yet, Rumpelstiltskin did betray her, a little, every time he delighted in her doubts. She had given all of herself, and it was a slight to her that he pretended she did not.

That must be why it hurt so, she decided, as she blew out the candles and got into her bed. Certainly, the tight little pain lived beneath her ribs when she thought of his harsh words. As she grew drowsy and waited for her feet to get warm, Belle wondered if those little stinging pains were the distant cousins of a broken heart.


	28. Of Things Broken

There was a basket on the bed beside her, when she woke the next day.

Although troubled with bad dreams, Belle's sleep had been deep. For a while, her mind pleasantly blank and her body warm beneath a heap of bedclothes, she blinked sleepily at the arrival without moving to investigate its contents. It was one of the open baskets that Rumpelstiltskin used for his straw, and one of his dark silk handkerchiefs was draped over several lumpy objects inside.

More gifts? Belle looked around the room, as she sat up, hoping that her husband might be waiting for her to awaken and find the basket. But no, she was alone, and the sun was already well up. Rumpelstiltskin had said he would be leaving at first light. The greater gift would have been to find him there, ready to make amends, but it comforted her a little to know that he had come into her room as she slept; that his thoughts had been for her, if only for a moment before he left.

Was it too selfish to think that way? It was only because Rumpelstiltskin had been attentive that she did so. Had he encouraged her from the start to let him be, joining her only to see to the business of getting heirs, Belle would not have found it so strange. A marriage was often made up of two people whose worlds seldom overlapped, even as they lived in the same household, and she had hardly gone to her wedding expecting warmth and companionship to follow it. And then they had, at least sometimes, and she felt cheated to see them taken away. She _wanted_ Rumpelstiltskin to think of her, and to long for her, and to miss her while he was gone.

Belle almost cried again, seeing that he had placed a sheepskin over her feet. She felt that she had shed more foolish tears in a few weeks of marriage than during her entire childhood. The sob she fought as she ran her hand across the fleece was more of relief than anything else - relief that Rumpelstiltskin had offered a gesture of fondness, even if he had felt the need to do so while she slept unawares.

Laughing to herself, Belle drew the basket to her side and pulled away the handkerchief.

She recognised the magical box at once, and laughed again with another sort of relief. She would be able to receive a reply from her father! Beside it was a roll of paper - not parchment, but smooth, expensive pressed paper with its perfectly straight edges. Rumpelstiltskin had secured it with a length of gold thread, tied into a bow. Beside that, one piece of paper was simply folded in half, and Belle could see writing through it, the stuff was so fine. When she picked it up, swallowing her giggles and tears to read what her husband wished to say to her, she saw only the briefest note.

Rumpelstiltskin wrote with a slanting, awkward precision, each stroke of his quill somehow untidy while the document, as a whole, contrived to be expressive of his nature, rather than a mess.

He had not begun with her name nor signed his own but, Belle reasoned, there was hardly any need while she was the only living soul in the castle, and certainly in the bed where he had left the letter.

_Exchange but one letter with your father at a time. Place nothing else inside the box. It will work as well in my absence. I believe you are in need of paper._

_I will try harder to deserve such a wife as you. I give my word._

Belle stared at the sparse lines for a long time. Rumpelstiltskin had spoken before of deserving her, as though she were a thing beyond his reach and not already his wife. Where she gave freely, he looked for a cost to shoulder, yet when she hesitated...

She fingered the top of the box, trying to resist the temptation to lift the lid. Her father would barely have received her own message of last night, so there could not possibly be a reply waiting for her. She resisted the box until she was dressed and brushed and ready for the day, by which time the itch of foolish hope was too great.

As she had expected, the box was empty. If she had understood Rumpelstiltskin correctly then she would be able to place a new letter of her own into the box, once her father's reply had been removed from it. He was content for her to send letters that he had not seen? Belle still wished to say nothing to her father that she would not be glad to let her husband read first, but she valued the gesture of trust more than any of his gifts. She had no reason to doubt his affection, such as it might be after only a month of marriage, but Rumpelstiltskin did not easily give his trust.

She could not help wondering if she had not given hers too easily, as she remembered his unkindness. But what else could she have done, and still been true to her own nature? Hidden away in her room, refusing to see beyond his unfortunate appearance, and pined to death for the life she'd sacrificed to be here? What was the point of that? Why opt for guaranteed misery when she might forge her own chance at happiness?

For all that she would have been nearer to home, and had the bustle of a busy household to distract her, Belle had no reason to believe that marriage with Gaston would have been any better. His good looks had never interested her, and he had looked at her with a blend of annoyance and alarm whenever she spoke her mind in the company of important men, or showed herself to be more learned than he. She had never seen him with a book, nor so much as a letter, and he'd teased her too often when he came upon her while she was happily reading. In wooing her, once their engagement was already secure, Gaston had boasted too much and asked no questions of her and, while he wore her proudly upon his arm when the occasion called for it, had shown her no affection of any sort.

In his rusty and grudging way, Rumpelstiltskin had showered her with affection before he knew her at all; had all but swallowed her up with his curiosity and puzzlement about her; had opened her eyes to what a man and a woman might be to one another, if they allowed trust into their hearts. Belle wanted that for herself - to know companionship and sympathy alongside her body's desires, and alongside the happiness it gave her to be desired in return.

Lost in such thoughts, Belle carried her box downstairs and gave it pride of place in the centre of the table in her kitchen. Perhaps it was foolish that she wanted to keep it close, but it contained the possibility of being nearer to her father, and it reminded her that Rumpelstiltskin cared for her happiness.

She had almost to climb inside one of the low cupboards to explore the big, iron kitchen wares. Until now, she had made do with her kettle and a single small cooking pot, but there were hooks, arms, trivets and turnspits enough to cook a feast. Had she been able to control the fire, Belle might have thought of them before. As it was, the castle's magic kept the flames dancing merrily, allowing her no choice but to judge the distance of her pots from the naked flames and hope for the best.

Finding nothing that would serve her better than her simple cauldron, and little else that she could lift by herself once filled with food, Belle absentmindedly nibbled at the small, strong, round cheese she had bought from Lulie, while she took ingredients from the larder for her stew. A whole, skinned rabbit looked as fresh as when she had first seen it, weeks ago; carrots, potatoes, turnips and onions were firm and unspoiled, and even if the thought of magic in her food left her ill at ease, she could not deny that it was convenient.

Both Wren's cookbook and _Of Hearth and Stove_ were firm about the need for a good wife to maintain a pot of good stock at all times, but neither detailed how one began. Belle knew from the cooks at home that meat bones and vegetable trimmings belonged in a slowly bubbling pot, and that the resulting broth should be drawn off to add flavour and goodness to dishes such as she meant to cook today. Until she was a good enough cook to tackle a fowl or a large cut of meat, she would not be able to obtain many bones without being wasteful, not to mention that her husband barely ate a thing. For the moment, she set this dilemma aside and decided that plain water with a dash of wine would have to do for her stew.

This aside, she found that she had all she needed and more. Wren's book was meant for a cook who needed to feed an entire family on very little, wasting nothing and using whatever might be available. For an hour or more, Belle sat at the kitchen table, chopped vegetables and clumsily jointed the rabbit, more than once becoming distracted by the pages of the wonderful book. It made her quite hungry to think of all the soups and other treats she might soon be able to prepare, so Belle made herself some nettle tea while finishing off the tasty cheese.

Adding the ingredients to her pot was a matter of trial and error. The flour-dipped meat needed to brown, the onions to soften, and Belle knew at once that she had misjudged the heat and burned them a little. The result smelled wonderfully savoury, anyway, and she was cheerful as she moved the pot further from the flames and added the vegetables, then covered everything with fresh water.

The stew was not to boil, both the books warned, but to come slowly to a high simmer and then bubble gently for several hours to make the meat tender and the flavours blend together in the sauce. Again, judging the distance of the pot from the flames was difficult. Belle sat in her fireside chair, Wren's book on her knees, and fussed unnecessarily with the cauldron on its swinging arm until she tired of herself.

Collecting her dusters, Belle went upstairs to the great room, meaning to give it a good clean while Rumpelstiltskin was away. She had, without quite realising it, felt that she might irritate him by dusting in there, among his peculiar treasures. Peculiar they might be, and treasures they might be, but they were dusty. She set to work nearest the door to the kitchens, working her way from pedestal to pedestal. By Rumpelstiltskin's spinning wheel, she went down on hands and knees to pluck stray wisps of straw from the rug. She dared not touch the spinning wheel itself, for it seemed to be something that he truly treasured, and so frequently used that it had not the chance to accumulate any dust. Kneeling beside the dais, Belle could clearly see the great wheel itself, where time and her husband's hands had worn the rim to a polish and a softened edge. How often and how long had he sat there, patiently making his valueless gold?

Wrinkling her nose, Belle flicked her feather duster quickly over the pair of grotesque puppets, trying not to look at their eyes. She could not think of a reason why wooden dolls would be among her husband's most envied possessions, unless they had magic of their own, in which case she knew the horrid things would haunt her nightmares. Would Rumpelstiltskin put them somewhere less prominent, if she asked him to? She had seen the other trophies change places, once or twice - something new would be brought out to occupy a pedestal, and the original item tucked carefully away in the large, glass-fronted cabinet in the rear wall of the room. Belle had taken as little notice of these changes as Rumpelstiltskin had taken of her belongings, but if the castle was to be her home, she might hope to have her say in the furnishing of at least the public rooms.

Did Rumpelstiltskin ever receive visitors? Belle thought of how the townspeople had left their gifts at the gate. Her husband had simply known that they were there and gone to fetch them. Would someone approach the castle, if Rumpelstiltskin were truly needed in the town? She slipped behind one of the dusty curtains to look down at the snow-covered gardens and the high walls beyond. Although constructed to impress more than as a last line of defence, as the castle of her birth had been, Belle did not doubt that Rumpelstiltskin's home had other protection.

It was a desolate sight, on a dark day of wind and snow, and she retreated into the warmth of the room to finish her dusting.

Tipping her pan full of dust and stray straw into the fire, Belle wondered what Rumpelstiltskin would do if she brought in another chair for the fireside, and added another to the dining table. There were times when she was at ease in his company, when she was quite sure that he welcomed her presence in the same room, but there were those other times when he closed himself to her... perhaps he would not be happy, if she pressed the issue. At least in her bedroom they had reached an accord; he was welcome there, and she was to be cherished there, and each indulged the other there, and it had suited them both for a while.

For a while.

Belle wished she knew how their tender understanding had been broken. It had not been one thing alone. Not her reluctance when he had single-mindedly teased her with his thumb, kneeling before her. Not his confession that he would give her no children, nor his mocking words. Not his quivering excitement, in town, as he pinned her to his side, and not his thoughtless attempt to lift her skirts in the carriage. None of that, and yet all of it at once, as well. She could not help asking herself whether she might have prevented it, had she allowed Rumpelstiltskin to do as he wished the other night. Would they have spent the night in pleasure, and she in happy ignorance?

No children. Belle's mind refused to embrace the enormity of it - the sudden divergence from a future that she had always, always known was to be hers; to wed a great man, to provide him with heirs, and all of it in service to her own people. She felt a fool for assuming that Rumpelstiltskin would be no different to Gaston or any of her earlier suitors; Rumpelstiltskin who told her, over and over, that he was not a man. That he was a _monster_. Even that he was unworthy of her embraces and had not expected her to offer them, even out of duty. Had he wanted sons, she thought as she warmed herself at the fireside, he would surely have made it a part of the contract that bound her to him in the first place. It was his way to be... exact.

It was the newness of such a future that had dismayed her. In all truth, Belle feared her mother's bloody fate and had chosen, since she was old enough to understand that she might share it, to think of motherhood only as it would be when the children had come; of nursing, and play, and the sound of laughter. Wren's vivid tale of how Rumpelstiltskin had found her had brought out those buried fears anew.

For all that, the hint of relief in her shock at Rumpelstiltskin's news made her feel ashamed of herself. She knew better than to be ruled by fear of what might not come to pass but, clearly, some hidden and guilty part of her had been.

Belle sat for a long time in the armchair before the fire, dusters, brush and dustpan heaped in her lap and forgotten.

When Rumpelstiltskin spoke of choosing her because she seemed strong enough to endure, he meant not only his own company, but this solitude. And Belle truly didn't know whether or not she was equal to a lifetime of it. Two people, alone together in even a vast home... how could _either_ of them endure? And, for Belle, there would be his absences as well - these endless, uncertain days of trying to occupy herself alone.

In time, she hoped that she would be more welcome in Odstone, and that people might come to her for advice and help, as they had at home.

 _Home_. She could not help it, could not force herself to change what was in her heart. For all that she belonged at her husband's side, and as freely as she had made that bargain, she had not begun to think of Rumpelstiltskin's castle and lands as her home.

Sobered by that, Belle returned to the kitchen to check on her gently bubbling pot, and to stir it. Doing so released a wonderful smell, promising a comforting and hearty meal for later in the day. And then, unable to help herself, she went to the table and lifted the lid of her box. There was no letter awaiting her.

Of course not. As before, her own letter would be carefully considered; Papa's reply even more so. Belle had no doubt that he was thinking of her as much and as often as she thought of him. She, at least, had the comfort of being sure that her father was safe - he had no such certainty when it came to her situation.

At least her ability to write more frequently might reassure him, in time. She would use it more frequently than she would have troubled her husband with the delivery of her messages, not because she feared his displeasure but because she did not want him to mistake her homesickness for the desire to leave the castle. She would tell her Papa of the box, in her next letter, and perhaps of Rumpelstiltskin's other gifts to her. Had he lavished her with jewels and trinkets of obscene value, Belle would not have considered telling her father so, but her husband's gifts had been peculiar and thoughtful, just as he could sometimes be. If Belle spoke of the wonderful library, and a gift of simple, precious paper, and of sheepskin to warm her feet, her father would have an insight into her new life that a hundred declarations about her wellbeing could not give him. He might know that, in his way, Rumpelstiltskin cared for his wife.

When noon came, Belle tried a bowl of stew, smiling to herself at the success of it. A few more hours, covered, and Wren's book promised meltingly tender meat and a rich brown gravy, but already the dish was satisfying and tasty. A success! She celebrated it with a cup of mead from her wedding gifts before carefully covering the cooking pot and edging it a little further from the flames. When Rumpelstiltskin returned, she decided, she would speak to him about having the kitchen fire behave as a fire should, free of magic, and about the stove that he had promised would be hers. And if she became a skilled enough cook then, perhaps, he would be more eager to join her for meals?

The rest of the afternoon was spent in exploring the lower floor of the castle. Some doors would not open for her, as before, and Belle left them alone. She spent a long while in one room that had been given over to storing spools of gold thread. There was little order to it, with the spools being piled up in boxes, baskets, chests of drawers and, in one corner, a mound upon the floor itself. Rumpelstiltskin's lack of care with the product of his spinning had surprised her, at first, until she realised that gold was all but worthless to the man who could make it at will. He spun to occupy himself, she was sure; it calmed him, much as Belle had found the household chores settled her or, perhaps, in the way that a book could absorb her and take her out of herself for hours at a time.

It was a strange occupation, for a gentleman, but scrubbing floors was an equally strange one for a gentlewoman. Belle held two spools of gold thread and wondered how difficult it would be to embroider with the stuff; if he might like it if she worked the collars and cuffs of a shirt for him. Her skill with embroidery was modest, but the learning of it had been thrust upon her since she was old enough to hold a needle and a piece of calico. With patience, she might make Rumpelstiltskin a gift to show that she thought of him, and to put a little of his gold to use as he had when crafting her bracelet and her ring.

Near to the room of gold thread was another devoted to storing straw. Most of it was neatly bundled and cut to an even length, although deep, untidy piles of it were scattered along one wall. Belle had never noticed Rumpelstiltskin running out of straw, as he spun, but she remembered that he had asked her to bring him straw when he described her 'duties' as his wife. With that in mind, and anxious to show him her devotion in any way that she was able, Belle gathered up several of the tied bundles in each arm - enough to generously fill a basket both in the great room and up in his turret.

The latter she left at the foot of the winding staircase, in the basket that Rumpelstiltskin had left upon her bed that morning. As before, some gentle but definite magic made her hairs stand up when she set foot upon those stairs in his absence; she did not think that it would prevent her from continuing up, if she chose to ignore the sudden discomfort, but it was signal enough that Rumpelstiltskin wished her to stay away.

The loneliness - the knowledge that she was alone in the castle, would sleep alone tonight, and did not know when to expect Rumpelstiltskin's return - only found her out as she tidied her kitchen for the night. With her stew pot lifted carefully from the heat and left covered upon the table, Belle enjoyed another bowl of it with some bread, and wished that her husband was with her. A strange thing for a girl to wish upon herself, she thought, remembering how afraid she had been when Rumpelstiltskin appeared in her bedroom and demanded his price; how much more so when he had joined her for their wedding night. And now she missed his company, missed his warmth in her bed, and hardly noticed, for hours on end now, that he looked so different from other men.

Belle had eaten more that she could remember eating in a single day, between the siege at home and her forgetful appetite since her wedding. She felt too full and drowsy and, taking her box with her, retired early to her chambers to sit in bed with a book upon her knees. The soft sheepskin she folded beneath the bedclothes, pushing her feet into the fleece and smiling a little as she did so. It lacked the comfort of her husband's embrace, but it was certainly going to keep her feet lovely and warm in his absence. Belatedly, she wondered if it was the one that she had seen at the foot of his own bed. There had been others in the room kept for his long-lost son, as well. They seemed odd, humble possessions for one who called himself monster, who wielded the greatest magic, and who lived in a castle where even the fireplaces saw to themselves. Then again, the same could be said of a spinning wheel.

Yawning, and finding herself at the beginning of the chapter in _Of Hearth and Stove_ that proposed to teach her how to nurse and care for infants that she might never have, Belle set the book aside, checked the box once more, and got up to blow out the candles. That done, it was wonderful to bury herself again beneath the bedclothes and push her feet into the warm nest she had already made of the sheepskin.

The day had slowly worn away at her heavy sorrow, and eased the stabs of hurt beneath her ribs. Loneliness was another matter, but at least she could lie warm in her bed and think kindly of her absent husband. Thoughts of his touch didn't stir her, and she wondered why not, but the memories were fond and welcome ones anyway; Belle indulged them for a long time before memory merged with dreams.

She did not know how long she slept before something startled her awake again. It felt like no time at all, and her room was still in darkness, but her head was cloudy from sleep. It took her several moments to work out why her heart was pounding so hard - she could hear movement, nearby in the castle!

Fear kept her frozen for some time, as in a nightmare, and Belle held her breath to listen better. She had just convinced herself that it had, indeed, been only a dream when a loud cry changed her mind. It had come from above, and the possibility that it had come from Rumpelstiltskin propelled her past her alarm, and out onto the landing. A prolonged crashing noise brought her frantic heart right into her throat, but Belle ran towards the sound, up to the next floor where she quickened her steps, seeing light in Rumpelstiltskin's room. As she grew nearer, Belle saw that the basket of straw she'd left for him had been upset and half crushed, and that wisps of the straw had been dragged up the first stairs to the turret room. There were splashes of some dark liquid from Rumpelstiltskin's room and continuing up the stairs to the turret.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" She had meant to call out, boldly, but her voice quavered, weak with fright.

His small room was empty, but his scaly coat had been discarded near the door. It was stained all over, wet and blackened, and Belle wasted no time in running up the winding stairs to the turret, all of her fear, now, for her husband. "Rumpelstiltskin!"

Rumpelstiltskin was facing her, half slumped over the opposite work table, his arrival having knocked much of the table's contents to the floor. Liquids, powders and dried things that Belle had no name for had mingled in the smashing of bottles, jars and vials, and foul smoke was oozing away from the site of the accident. She ran around the outskirts of the room to avoid it, to arrive beside her husband and to reach for him, but Rumpelstiltskin pushed himself up and stumbled backwards to avoid her, hands raised to ward her off and his head shaking urgently.

His skin, his clothing, even his hair was covered in wide patches of dark, sticky blood. It was between his teeth when he grimaced, and he could not speak. Belle could see that he tried, before his back encountered the wall beside the window and he slid down it, landing awkwardly on his splayed knees and unable to raise his arms from his sides.

Belle dropped to her knees beside him, catching his shoulders as he slumped forward. He reeked of blood, of vomit, and of the contents of his spirit flask. Glancing around, Belle saw it among the smoking debris on the floorboards, uncapped and empty.

Magic crackled beneath her palms, invisible but quite palpable, like the short blue sparks from a cat's fur that were more shocking than painful. It left her hands feeling half dead where she gripped him, and his body convulsed weakly when the shocks were strongest.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she gasped, trying to prop him back up against the wall. He was conscious, but beyond telling her what had happened to him, or what should be done. He stared at her, eyes pleading as he struggled to speak, and then slumped sideways, all fight and effort gone out of him. Belle kept his head from striking the ground and half fell with him, staring at her silent, still husband in horror.

Belle did not know what to do, and she had never been more frightened in her life.


	29. Ripples

Not knowing what she ought to do for her husband, Belle did all that she could. 

Rumpelstiltskin lay, unmoving beneath the window, while she felt him from head to foot. Unable to find the source of so much blood, Belle guessed that it might not all be his own, but then why had he been in such terrible pain?

Wiping the sticky blood away from his cheek with her sleeve, Belle could see dozens of tiny marks there, none of them bigger than a pinprick. They oozed blood as she watched. There were patterns to the worst of the bloodstains upon his clothing, and Belle tried not to imagine how many tiny bleeding marks it might take to drain a body of too much blood. The stinging magic continued to numb her hands as she unfastened his jerkin and then his shirt. Hundreds more of the little puncture marks wept blood as she peeled away the cloth, most of them down his right side and extending to the centre of his chest. His right arm had the very worst of it, she discovered as she tugged the filthy silk free; his right hand was a swollen and bloodied mess that it turned her stomach to see.

The leather of his breeches clung horribly to him as she struggled with it, Rumpelstiltskin a dead weight. Belle fought back tears and forced herself to concentrate on each task in turn, but kept looking to see his chest rise and fall for the little reassurance it gave her. Despairing of unlacing his tight, tall boots now that her fingers were half numb, she stumbled around the room until she found a knife, coughing when her search took her too close to the oily smoke from his spilled and mingling magic.

Knife in hand, Belle glanced down and saw herself as she returned to Rumpelstiltskin's side - her white nightgown was smeared with blood from the hem to her breasts. Had anyone seen her now, she thought with a desperate little laugh, they would have mistaken her for a murderess. Taking care only to avoid cutting her husband's flesh, Belle sliced through the laces of his boots from knee to ankle before dropping the knife to pull the leather away. She had to lift his weight to drag his breeches down past his hips, and then the task was easier.

How had the little marks reached his skin without puncturing his leathers, or making lace of the silk of his right sleeve? He had been no better protected by his breeches or even his hard-cured coat, and the marks continued across his hip and down his right leg. Magical, then, to cut flesh but spare clothing. Belle's dry mouth became a battle against nausea and rising panic, for if the harm was magical in nature then she could do little for him unless he told her how.

And it was the first time that she had seen her husband naked. With the back of her wrist pressed against her lips to quell the nausea, Belle found herself battling incredulous laughter as well. Fright was getting the best of her, while Rumpelstiltskin lay helpless and in need of her strength.

Could she move him? The awful smoke from the spilled potions and powders was subsiding, but there was little comfort to be found in the turret. The only blessing was the uncovered windows, which would at least allow her to see what she was about, come morning. No, she dared not move him while he was a dead weight - one or both of them might not survive a tumble down the steep and cramped winding stairs. She would have to bring what she needed to Rumpelstiltskin and make the best of it.

Gently, Belle patted his cheek and said his name, but it was a halfhearted effort to rouse him. He had been in such distress, and she would not have him conscious for her sake if being unconscious spared him any pain.

"I'll be back," she said, her lips close to his ear. "Do you hear me? I'm coming straight back to you."

But Rumpelstiltskin was beyond hearing her.

Belle ran first to Rumpelstiltskin's room and pulled all the covers from the bed, and the pillow too, before hurrying back to him and wrapping him as best she could. He stirred slightly, as she tucked the blanket beneath him, but it was only for a moment.

She went next to her room, fetching every clean cloth she possessed from her trunk, and all the towels from her bathing room. She waited for the wide copper basin to fill with hot water at her touch, hoping that it would not simply vanish again if she carried it up to the turret. It made for an awkward climb, and for a wet front to her nightdress, but Belle reached Rumpelstiltskin's side with enough water to wash his wounds. 

A search of his various shelves and cupboards revealed the basket of medicines with which he'd dosed her. Each label was carefully written, but not necessarily enlightening; she could see nothing that might be added to water to keep a wound from festering. She brought the basket to the window, anyway, and fetched all the candles and lanterns in the room closer before she knelt again at Rumpelstiltskin's side.

By now, Belle was wet and cold, and weak in the aftermath of her initial fright. She trembled as she began to wash him, dabbing the blood away from his temples, cheeks and neck. To her great relief, the blood did not immediately well up again from the little punctures in his skin, and she found that if she took care to touch him only with the cloth then she prevented the hidden magic turning her fingers too numb with its tiny shocks. Was she feeling something of what afflicted him, or was it his magic reacting in turmoil to his distress?

She felt a little better, once she had cleaned Rumpelstiltskin's face enough to be recognisable. Rinsing the cloth, she continued to wash him as gently as she could; his torso, then his left arm and hand. She hardly knew where to begin, with his right, but it was clear that the greatest attention was required there. Even as she wiped away the blood from his upper arm, she could see an angry swelling that had not affected him elsewhere. His hand she simply immersed in the basin of now-lukewarm water, afraid to touch it with a cloth until she could see what she was doing.

Rumpelstiltskin woke, suddenly, as Belle was pouring water over the mangled hand from her cupped palm; he overturned the bowl in snatching his hand away, crying out in pain and twisting where he lay as though trying to find a position that eased the agony.

"Don't," Belle pleaded, holding his uninjured shoulder and resting her other hand on his brow, trying to stop his struggles. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, breath hissing through tightly clenched teeth, and some spasm shook his entire frame every few breaths, leaving him incapable of making any sound at all. "Tell me how to help you," she demanded. It seemed no time for gentleness, in the face of such a storm of torment; she must learn how to ease it.

He opened his eyes, staring wildly up at her while trying to struggle beyond her reach. "Rumpelstiltskin!" Her hands were beginning to ache from touching him - she could feel it up to her elbows, from remaining in contact with his bare skin while she restrained him. "Listen to me!"

His body stiffened and trembled once more, eyes screwing shut, but when it passed, Belle saw him give the barest of nods. Although he still shifted where he lay, he no longer fought to move away. "Can I give you medicine for the pain?" She spoke loudly, needing to be heard over his heaving, hissing breaths. Rumpelstiltskin gave another nod before the next spasm curled him up on his left side, snarling into the crook of his arm. 

"Wren's," he gasped, when it released him once more.

Belle took the basket of medicines into her lap, trying to remember what he had given to her as she lay injured. Wren's powerfully alcoholic brew, in the black bottle, had made Belle sleep; giving it a cautious sniff, she found that it smelled not unlike the clear spirits from Rumpelstiltskin's flask. As she went to pour some into one of the silver spoons from the basket, she had to stop and wait for her hand to stop shaking so much. She had taken a calming breath and was about to begin again when her husband reared up and, snatching the bottle from her, held it to his lips and upended it, swallowing greedily.

"You can't!" Remembering how powerfully it had affected her, Belle tried to pull the bottle away from him, but he brushed her aside with a growl in his throat, and drank again until he had half emptied the bottle. He slumped back, then, and Belle was able to catch the bottle before the rest spilled over his chest. She stoppered it, shaking like a leaf, and pushed it back among the other bottles, out of his reach. He had frightened her, by taking so much of the deadly stuff, but she could see that it had eased his pain. His shoulders were not hunched so tightly to his ears, and his breathing was less laboured. He blinked, slowly, and licked his lips several times.

"Belle?" Rumpelstiltskin sounded almost like himself, for a moment, before he sucked a breath through his teeth and almost curled up on his side again.

"I'm here." Belle tried to draw the sheet and blanket closer around him, but he could not be still enough for long enough to let her wrap him any better. "What else must I do?"

"No magic," he said, his eyelids becoming heavy. "Make it worse. Sleep."

"All right." As dreadful as it looked to Belle, his damaged hand seemed to trouble Rumpelstiltskin less than she would have thought possible. The pain that shook him, that peaked every so often and had him twisting for relief, clearly came from deep within. It horrified her to think that the pain from his wounds might merely pale into insignificance beside that greater torment. "You must be all right," she heard herself say, as she lifted his head and placed the pillow there.

Drugged and half gone again, Rumpelstiltskin almost smiled.

"It protects itself," he slurred. "Don't think you'll be a widow come dawn, dearie."

"Of course I won't," Belle said, weakly. She wasn't certain that he could hear her, or that he was making any more sense of her words than she was making of his. She was just glad that Wren's medicine seemed to have eased his torment. "Let me wash the rest of you," she went on, feeling the desperate need to speak to him, whether or not he could hear her. "I'll have to go and fetch more water. Do you understand?" Gently, she fingered his left cheek and was reassured when he turned his head towards the touch with a quiet grunt. "I'll bring more water and be back." It seemed more important than ever before to remind him that she would not abandon him.

This time, Belle stopped at her room in order to drag on her work dress and a pair of shoes. She spared no time for underwear, and was still carelessly tying the laces of her bodice when she arrived at the kitchen. As she had hoped, her kettle was still warm and full of water - enough to finish washing the wounds. She took a bucket as well, for the soiled cloths and, remembering something that she had overheard while tending the wounded, sprinkled two pinches of salt into the kettle of water, to better clean the wounds.

And what would she do then? A feeling of near despair came over her, as she climbed upwards again with the heavy kettle resting on her hip. What more _could_ she do, other than to watch over Rumpelstiltskin and hope that he recovered swiftly? The stories about him made him sound invulnerable to all harm. What dreadful magic would someone have to unleash to do _this_ to him? Whatever it had been, it seemed unlikely that her clumsy nursing could help him.

Still, if all she could do was see to it that he suffered slightly less discomfort, then she would do it.

Rumpelstiltskin had moved, in her absence. He sat with his back to the wall and his knees drawn up, the bloody sheet clutched at his throat. Even as she hurried to his side, Belle saw him stiffen, his heels scrabbling at the floor, his back arching and his face contorting with pain as he made a strangled sound. And something else... perhaps it had only been a trick of the light, but where his skin was visible it seemed to ripple with a change of hue at the peak of his agony. When it subsided, leaving Rumpelstiltskin panting and limp against the wall again, she could see no lasting effect and wondered if it had been a trick of her eyes.

"I'm here," she soothed, kneeling at his left side and stroking back his matted hair. "Can you hear me?"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, tight lipped, and managed to open his eyes. He swallowed hard, watching her fill the copper basin from the kettle and dip a fresh, white cloth.

"'s no need," he muttered, but Belle shook her head and untangled the sheet from his legs. Some sudden movement had already peeled it away from where it had stuck with dried blood; she could see the white fluff remaining on his skin. She left him his modesty, as much as she was able, and worked her way up his leg to the hip, less nervous of touching his wounds now that he was conscious. Her ministrations did not seem to cause him great pain on their own but, twice more as she cleaned his leg, his body stiffened and convulsed in the grip of a fresh, all-over agony.

Belle hoped that it was not for her sake that he tried to be silent. The second time, she pulled him close to her, his head pillowed on her bosoms, and spoke what words of comfort she could think of. They were empty, meaningless, but her concern was sincere. Rumpelstiltskin rested there without protest, when it left him again, his shallow breaths hot against her skin.

"No need," he repeated, cracked lips sharp against the curve of her bosom. Belle hushed him, eased him back against the wall and tucked up the sheet to reveal his hip and belly. Even now, he flinched at being naked before her, but Belle went on with her patient work and tried not to indulge an extremely selfish sense of relief when, wiping away dried trickles of blood around the flaccid organ and between his legs, she found him unhurt there.

Rumpelstiltskin was watching her, she realised, and did her best to maintain her expression of calm indifference. Certainly it was not her husband's uniqueness that concerned her, now, and it was a foolish time for him to be concerned about his appearance as well.

"There," she declared, dropping the last bloodied cloth into her bucket and wiping her hands down her skirts. "Can you tell me what to do for your hand?"

"Doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head. "It'll mend."

"It'll get infected and drop off," Belle scolded, and saw him almost smile for a moment before another wave of pain doubled him up, rocking in her arms. "There must be more I can do?" She realised that she was pleading for her own sake, even as she said it, her cheek against the top of his head and her arms tightly around him.

"I'm cold," Rumpelstiltskin said, uncertainly. "Blanket."

"Of course." She dragged the blanket to her and draped it clumsily around his shoulders. "I'll bring something for you to lie on as well."

"No." When Belle tried to move away, he gripped her with his one working hand. "Just... please..."

"All right," she whispered, and, not knowing what else to do, pulled the pillow into her lap, turned the clean side upwards, and patted it encouragingly. As Rumpelstiltskin lay down, head in her lap and lying on his left side, facing her feet, Belle settled her back against the chilly wall and covered him as best she could with the tangled sheet and the blanket. "I didn't think you felt the cold." She played lightly with his hair, dreading that another spasm of pain would claim him at any moment. It was such an effort to keep her voice level and steady when she was so afraid. "What happened to you?"

Her husband didn't answer, though Belle sensed that he was still awake. She sighed, rested her head back against the stones, and shut her eyes.

The next time Rumpelstiltskin curled in on himself, whimpering with pain, Belle squeezed her own eyes shut and held her breath until it passed. Not knowing how to help him, she couldn't bear it, but when she breathed again, she reassured herself that it had not been as long or as bad as those that came before. He was getting a little better, and her fingers only tingled slightly where she touched him, now.

He looked exhausted, in the wake of it. Belle felt exhausted herself, and cold in spite of his closeness, but she would not disturb him if he had found a way to be more comfortable. And, selfishly, she was pleased that he had begged her to stay beside him. She could reassure herself a great deal with the knowledge that, in the worst of situations, he took comfort from her closeness.

A stillness overcame Rumpelstiltskin after a while, frightening her at first and then soothing her when she decided that he was only sleeping. Somehow, Belle slept there, chilly and uncomfortable against the wall. It was a miserable, shallow kind of sleep, broken every once in a while by the attacks that half-woke Rumpelstiltskin, but each one seemed a little less severe. After each, he fell into a deeper sleep until, long after Belle had stopped trying to measure time or fight her heavy eyelids, sleep became unbroken for both of them.

~+~

Every muscle in her body ached, when Belle opened her eyes to daylight. Rumpelstiltskin remained, pillowed on her lap. His injured right hand rested beside his face on the pillow, and Belle could see a dramatic improvement over the bloody mess of last night. Even as she watched, there was that strange ripple across his skin again and, as bleary-eyed as she felt, Belle knew that her eyes had not deceived her, this time. Where it passed, just for a moment, patches of his skin were the colour of an ordinary man's.

She had to move. Never mind that she was so cold that she couldn't even shiver, her shoulders and legs screaming from the unnatural position; her bladder was protesting as well, and she simply had to disturb him to attend to it. Managing to ease him from her lap without waking him, Belle collected up the debris of her nursing efforts and tiptoed down the stairs. As she passed, Belle saw that the various candles and lanterns that illuminated the place were burning low. Upon entering her own chambers, she saw that the fire had burned down to embers and that the candles had burned out entirely.

Confirming her growing suspicion, Belle found that the water did not fill her bathtub at her touch, nor did her chamberpot empty itself by magic once she closed the lid of its stool.

Rumpelstiltskin's magic had loosened its hold upon the castle. The candles, the fires and the water, those were insignificant things, nothing that the application of some hard work could not remedy. But Belle worried, as she dressed herself properly in warm underthings, that the castle might not be protected, if her husband was too weak to maintain his will over the place. Supposing whoever had hurt him came to finish what they had started? On that point, at least, she would need to demand answers until Rumpelstiltskin surrendered them.

Belle only hoped that the lavish castle itself was not held together by magic. She did not like the possibility of it falling down around her ears while she nursed her husband and tried to defend them, single-handed, from an unnamed foe!

Only yesterday, she had been wishing for the ability to manage the kitchen fireplace for herself. Finding it, now, burned down to hot ashes over a few glowing remnants of the great logs, Belle realised that it would have been a more practical ambition if she was certain that the castle had fresh wood, somewhere. She had explored the entire floor that housed the kitchen, but the door to the kitchen garden had refused to open for her from the beginning. She could see the occasional glimpse of a high-walled garden through the high, narrow horizontal slits that served the kitchen for windows. She had not needed to ask Rumpelstiltskin if she might look outside; there had been snow on the ground since her arrival, and everything she needed had been available inside the castle walls. Besides, most doors opened at her touch, and he had been definite when telling her not to persist in trying a door that resisted her.

But... would _any_ door still be closed to her, if Rumpelstiltskin's magic had grown so weak?

Leaving her bucket of laundry by the copper vats, Belle threaded her way down narrowing passages to the small door. It had to open onto the walled garden, she was almost sure; there had to be a place, in any ordinary castle, for the servants to beat the carpets and spread the bedlinens to dry. There ought to be a place for herbs, even for vegetables and small livestock. If there was a woodpile, surely she would find it out there?

Reminding herself that Rumpelstiltskin's own bedroom had been closed to her, at first, and that he had dismissed it as an oversight, Belle pulled at the door. It didn't move but, unlike so many of the others about the place, this one had a keyhole. She rose up on her tiptoes and felt along the lintel, grinning in triumph when she found the big iron key. It turned easily in the well-oiled lock, and Belle wondered if it would have done so all along, had she thought to look for the key. She disliked how easily she had grown accustomed to the magical conveniences of Rumpelstiltskin's home, such as doors that opened at her touch or, in the case of the outer doors and gates, simply at her approach, as though attended by invisible and extremely patient guards.

Perhaps they were.

Snow had built up in a thick drift, directly outside, and it fell inwards to cover Belle's feet when she wrenched the door open. Kicking her way through it, she stepped outside and looked around her. A covered walkway ran three-quarters of the way around the square garden, with many doors to outbuildings that looked long disused. Belle was about to retreat inside when a particularly high snow drift caught her eye, some yards to her left. It had built up even beneath the roof of the walkway, but when Belle pushed her hands into the drift she soon found the logs she was looking for. They were cold, their rings frosted with crystals of ice, but they were dry enough: they would do.

Only able to manage four of the big logs at a time, Belle made five hasty trips and planned to return later. She need keep a fire only in the kitchen, and in her room, if she could manage to move Rumpelstiltskin that far. What if she could not? The question had her biting her lip as she plodded back up the many stairs, a bucket of logs in one hand and a jug of water in the other. She could not take proper care of him on the floor in a chilly tower, could she?

But Belle thought of the makeshift hospitals at home, where neatness and common sense had made do. She would manage, if she had to, and not worry about things that might not come to pass.

She refused to admit the possibility that, far from getting better, Rumpelstiltskin's quiet stillness might only mean that he'd grown weaker.

Leaving the bucket of logs at her own door, Belle quickened her step. She was so tired that her limbs seemed to fight her efforts to move them, but she had not meant to leave Rumpelstiltskin alone for so long. The last flight of stairs left her breathless and slightly dizzy, and she spent a moment there looking at the mess on the floor at the centre of the room. She dared not try to clean it up, not without Rumpelstiltskin to tell her what might be poisonous or magical. Catching her breath, she skirted the room to reach her husband's side again.

He was awake, and tried to sit up as she knelt beside him.

"I'm sorry," Belle said, bending awkwardly to kiss his brow and soothe him back to the pillow with her hand in his hair. "I didn't want to leave you."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his hand patting clumsily at her knee. His injured hand, she noted, and wondered how he could stand the pain of moving it at all. It remained a swollen mess, for all that the mass of tiny wounds had dried and merged into one discoloured lump of flesh. She could barely make out his smallest finger.

"The medicine," he said, raggedly.

"There isn't a lot left," Belle said, unhappily. He had frightened her so badly, gulping down half the bottle last night, when a spoonful had been enough to lay her out and warp her dreams. "I don't think I'll be able to get through the snow to get more. The castle... your magic... it's not working."

"I know." With a terrible effort, Rumpelstiltskin forced himself up onto his left elbow. Belle helped him to sit upright, fussing to keep the blanket wrapped about him as she did so. His eyes looked sunken and bloodshot, his cheeks hollow and his lips parched. "D'you think I can't feel that?"

"How would I know?" Belle picked up the black bottle and helped him to raise it to his lips. "Are we in danger?" She forced him to stop after a couple of sips, dipping a cup into her jug and offering him water, instead. Rumpelstiltskin took that, as well, and just as greedily, panting with relief and effort. When he raised his chin to drain the cup, Belle saw a patch of pink skin beneath his jaw, nearly the size of her palm. She touched it, curiously, while Rumpelstiltskin rested against the wall. "I said, are we in danger?" The skin there was soft, ordinary.

"I doubt it," he said, wearily. "Everyone knows I can't be killed, don't they?"

"Can you?" Belle heard her own sharpness, and loathed it. Then she loathed Rumpelstiltskin when, even as weak and hurt as he was, he quirked the corner of his mouth in one of those nasty little smiles.

"Trying to learn the monster's weaknesses?"

She would have slapped him, she thought, had he not been so injured; she would have _slapped_ him for that.

"I'm trying to understand what's happened, and how to keep you safe, you stupid man!"

Rumpelstiltskin had either the grace or the presence of mind to look humbled by her outburst. He let his left hand fall heavily onto her knee, patting her again.

"I was careless," he said, taking Wren's bottle from her unresisting hand and putting it to his lips again. He took a long pull, flinching as he swallowed the stuff, then allowed her to take the bottle from him. "Won't happen again."

"Can you walk? It's freezing in here, and so are you." Belle knew of nothing else to do but try her best, even for a husband who belittled her efforts, her affection. "Or don't _monsters_ catch their death?"

"Not this one, dearie." But Rumpelstiltskin slung his good arm across her shoulders and, together, they clambered up to standing before wobbling into the wall. She arranged the sheet around his shoulders, a bloody, makeshift cloak. "There's only one thing can kill me," he hissed, and Belle was sure that he spoke more to convince himself than her.

They wove and stumbled their way to the head of the staircase, where Belle hesitated. A fall might not kill Rumpelstiltskin, but it wouldn't improve matters either, and she could easily break her neck. She planted one hand firmly against the outer wall of the spiral, as they took the first step. Rumpelstiltskin was trying not to bear weight on his injured leg, but placed his frightful-looking swollen hand against the inner wall to help in steadying their progress.

He swayed on his feet, for the last few steps, and Belle let him rest against the wall as soon as they were safely down. He seemed baffled by the sight of the darkened passageway, as though he had felt the magic slipping from him but had not been able to envision the effects upon the castle.

"Will it come back?" Belle forced herself to be merciless, tugging him with her again, this time with much of his weight supported across her shoulders. His feet dragged upon the ground. "Your magic?"

"'s not gone anywhere," Rumpelstiltskin growled. "Inside. Inward. Protects itself." And then he frightened her by barking a strange laugh, as his stumble carried them both hard against the right-hand wall. "No' me. No' me."

"Hush," Belle said, for he was wasting breath and strength and telling her nothing of any use. She could question him when he was tucked up in her bed, safe and warm. Adjusting the sheet around his shoulders, she guided him down the final few steps to her room, and from there to her bed. By then, Rumpelstiltskin had forgotten all pretence and each step drew a grunt of pain. Glancing at his face, as she helped him into the bed and tugged away the dirty sheet in which she'd wrapped him, Belle saw the ripple again, this time much more visible, as though an invisible hand had, just for a moment, rubbed away a layer of grey-green strangeness to reveal the peach-pink flesh of a man, beneath.

An ordinary man.


	30. Medicine

A few, necessary chores seemed to take Belle forever.

By the time she had fetched up another bucket of logs to her room, her knees were wobbly from fatigue and her head was spinning. She had made up the kitchen fire, emptied her chamberpot, fetched down the medicine bottle and the jug of water from the turret, and collected a handful of unused candles on her travels. Kneeling to build up the fire in her own room, Belle knew that she was losing the ability to think clearly. She would need to rest, herself, as soon as the most immediate problems had been attended to. The sheer size of the castle - of just the central building that the two of them inhabited - made long work of an otherwise insignificant errand. It was one reason that Belle had meant to make herself an apron, so that she would have copious pockets in which to ferry things about. It felt like weeks since she'd purchased the fabric at market.

Rumpelstiltskin had not moved since she'd tipped him into the bed. Face down and at such an angle that his feet were sticking out from underneath the sheets on the side of the bed nearest the door, exhaustion had put him, for the moment, somewhere beyond pain. Belle bent over him to make sure that nothing had changed before she left him again.

One more errand, she told herself, plodding heavily upwards; she must find where he kept his nightgowns. She could not remember seeing any, when she had peeked briefly into his wardrobe all those weeks ago, but as far as she knew he had no other room in the castle. He changed his clothing with magic, so perhaps it didn't matter where things were kept when not in use, but Belle had come to know her husband, a little. He kept his belongings close to him, and was quite orderly in his approach to things.

She picked up his coat from the floor, almost tripping over it as she entered his windowless room. It was far too small a room for her to become lost in, even in blackness, so Belle trod her way carefully to the bed, where she left the coat, and from there to the wardrobe against the far wall. Cursing herself for not thinking to bring a candle, and too weary to go and find one, she pulled the wardrobe open and used her hands to explore the hanging clothing. Kneeling, she felt the base of the wardrobe, first the front for any sign of drawers, and then inside, where she was able to lift a lid on its hinge; the base of the wardrobe was a simple chest, and inside it, her hands found silk. Handkerchieves, and nightshirts, and what felt very much like a couple of her own ribbons, coiled up on the top. Belle shook her head, drawing out two of the nightshirts. She would return later with a candle, to tidy up whatever she had disturbed. For now, she had what she needed.

At last, quaking like a leaf, Belle returned to her own room, closed the door and curtains to keep in the warmth, closed all but the end drapes around her bed for the same reason, and crawled into bed beside her husband. When her arrival seemed not to disturb him, she edged nearer until she shared his pillow, and could feel his steady breaths against her hair. She wanted to weep, hating the helpless feeling that had come over her since last night; hating that so much of her fear was for herself, alone with her ailing husband, when all of it should have been for him.

Even as exhausted as she was, she could not manage to sleep. She was warm, soon enough, and felt better for that, but she regretted speaking sharply to Rumpelstiltskin, and allowing her fears to rule her. It had been careless, foolish and unnecessary to allow herself to get cold, cradling her husband in her lap. Why had she not fetched the blanket from her own bed? Worn her cloak and hood? If she became ill, herself, then who would care for her husband?

Miserable, Belle turned over to take what comfort she could from the sight of her husband. With his face deep in the pillow and his hair spilling over his visible cheek, she could almost imagine that things were as they should be; that he had succumbed to a more pleasant sleep than this one. But his hair was lank and matted with dried blood, and while his breathing was steady, it was not the easy, soft sound that accompanied contented sleep. Remembering her disturbing, vivid dreams after taking Wren's medicine, Belle frowned and put her hand between Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders, rubbing lightly. His skin felt clammy, and still too cool. What dreams would swim out of the drugged darkness for a soul tainted by the blackest magic? And so old, too; he must have so many memories crowding his mind, compared to Belle's scarcely-twenty years. It was no wonder, then, that he sometimes looked as if he had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

No wonder, then, that he disliked sleeping.

The medicine was another problem. Even if it brought bad dreams, it was helping him, and less than a seventh of the bottle still remained. It had far less effect on Rumpelstiltskin than on Belle herself, which likely meant that it helped him far less as well. What would she do when the last of it was gone?

Thankfully, Belle heard the answer in the memory of her father's voice. _We do all that we must, petal. We do all that we can._

For a moment, her Papa seemed so much with her that she felt herself smile, but it was only a moment, and it left Belle feeling more alone than before. But the words were still the right ones. She would do all that she must, and all that she could.

Taking the sheepskin that he'd given her so recently, Belle spread it atop the other covers, across Rumpelstiltskin's back. He did not stir, so she slipped quietly out of bed and pushed her feet back into her slippers. She must eat, she thought, and if the magic was no longer at work in the pantry then she would have to learn very fast indeed how to store and preserve what she could. What did an invalid eat? Belle had so seldom been unwell, herself, that she had little experience of such things, but porridge was easily made and easily taken. As Wren had pointed out, nobody would starve if they could make a pot of porridge.

Belle wished that there were two of her, as she took her letter-box and left the room. One to stay beside her husband in case he woke up and needed her, the other to attend to everything else. What would Rumpelstiltskin have done, before he was married? Lain upon the floor of his work room in agony, alone, and trusted to his own, dark legend that he would not die of what ailed him?

And what of Wren? Would the potion that Rumpelstiltskin had given her last, now that the weather had turned? Belle knew that she must go out to the road, to be quite sure that the magic that kept it clear was as broken as that inside the castle. If there was any chance of her reaching Odstone and returning with help, or even just with more of Wren's sleeping draught and a little advice, then she must take it.

Two of her? Belle knew that a small _army_ of her would not be enough, if she did not plan for the likelihood that magic would be gone from the place for some time to come. In that realisation, she found some comfort at last; she had helped her father to organise a town and its people for an indefinite siege, and where their martial efforts had failed, their preparations had not. Had Rumpelstiltskin not come to make his bargain, they would all have died on the walls with their bellies full.

She must sort what food would keep from that which should be used or cooked soon; she must uncover the log pile and judge how long it might last them; she must search the less-frequented rooms for all the candles she was able to collect, for nothing in her search of the castle had hinted at where a large store of them might be kept. When Rumpelstiltskin's will ruled the castle, candles simply never burned down and logs never crumbled to ashes.

And, while she did all that, she must eat, drink and tend to her husband as best she could.

Carrying her box, and a glass lantern with a single candle to light her way through the windowless and shrouded places, Belle went to the kitchen to begin her daunting, new set of necessary tasks. First, though, she placed the box on the table and checked inside. There was no letter, and she did not know whether Rumpelstiltskin's magic had faltered there, also, or her father had simply made no reply yet.

She would ask her husband, when he seemed capable of answering, but Belle put it firmly from her mind for the moment. There was too much to do, and she could not waste any time fretting about the fate of a letter.

~+~

When Belle eventually made her way back to her chambers, she had once more been away from Rumpelstiltskin for longer than she'd hoped. She was balancing a large tray, upon which she had not only the tea things and two bowls of hot stew but her lantern and half a dozen candles.

For some reason, she had expected to find her husband exactly as she had left him; face down and dead to the world. Instead, he had made his way to the middle of the bed and had tried to prop himself up on pillows the way he preferred. Belle hurried over, leaving the heavy tray at the foot of the bed when she saw that he was awake enough to watch her. She had not thought to leave him any light, when she left with the lantern. The curtains were still closed, and the bed still wrapped in most of its own drapes. She pulled the rest of those back at once to let in what little light there was.

"I'm so sorry," she said, rounding the bed to the window side and crawling to him in the middle of the bed. "I didn't think I'd be so long. I didn't think you'd be awake." She almost sobbed the last, and saw confusion creep into his otherwise stony expression. "I'm not very good at this, am I?" Somehow, she turned the sob into laughter, and carefully made up the pillows behind him until he could sit comfortably, his weight supported by soft feathers. That done, the bed sheet came only to his midriff and he clutched at it, forlornly, until Belle thought to snatch up one of the nightshirts and help him into it. She at least thought to begin with his badly injured right arm, sparing it any unnecessary movement. It hurt him, anyway, but he made no sound other than to breathe more heavily until he was, once more, resting against the pillows.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" Belle went to the window and opened the curtains. The day gave little enough light, for the sky was still black with the threat of further snow. "I know you don't like my cooking, but this is better, I promise."

Her false cheer had no obvious impact on Rumpelstiltskin, but he gave her a very slight nod. Whether he was answering her questions in the affirmative, or merely humouring a foolish wife, Belle could not tell. When she returned to kneel at his side with a cup of water and a bowl of stew, he was unable to raise his hand far enough to help her steady the cup against his lips. He let it fall, trembling, and closed his eyes as he drank. As before, he had a great thirst and seemed impatient with Belle's efforts to slow him, but he was too weak to see to himself.

Belle's own hand shook before the cup was empty, because it frightened her so to see him failing and silent. She had no knowledge of healing, and little enough of simple nursing. What was she to do, if he became too weak or insensible to guide her at all?

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin whispered, when he had caught his breath after drinking. His voice was weak as well, strained. Belle touched his cheek, stroking there with her knuckles until he opened his eyes again to look at her. "You're afraid," he said, frowning a little.

"Not of monsters," Belle said, heavily. "My reputation might suffer if my new husband barely lasted the month." She kissed his cheek, stubbornly overruling her own despair. "Try to eat a little?"

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin let her put the spoon into his mouth. She had planned ahead, filling his bowl with the rich broth and mashed vegetables rather than any meat. It would be almost cold, by now, but he seemed not to mind it.

It would give him a little strength, surely? Belle's mind kept trying to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes, as her husband lay so still and let her feed him, spoon by spoon. All that dancing vigour was quite washed out of him, and even his sharp tongue was muted. She would not have believed it possible and, for all that he had maddened her with his recent actions, she would have traded anything to have Rumpelstiltskin back, just as he had been when he killed the prisoner on market day.

Belle caught herself not paying enough attention, the spoon stopping against Rumpelstiltskin's closed lips and smearing stew on his cheek when he turned his head away in silent protest.

"Sorry," she said, and pulled a handkerchief from her belt pouch to mop his face and mouth. It was the silk one he'd given her to dry her tears, the morning after their wedding. She sighed, and reached over to the tray for her own bowl. She had eaten bread in the kitchen, finding it already dry and chewy, and only forced down the stew in the knowledge that she needed to keep up her own strength if she was to look after Rumpelstiltskin.

Afterwards she poured herself some tea. Rumpelstiltskin had fallen asleep, or, at least, she thought he had. He had not moved since turning his face away from the last spoonful, and a little of the stony control had slipped from his features. Belle watched him, as she drank, and even in poor light she saw the change creep across his flesh again.

Could magic change someone? Not just on the inside, where it truly mattered, but change their appearance? Rumpelstiltskin detested his own appearance, at least when it came to being seen by his wife, and she did not think that he would choose to look so fearsome merely to enhance his reputation. But, when that rippling change came over him, there were glimpses of a perfectly ordinary man who was quite recognisable as Rumpelstiltskin. Could magic warp a body as well as a soul?

Moving the tray to her sitting room, Belle kicked off her slippers and got in next to her husband. Thanks to the pillows, she was able to curl up against his uninjured side, and to hold his hand. Oblivious as he seemed to be, it made Belle feel a little better to be near him. She tugged at the top blanket until it came free from the foot of the bed, allowing her to draw it up to their chins for warmth.

The next time the ripple of change passed over him, Belle was near enough to see that, where he was momentarily the colour of most born in these northerly lands, his skin also became smooth, textured only with the most ordinary of lines.

This time, thankfully, Belle was able to sleep for a while, and woke a little refreshed. The candle in the lantern had burned down more than halfway, since she closed her eyes, and the sky outside was darker yet.

Beside her, Rumpelstiltskin was restless, although weakness made his movements very slight. She sat up, ready with words to soothe him back to sleep, but the grimace of pain stopped her tongue and she rose, instead, to fetch the black medicine bottle. As before, Rumpelstiltskin tried to gulp it all, but Belle had no difficulty in preventing him, this time. He could do little more than growl in the back of his throat as she stoppered the bottle and held it in her lap while she fussed with his hair.

"Not enough," he said, through gritted teeth.

"There's only that much again left in the bottle," Belle said, but reason meant nothing to him in his agony; her words only angered him.

"More," he demanded, trying so hard to sit up that he almost managed it, before Belle had to catch him when his supporting arm gave way. "Damn you, I didn't ask for your help!"

"You demanded a wife, as your price," Belle said, her own anger taking, for the moment, the form of a cool indifference to his unfairness. She got him upright on his pillows, again, and sat back, breathing hard. "It's not my fault if you didn't think first about the things a wife does."

"This is my punishment, then?" The little medicine she'd allowed him had not helped; she could see that it had not. But his words were clearer, so perhaps his mind was, as well.

"And when you wake up again, and there's no more to be had?"

"Make more!" He shouted with a strength that she hadn't known he still possessed, startling her back a few inches in every expectation of a blow. But Rumpelstiltskin managed no more than to curl himself towards her, slightly, before falling back with a moan and squeezing his eyes closed. "Belle... if you want to help me," he said, without fight, "do this. I'll heal, but the pain." His voice broke on the final words, his mouth trembling with the nearness of tears.

"Tell me how, then," she said, appalled at her own coldness. But what use was her warmth or gentle pity to him, like this? "I can't get to Wren, not through this snow. You'll have to teach me."

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed a few times, licking his lips, his expression shifting between the grimace of desperation and that terrible, limp exhaustion.

"Not this, then," he said, after a while, his brow wrinkled in the effort of concentration. "Simpler. A tincture of poppy."

"That will help you?" Belle put her hand against his cheek, leaning close to be sure that she understood him. He nodded, and another of those ripples passed over him, changing him beneath her very hand. This time, it did not immediately fade from around his ear and temple. It left him breathless with pain for long moments, then panting for air when it passed. "Tincture of poppy. Will your books tell me how to make it? Is everything I need in your turret?"

"...yes. Use the blue poppies." She could see him trying hard to assist her, now, and that brought out the pity and tenderness in her that had been so easy to set aside when he was being horrid to her. "Can... can you read the old tongue?"

"Yes." Belle stroked his hair back behind the one, pink ear, trying not to stare at it.

"Good. Good girl." His whole body stiffened for a few moments, his eyes wide open and the breath strangling in his throat. Helpless, Belle stroked and soothed, and waited. "Remember, the blue poppies."

"All right," she said, and pulled the black bottle from between her knees, unstoppered it and allowed Rumpelstiltskin to drink all that was left. "The blue poppies. I won't forget." Belle had never heard of such a thing, and only hoped that what she needed was clearly labelled among his jars and bottles up there.

The extra medicine gave him some relief, after a minute or two; he stopped fighting against his invisible foe and lay still, only twitching when his skin changed. Had he noticed it? Belle could see that his wounds were healing, and Rumpelstiltskin had expected that. He was adamant that he would heal, with or without her help. She did not think that he had expected to change his appearance.

"Do you need anything else, before I go? I'll light another candle." He blinked at her, drowsily. "Don't you need a chamberpot?"

He snorted, shaking his head, and Belle was a little relieved. She had never known him leave their bed to relieve himself. Perhaps he just... didn't? Then again, his ear didn't turn pink, in her limited experience, either. "Will it take me long, to make the medicine?"

"As long as it takes," he said, back to drowsy slurring. "All potions take time and care, dearie, magic or no."

"All right." She had hoped for clearer instructions, but if there were books to be found then she would find them. She only hoped that her understanding of the old common tongue extended to medicines. She had learned to read legal documents and correspondence, and wondered too late if that qualified her to read books of potions.

Well, she was going to find out.

Gently, Belle kissed her husband's cheek.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised, not knowing whether or not he could hear her. Leaving a cup of water on a chair beside the bed and a candle burning nearby, Belle checked the fire and then went upstairs.

~+~

Although able to leave the tower to visit Rumpelstiltskin occasionally, after six hours at her new work, Belle had gained a new respect for the many hours her husband spent up there. She had imagined that he simply used his time there to avoid her, or spent it in contemplation at his spinning wheel, but now she gathered that the wheel had a purpose too. It was to keep Rumpelstiltskin from dying of the tedium while cooking, filtering, straining or reducing something that had required a great deal of painstaking preparation and measurement beforehand.

Much to her surprise and immediate interest, she had found a large jar of enormous dried poppy heads in the same low cupboard where she had found the basket of medicines. They were, indeed, a sickly and greyish blue, and unmistakably different from the several other types kept in the cupboard, which might have come from the small poppies she'd seen waving in fields all her life. Belle wondered, nervously, if the blue ones were magical. Some plants were, and while the old book she was working from didn't specify magical blue poppy heads, a handwritten note of Rumpelstiltskin's in the margin did say "blue". He had underlined it twice.

Magical or not, she could only do as he'd asked and pray that the result - which looked, at the moment, as though it would be a murky grey liquid - would ease her husband's pain. She knew before she was halfway through the laborious process that she must never taste the stuff herself - the fumes alone forced her to open a window. It had been clear from his relatively slight reaction to Wren's medicine that Rumpelstiltskin's constitution differed from her own, but Belle disliked the thought of giving this new medicine to _anyone_ in a weakened state. The book she'd found gave dosages, but if the blue poppy was more potent, as she suspected, then those were meaningless. She would need to take care that Rumpelstiltskin did not simply upend a bottle of it and hope for the best.

Whenever she could get away, Belle went straight back to his side. Only once did she return to find him awake, and once his thirst was satisfied he slipped away again. She could see that he was restless in her absence; he had long since slid from the comfortable slope of pillows. On her last visit before the medicine was ready, Belle found him curled around a pillow, crying out and tormented.

Reluctant to wake him and yet reluctant to leave him in such misery, Belle leaned across the bed and stroked his brow. The clammy cold had left him and Rumpelstiltskin was hot to the touch, and sweating. He muttered and struggled in his dreams. Belle listened for a while, but the only word she could catch was the one he repeated most often. _No._

Belle's own exhaustion was catching up with her; she caught herself sagging down beside him, thinking to embrace him and try to soothe him that way, but there was work yet to be done. She was no physician, no alchemist, no sorceress, but she could follow a recipe just as well for a medicine as for a stew. It was almost ready. She would not fail on the final step; she would not sleep until his medicine was made.

"It's almost ready," she said, leaning close to say it into his ear. "Then I'll look after you." Perhaps his dream had ended, or perhaps her voice soothed him. Belle couldn't tell, but Rumpelstiltskin became still, and stopped clutching the pillow so fiercely against his chest. "Yes," Belle whispered, relieved, "that's it. I'm here."

For some reason, the statements soothed her too. She was Rumpelstiltskin's wife, for good or ill. As he had tended to her while she lay injured, so she would care for him now - not with the greatest skill or with perfect grace, but as best she could, and with tenderness.

Whatever could be done, Belle would do for him, and if it was within her power then she would see her husband well again.

He _had_ to be well again. He just had to.


	31. A New Face

Belle had been deeply asleep when Rumpelstiltskin's restlessness woke her. It was still night time, and she was so drowsy as to be disorientated. It took her several moments to remember that she had, after bottling the medicine she'd so painstakingly made, changed into her nightgown and gone to bed beside her husband.

He had been deeply asleep himself, then, but his nightmares had returned and he had woken her by clutching at her as he had the pillow, earlier. Belle could not imagine how he slept through the pain of using his swollen hand, and gently dislodged it from her arm. Heavy eyed, she rubbed at his back and whispered nonsense about how he would feel better soon, and how she would make everything be all right again. After a while, Rumpelstiltskin buried himself against her, his cheek against her chest and his clutching hands less urgent.

Still too hot, he was sticky and quite unpleasant to embrace, but Belle did not think he was suffering with fever. It was the dreams, nightmares that she could empathise with; the sort that involved running when there was no escape, or reaching for something as it slipped away, or falling. Nightmares that frightened the body as well as the mind. She had had them too, when he'd given her the mixture of medicines to heal her broken bones, and reminded herself that he had spent the night beside her, then. No doubt she had been equally sticky and unappealing a bed-mate, at the time.

Soon, she would need to get up and see that the kitchen fire did not go out. Belle found herself without the will to move, particularly with Rumpelstiltskin settled and breathing evenly in her arms. She needed to find more bedlinens and blankets, for his magic was no longer at work to keep her bed fresh and clean, and she would have him be as comfortable as possible. She would find string or something else, and tie back curtains wherever she could in the castle to light her way during daylight hours, for she had not found a candle store anywhere, either.

"Always thinking," Rumpelstiltskin said, muffled by the blankets and the proximity of her right bosom to his face. "I can hear your mind turning. Tick tick tick."

Belle had been combing her fingers through his hair, trying to take out the bloody tangles, but she had been gentle - she could not have woken him up with that. Half asleep herself, she wondered for several, long and confused moments, if he really could hear her thoughts whirring.

"That's what minds are for," she said, reasonably. She hardly dared to hope that this was a return to the husband she knew; fast with his words and his wits, fond of teasing her for her ways. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Strange dreams," he said. "How long since I got here?"

"... a day." Belle could barely calculate even that. "Last night, late. You slept most of it, and most of today and tonight."

Yes. A day, or a little more than that.

It felt like it had been a month.

"My..." Rumpelstiltskin tried to push himself up, gasping horribly when his injured hand objected to taking his weight, and falling on his back beside her, cradling it as he whimpered. Belle dragged herself up to sitting, and waited until his shock had passed. She could see tears glistening on his temples. "Oh..."

"It didn't bother you, before." Concerned, Belle turned back the blanket and the sheet, gently pulling his good hand away so she could see the injured one. It looked a good deal better, but what undamaged flesh there was to see was pink. Easing up his sleeve, she could see that it had affected most of his arm. Rumpelstiltskin stared, shocked at what he saw, until he no longer had the strength to lift his head and let it fall back with a groan. "It's healing," Belle offered, encouragingly. "I can't believe how fast. It was twice as swollen last night."

"But... the..." Her husband closed his eyes, and it was Belle's turn to imagine that she could almost hear the clockwork of a busy mind. "Have I changed into a man?"

"Bits of you go pale and pink," Belle said, doubtfully. "It hasn't lasted."

"That's not... that shouldn't happen." He was too weak to snap and snarl, but obviously wished that he could. "What else?!"

"You've had bad dreams," Belle said, doubtfully. "And drunk enough of Wren's sleeping draught to drop a herd of bulls. You've been in dreadful pain. Don't you remember?"

"My clothes," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Everything I was wearing, covered in blood."

"Yes, I took it all--"

"Don't wash it, don't touch it," he commanded, the stern words seeming to sap his strength, for his anger drained away and he became limp beside her.

"It's all in the laundry room," Belle said, bewildered by his demand. "I've no idea how to wash leather, but why do you..."

"I must... this magic, this curse. Must find out who did this. How." Whispering, now, Rumpelstiltskin barely made a sound as he stiffened in the familiar spasm of pain. It left him pale-skinned from his jaw almost to his brow, this time, and did not fade as Belle touched his cheek.

"If you tell me what's going on, I can do more to help you," Belle said, but without any great hope of his compliance. Other than to impress her, he had guarded his magic and his history from her as though she were a stranger.

"I doubt that, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, through half-clenched teeth. "What does a slip of a girl know of the work of lifetimes, eh?"

Belle knew that the pain put the edge on his words, but knowing it did not stop them cutting her. She bit her lip, looking away until she was certain that she would not shame herself with tears.

"I want to help my husband," she said, finally, not even sure that he was still awake to hear her. "That's not something you can mock me for. I want to know my husband."

"Do you?" His bitterness was like acid. "Know the Dark One, would you, and still smile and kiss me, and pretend that I'm no monster?"

Turning back to look at him, and waiting to be certain that he was looking at her, Belle saw the change in his flesh creep upwards beneath his hair.

"There's nothing that you can say to drive me away. Stop trying, unless it gives you pleasure to be cruel for the sake of it." She leaned over him, studying his face; changed and yet the same. His eyes were a dark colour, but the eyes of a man. Gentle eyes, she thought, to go with such venomous words. "You demanded a wife when you could have accepted gold. I refuse to be burdened with your regrets about that, do you hear me, Rumpelstiltskin?"

Rumpelstiltskin could not have looked any more shocked had she struck him. Belle thought that she should be trembling with rage, or filling with venom of her own, but she felt a dreadful calm. Removed. Resolved.

He nodded, tight-lipped.

"Good," Belle said, sagging a little when she found herself facing no opposition. She had been ready to do battle, of a sort, and could not back away from the stubborn resolve so easily. "I made the medicine that you asked for," she said, speaking carefully. It was not the moment to speak her mind to Rumpelstiltskin, no more than was necessary for her continued sanity in his company. "It's very strong, and you're looking more like a man every minute. Should you still take it?"

Lifting his left hand, Rumpelstiltskin saw himself as he always was. Belle touched his cheek, and helped him to do the same. "At first it was just like a ripple on water. Now your whole face. Your right arm, too, I think."

He looked so frightened, so perplexed, that she could not hold on to her annoyance.

"This never happened before, when you were ill?"

"... never ill before," he said, with as much of a shrug as he could manage. His hand shook, where she cupped it against his cheek. Even in his bewilderment and fright, Belle sensed that he was trying to be as careful with his words and thoughts as she. He did not want to offend her again, even if it meant denying the pain its loathsome voice. "Drop by drop, then. The medicine."

"Yes." Belle helped him to sit up, feeling him sway and flinch from the injuries that had troubled him so little, before. She could only hope that this change in him would not slow his remarkable healing, or allow poison into the wounds. She supported him as gently as she was able, while rearranging the pillows behind him in the way he liked.

As she went to ease him back onto the soft slope, Rumpelstiltskin gripped her arm until she stopped to meet his gaze.

"You are the most perfect wife," he whispered, eyes narrowed. On his pink, new face, Belle could count so many lines. They did not look like ones that had been put there by laughter. His dark eyes pleaded his sincerity. "Truly."

Moved, flustered by his sudden unbending, Belle pressed a hasty kiss to his cheek and made a fuss over settling him onto the pillows. She cherished every one of his rare compliments, of course - cherished them all the more because, when it came, his sentiment was so unguarded. All the same, she could not help but feel that she would embarrass him if she were to remind him of it, later, or swoon about it now. She had thought, at first, that he begrudged his kindnesses. Now, Belle rather suspected that they shocked him, instead.

"The pain doesn't seem so bad," she hazarded, when Rumpelstiltskin was settled.

"Inward," he said, his voice unsteady after his exertions and his eyelids fluttering as though he fought to open them and could not. "Magic fighting magic. Gone inward. Keep my clothes, Belle. Anything bloodied."

"I will." From a bloodstain, he would be able to find the cause of his torment? Belle caught herself doubting, and then remembered her ring. From a bloodstain, he had claimed to offer back her very innocence after their wedding night. Seeing him as he was now, feeble and half transformed, it was easy to forget that his was the most powerful magic in all the lands. "Who could do this to you?"

"No-one," Rumpelstiltskin said, tightly. "The medicine, Belle."

Wordlessly, Belle wriggled from the bed and fetched it from her sitting room, where she had been careful to leave it before sleeping. Relieved that Rumpelstiltskin appeared to share her caution about the stuff, Belle returned to his side. He watched her, his new eyes sunken in his new face, while she dipped the tiniest measuring spoon she'd been able to find into the neck of the bottle. The spoon was made of pure gold, as were quite a number of the tools in her husband's turret laboratory, and for the first time Belle had an inkling as to why; the way the medicine smelled, it would surely have blackened silver or rusted steel on contact!

"I hope I got it right," she said, hopelessly, as she put the spoon to his lips. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, wanly, and while she was familiar with the expression, it seemed so much gentler on his ordinary, human features.

A moment later, he was doubled up coughing from the contents of the miniature spoon, and Belle was hastily stoppering the bottle so that she could reach for him and pat him on the back. Her heart thundered with alarm while Rumpelstiltskin wheezed and coughed, but the fit subsided, slowly, and she remembered her own spluttering reaction to Wren's milder medicine.

Slumped forward over her arm, shaking from the sudden exertion, Rumpelstiltskin managed a feeble echo of his twittering laughter, once he had his breath again. Belle righted him, struggling with his unprotesting weight, and saw that his eyes and nose were streaming. Fishing for her handkerchief, she caught his spark of mirth and found herself grinning as she dabbed at his glistening cheeks.

"How did I do?"

"Perfect," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, hoarsely. "We'll make a doctor of you, my dear."

Belle smiled, idly entertaining the thought as she got him comfortable again among the pillows. The book had warned that the medicine could cause sickness, and so she had brought a bucket, and that it could cause feverish dreams, so she had brought a basin of cool water and a clean cloth. Was that all that a doctor did, she wondered, tidying the damp hair away from her husband's cheeks - apply simple learning to a patient? Belle's own, limited encounters with doctors had led her to believe that they were, on the whole, learned men who understood chemicals and plants, and gently hoped for the best when applying them to a patient.

"I'd like that," she said, but timidly. She could never gauge his tolerance for idle conversation, at the best of times, and his pain had not improved his demeanour. "To be useful. To show what a woman can do in this world, if she's only given the chance."

"Yes?" Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. They had changed again, become the eyes she knew, but softened where the medicine had made his pupils large. Belle wondered if the world looked different to him, through those eyes. "What else?"

Realising that he asked simply so that she would stay nearby and speak to him, Belle felt some of the lost warmth coming back into her heart. She had so missed the sense of being welcome at his side.

"Well." Taking his left hand between both of hers, Belle felt him give a little squeeze of acknowledgement. "To travel. To see the world. All the places I've only read about. To sail on the seas, and ride a camel, and see where the rock melts out of the ground and builds new land."

Rumpelstiltskin's tiny smile had become a proper one, but he looked sleepy. Every time he blinked, his eyes looked different. Belle found it infinitely more disturbing to see than the changes to his flesh. But her medicine had done its work; his body was no longer twisted up with pain, and it seemed to have sweetened his sour mood somewhat as well. She felt a deep and quiet pride in her accomplishment.

"Do you need anything else?" Belle could not help feeling that she ought to be offering him food and water more often, even as some deeper intuition told her that what he needed the most was rest. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, squeezing her hand slightly. "I'm glad it helps," she said, arranging the covers over him. "The medicine. I hate to see you in pain."

"That makes two of us," he said, sleepily.

Belle had so many questions, about who could have done this to him; about how it was possible to harm one so powerful. The loss of magic from the castle made their situation seem precarious, at best, and while she would defend her husband with her life, of course, it would be a futile effort against whoever had been capable of injuring Rumpelstiltskin so terribly.

It had taken fire and siege weapons to breech the walls of the castle where Belle was born. Without magic, it seemed to her that a lightly armed band of men could storm Rumpelstiltskin's home with little opposition. A sorcerer might simply obliterate it from the map without ever setting foot upon Rumpelstiltskin's lands.

When she was sure that he was asleep again, Belle added a log to the fire, put on her cloak over her nightdress, and made her way down to the kitchen.

The fire there was a perfect, wide bed of embers, allowing her to wrestle the heavy iron trivet into place above the steady heat to take her pots and pans. Everything that would not store as it was had to be cooked or, as a last resort, packed and put outside in the outbuildings in the hope that the frost would preserve it.

Yesterday, she had oiled all the eggs, as directed by Wren's old cookery book, and read with a smile about how, if one had hens, the best plan for lean times was to wait nearby to spot the strain of laying, and to take each warm, fresh egg at once from beneath the birds and rub it with butter. Wren's book assured the reader that such an egg would outlast any left unbuttered and, as a bonus, gain a delicious richness. Belle had longed to try it, never having put her hand beneath a fussy hen to steal an egg. It sounded like a delightful adventure, for one whose eggs had always come via a well-organised and well-staffed kitchen.

Whatever she did, Belle realised that she was going to be left with too much food, either cooked or raw, that could not be saved unless the temperatures outside remained low enough to freeze. That could not be relied upon, but was useful in the meanwhile for dealing with the contents of chamberpots. She had placed a bucket near the kitchen door, having no idea where to look for a cesspit, and the contents were, mercifully, frozen solid whenever she returned to add to it.

They would not starve, whatever happened; between an enormous sack of oats, several cheeses and a variety of cured meats, Belle was as confident as she could be that they would be provided for until a thaw allowed her to reach the town again, or until Rumpelstiltskin was able to assert his will over the castle once more.

Light would be the greater problem and so, leaving her kettle to heat over the embers, Belle went upstairs with a ball of string and a kitchen knife, and began tying back every curtain she could find. It was nearly dawn, and after tying up only two of the curtains nearest Rumpelstiltskin's spinning wheel, Belle was able to extinguish her precious candle and continue in the half-light provided by the new morning.

Most of the halls and passageways had high windows, often of simple stained glass, which admitted enough light to move safely. The staircases varied, some having light wells and others being pitch black even at noon, but Belle's feet knew the way by now. By throwing open every door on the two floors above her own, and tying back every curtain she could find there, Belle made enough light to deal with the daytimes. At night, they would simply have to ration the candles, unless Rumpelstiltskin could tell her where to find more.

If all else failed, there were the unexplored wings of the castle; who knew what she might find there, besides extra candles? Belle liked having an idea to fall back on, should her plans fail her.

She returned to a boiling kettle, and made herself a pot of tea. Dishes and pans had piled up, needing to be washed, but Belle could not bring herself to spend time on those that she did not need - not until she was more confident about leaving her husband unattended for long periods of time.

Eating cold stew with stale bread, and drinking half a pot of tea, Belle tried to list what else had to be done. A breakfast for Rumpelstiltskin, first, and then check his wounds. Her warmest clothing next and, if she could wear them, a pair of Rumpelstiltskin's tall boots - she needed to wade through the snow as far as the road to town, and find out if she had any hope of making the journey. That would leave her wet through, of course, so she would need to change again and dry her things...

There were moments when she felt equal to the tasks ahead, and moments where she felt crushed by the demands suddenly placed upon her. A full belly gave her less comfort than it once had, but it gave her strength, and so she began her day.

~+~

Rumpelstiltskin took a quarter of a dish of porridge in silence, before looking queasy and waving it away. Water was more to his liking, and Belle sat patiently beside him, tipping the cup so that he could sip. While she did so, his uninjured left hand played feebly upon her knees, stirring the silk of her nightdress and reminding her, just distantly, of more pleasant moments in their bed. She missed his touch, very much, but it was not with the burning of want between her legs, now; his arms about her would have been enough. His kisses.

"I've been a poor husband," Rumpelstiltskin said, when Belle took the empty cup from his lips. His eyes, human again, were glassy from the poppy, but his words were clear and deliberate, even if he spoke them with a strange slowness.

"Not now," Belle hushed, and drew away the covers to check his wounds while she had daylight. Most of his skin was changed, now; patches remained as they had been, but he was soft and pink everywhere else. They both stared, and Rumpelstiltskin was too slow in trying to prevent her from lifting the front of his gown all the way up to his chest. She'd thought him foolish, anyway, for hiding his nakedness from her while he enjoyed her own; she would have no foolishness, now, when he had healing wounds that might need her attention.

They did not - Belle could see that much. Where there had been countless angry puncture marks, it looked now more like a fever rash or the dried, bumpy scrape of a knee. Red dots, all over his right side, and still the swelling in his right arm and hand, but the change was as remarkable as the change in the tone and texture of his skin.

Realising that he was holding his breath, staring at her and utterly mortified, Belle tilted her head and gave him a sly smile.

"You've no excuse now," she said, scratching gently at the centre of his chest with her fingernails. "You're as pink as I am. No monster at all."

"I was never lovely, dearie," he muttered, breathless after releasing the breath he'd held so long. "The Dark One doesn't change that."

Belle shrugged. She had no basis for comparison. Sometimes she had seen men work with their shirts off, their trousers turned up to their knees. Rumpelstiltskin was thin enough that his ribs jutted, but wiry with muscle and well-proportioned. His right leg looked weaker than the left, swollen at the knee as if with an old injury. And as for the rest, for the heavy flesh that hung below, she had nothing to compare his loveliness against. It seemed to her no more or less lovely than her own hidden places, which were covered now by her triangular thatch of hair. He remained hairless, everywhere, and she knew that most men were coarse with it on their arms, legs and chins. She supposed that they were the same beneath their breeches, as well.

"You were like this once, then?" Gently, she tucked him back up, gown and sheet and blanket, and put the sheepskin over his belly. "An ordinary man? Not always the _Dark One_?" Pained, he turned his head on the pillow. It was all that he could do to escape her. Belle lay down beside him, draping his arm around her as she went, and felt him give her a weak squeeze as she snuggled close. Perhaps he had missed her, too? "Is that when you had your son?"

"...yes."

"And a wife who didn't find you lovely."

"Yes."

"Were you a poor husband to her?"

"...only once." She knew that speaking of it caused him grief, but how was she to understand him if she did not know what it was she was being compared to? "No-one knows this, Belle." Rumpelstiltskin was almost stammering in his uncertainty. "No-one _can_ know of this."

"That you were married before?" Incredulous, Belle lifted her head to stare at him. He looked ashen, exhausted, but his eyes were bright with anxiety and confusion. "Are you going to keep me a secret, too? It's a bit late."

"That I was a man," he said, impatiently. "That I had a son. That there's yet magic in the world that can reduce me to... to this..."

Attempting to gesture with his swollen right arm, Rumpelstiltskin rendered himself silent with pain for quite some time, the urgency of his message forgotten as he cradled his arm and cringed.

Silently, Belle fetched the bottle of medicine again. This time, she put half a tiny spoonful of the stuff into a small cup of water, hoping to spare him another coughing fit. He nodded gratefully as he took it in three gulps.

"I must have your word," he said, still wheezing from the fumes as she took the cup away.

"All right." Frowning, not understanding but seeing no harm in his request, Belle laid her palm in the centre of his chest. "You have my word. Now give me yours," she added, unplanned, and with a touch of the anger that had carried her through his harsher moments. "That when you're better, you'll explain to me what it is that I just promised to keep secret. Your wife, your son, how you changed. All of it."

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her, and Belle left him with her ultimatum, and with a clear view of her bare back as she shed her nightgown and clambered into her warmest clothing. She put on three pairs of stockings and needed two garters on each leg to keep them tied up. He stared at her the whole time, until she second-guessed her brazen display and peeked shyly over her shoulder to see his expression.

"Do you plan to make all your wifely demands with your arse bared, my dear?" The medicine slurred his words, but his greedy stare was lucid enough. Belle flushed.

"If I must. Do I have your word?" She felt chilly and ridiculous, in nothing but her stockings and chemise, but his interest in looking at her was clear evidence of improvement in his health or, at the very least, the efficacy of her medicine.

"You have my word," he said, and tore his fascinated gaze away at last, allowing her to dress in peace.

"I'm going out to see if the road to town is clear," she told him, standing at the foot of the bed. "I'm no doctor and I'm not always sure that you're making sense."

"Remember your promise," he said, drowsily. "No-one must know."

"I'll be careful," Belle said, frowning. "Will you be all right while I'm gone?" Rumpelstiltskin nodded slightly. "Where do you keep your boots?"

His eyes flew open and he attempted to raise his head from the pillows, he was so surprised by her question.

"What?"

"I need a pair of boots to wear in the snow. Mine only come to the ankle. The snowdrifts are as high as my hips, already."

"Don't go out there, then," he said, peevishly. "The road won't be clear. Why so busy? Fussing about the place. Running hither and yon. Why?" The medicine had stolen his clarity of mind, Belle could tell, but his petulance was very clear.

"If you don't want me to leave you, just say as much," she said, quietly. "And I must run about because nothing in your castle makes any sense without magic, and we'd have no fires, no light and little food if I didn't remember how to manage without it. We've enough logs for a while, but hardly any candles. Did you know that?"

Belle curbed her impatience as quickly as she could. She knew that poppy stole the mind away; it was not Rumpelstiltskin's fault if his heart spoke without his head, while dosed with the stuff. Was it simply that he wanted her at his side, comforting him, and had been too proud to beg her to stay?

Guiltily, she hoped so.

There was nowhere else that Belle would rather be, but she could not pretend that the other problems would evaporate if she ignored them. If she could only bring some help from town... but who would come? Wren would never manage the journey, and nor would Belle dream of asking her to attempt it. Who else was there to ask, even assuming that she could reach the town?

She sat down heavily on the lid of her trunk, and put her head in her hands. Rumpelstiltskin was right. Boots or no boots, there was no use in going out into the snow when he was certain that his magic was not clearing the roads. What if she should reach the town and become stranded there, with her husband here alone?

"Belle." She heard the rustling behind her as Rumpelstiltskin tried to move. It took her a few seconds to compose herself, to dash the tears from her eyes, before she could turn her head to look at him. He was trying to sit up, to reach for her. It took her long, aching moments to realise that he meant to offer _her_ comfort, not demand it for himself.

Going to him at once, kissing him and cradling him as he lay back, Belle tasted her own tears.

"I've been so afraid," she confessed, her face pressed beside his ear and her arms as tightly around his chest as she dared.

"But you fear nothing," he crooned. For all that he had responded to her distress, the medicine still had him firmly in its grip. He sounded dreamy, distant, and his left hand patted clumsily at her back. "Brave Belle."

She laughed, wetly. She had always wanted to be brave, and never thought to hear it praised while she was trembling in a man's arms, half in tears.

"Bravery doesn't mean having no fear."

"No?" After several tries, his wandering left hand located her hair, carelessly tied behind her in a single bunch. "What's it mean, then?"

"Facing the fear, of course. Doing all that you should, and all that you can, in the face of what frightens you."

"Mmm." Rumpelstiltskin had made a fist around her hair, but his hand soon dropped to the pillow behind her. He was motionless when, with only a little hesitation, Belle eased her arm out from beneath him and got beneath the covers. Sleep was what he needed, she was sure, and perhaps she should take her own 'medicine' and sleep as well.

He had called her brave. He had called her perfect. They were no empty words of flattery, she knew; they were the thoughts of a husband who watched her and marvelled at her, and thought deeply about her nature when she was absent.

Belle took that knowledge to heart, as she lay snug and drowsy beside him, and felt it warm her, sweetly, from the inside.


	32. Small Comforts

It was pleasant to wake up in her husband's embrace, comfortable and snug. Belle spent a few, blissful moments at the edge of sleep before she remembered their situation and opened her eyes, guilty for having slept so deeply that she could not even guess at the time. But Rumpelstiltskin was awake, holding her close against his side, and smiled faintly when she dragged herself up on one arm to check that all was well with him.

Her hair fell around her face as she did so, and Belle smiled, shyly, seeing that the ribbon she'd worn to bed now lay upon her husband's chest.

"You've been amusing yourself," she said, picking up the ribbon and dangling it where he could see. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were brown again, and he seemed less affected by either the pain or the medicine than he had before. "How do you feel?"

"Poorly." His voice was different, now. Softer than ever, and somehow less certain. "I cannot... my magic is there. Out of reach. Can you understand?"

Belle watched his pleading eyes, trying to learn the colour of them before they changed back again.

"I don't suppose I can," she confessed, touching his cheek and studying the deep-set worry lines of his new face. Or was it his old face? Still Rumpelstiltskin, but all new to her again. "Like being blindfolded? Losing one of your senses?"

His lips twitched with a nervous little smile.

"A little like that," he said, catching her waist with his good hand and trying to draw her back to his side. He was humouring her, Belle could see. She humoured him in return, and bent to kiss him. His lips were dry and scratchy. She enjoyed the kiss all the same, and Rumpelstiltskin rubbed appreciatively at the small of her back until, reluctantly, he turned his face away with a grunt, looking queasy.

"Do you need some more medicine?" Belle hesitated to ask, liking his quiet clarity and unusual frankness, but she would not have him in pain merely for her own comfort. He shook his head, closing his eyes and swallowing. His hand began to tremble, clutching her, and he let it fall with a sigh.

"Tell me of my castle," he said, when he had his breath again. "You said..." His nose wrinkled. "I'm afraid I don't really remember."

"Magic stores the food, cleans the linens, empties the chamberpots, fills my bath, keeps the fires and preserves the candles," Belle said, speaking gently, because Rumpelstiltskin looked genuinely mystified as he tried to remember what she had said to him earlier. "Is there anything else I need to know about? What if whoever did this to you comes here?"

"Oh, Belle." Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, the lines deepening in his face as he screwed it up with the effort of concentration. "Don't trouble yourself. Those are small spells, small comforts because I tired of weeping maids. The castle is defended by magic far more powerful. So are you. All that's mine."

Belle sat back on her heels, thinking hard about that. She did not particularly like that he spoke of her as mere property, even if that did mean that whatever protected his castle protected her equally. And weeping maids? She had been so sure that he had spent his entire time at the castle alone, until she came to be his wife.

"If I'm yours, then you're mine," she said, more pointedly than she'd meant. "And without all your _small comforts_ I have a lot of work to do."

"Of course I'm yours." He sounded bemused at the suggestion that he might have thought otherwise. "Do you doubt it?"

Brushing down her skirts, taking several moments to remember why she had put on so many pairs of stockings, Belle stood and watched him.

"No," she decided, eventually. "Only that you want to be."

It was no time for such a discussion - Belle could see that. Her newly-pink husband looked decidedly green around the gills, and was struggling to keep up with events. She could _see_ him trying to work out what he had said to earn the sharpening of her tone. Belle sighed. Sharpness was unlike her, and it was no way to treat an invalid. She would have to hope that Rumpelstiltskin remained open to the possibility of confiding in her once he was well enough to do so.

"Will the box you gave me for the letters still work?"

"Oh." He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yes. The magic is in the very wood. As long as your father has its twin, it will work."

She tried to let that cheer her, as she made Rumpelstiltskin as comfortable as possible. She leaned across the bed to straighten the pillows as best she could. When even that made Rumpelstiltskin grimace and swallow hard, she pursed her lips and planted the bucket firmly beside him, to his obvious dismay.

"You've no linen cupboard that I can find," Belle said, reasonably. "Better safe than sorry." He nodded, glumly. "What about candles?"

"Oh. Yes." Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, Rumpelstiltskin concentrated. "In my tower, somewhere," he said, finally. "Can't use the time-freezing magic up there. Interferes with the spells. Look for a box." He indicated the size with his hands. "Be careful what you touch up there."

"I spent most of last night up there," Belle reminded him, not unkindly, leaning across the bed again to put her hand to his brow. Was it a fever, or was he only warm because the room was so? She could not tell. "Time-freezing?"

Her husband looked sheepish.

"Around each flame," he explained, once again indicating the size with his hands. "A captured moment, repeating. It's not easy," he added, with a note of hope, as if his cleverness excused his laziness.

"But easier than the weeping maids?"

"Exactly." He gave her an uncertain smile. "Have I changed very much?"

"Don't you know?" Belle laughed, gently, stroking his damp hair. "Shall I fetch a mirror?"

"Best not," he said, darkly. "Anyway, I don't remember what I looked like, before."

"The same," she assured him. "A different colour. Smoother. No curl to your hair, but it's matted with blood. Your teeth are a lot more _lovely_ ," she added, with a touch of mischief. "Your eyes are darker, the whites larger. It's strange." Her ribbon had fallen to the bed beside him. Belle picked it up, smoothed it out and let it coil up on his belly. "For your collection," she said, and smiled when he blushed. It was unmistakable, while he was so pale. Even in the pitiful light, she saw the colour rise. "I must see to the kitchen fire," she said, "and look for the candles. Then I'll come back."

Much to her surprise, Belle looked forward to returning. Now that Rumpelstiltskin's illness seemed more within the realm of simple nursing and small kindnesses, she was not so afraid of doing the wrong thing. While the magic had torn at him, crippling him with unimaginable pain, she had been so afraid that she hardly dared try to help him lest she make things worse.

Mint tea was good for sickness, she remembered on her climb to the turret, without being able to place where she'd learned it. There had been some in the gift baskets from Odstone and, it not being among her favourites, had sat largely untouched on the kitchen shelf. It was probably no match for the powerful poppy medicine, which had almost made Belle sick with its vapours alone, but Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed tea. He might feel a little better for such a show of sympathy for his plight, even if the tea itself did no good. 

It took a careful search of the various shelves, cupboards and stashes behind bookshelves before Belle located the box of candles in Rumpelstiltskin's turret. It was more than half full - Belle guessed that there might be thirty candles left, and they were good ones, half as thick as her wrist and each quite tall. Good. She could save the ones she'd collected for the lantern she carried everywhere, and use these fresh ones to light the sick room and the kitchen when needed.

She glanced in on Rumpelstiltskin as she passed the door of her room, leaving the box outside with most of the candles. He looked to be asleep, insofar as she could tell, so she went as quietly as she could the rest of the way down the stairs.

Tending the kitchen fire took only a minute or two. If she had judged things correctly then, come morning, she would have a perfect bed of embers should she wish to cook. Missing her bath, Belle promised herself a good wash with hot water before the kitchen fire, in the morning. But what of Rumpelstiltskin? She had no idea whether her husband bathed, somewhere in the castle that she had yet to discover, or if he resorted to magic for that small comfort as well. If she carried up the kettle, at least she could offer what Lotte called 'a lick and a promise' of a wash. Belle had done her best in cleaning his wounds, but had paid little attention to any part of him that was unhurt.

Small comforts, she reminded herself, as she worked to prepare a single cup of mint tea. She used the cup that he had asked for, the chipped one, and sweetened the tea with a hint of the honey he liked.

Lastly, her heart beating painfully with hope and dread, she lifted the lid of her letter box. It was empty, and Belle closed it again with her head bowed, taking a moment to compose herself.

It was a slow and unsteady climb back to her room, with the lantern dangling below the teacup in one hand and the half-full kettle in the other. Even though she had slept away too much of the day, Belle felt ready to sleep some more and looked forward to changing into her nightgown and brushing out her disgraceful hair.

The sight of Rumpelstiltskin on his feet brought her up short in the doorway, fumbling to put everything she carried down on the floor so that she could rush to support him. He was slumped against the nearest bottom bedpost, his left arm wrapped around it while his injured right hung useless at his side.

"Whatever are you doing?" Belle demanded, trying to guide him to sit on the bed, but Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, matted hair wild about his face.

"'s all right," he said, in a shaking voice that discredited his argument more than a little. "Sit by the fire."

With his arm across her shoulders, he was able to walk steadily enough, but with a heavy limp that worried Belle as she helped him lower himself into the chair. She knelt at once, expecting to see a wound opened and blood everywhere, but his white nightgown was marked only where sweat had met her inadequate efforts to clean all the blood away, before.

"What's the matter with your leg?"

"It's an old injury," Rumpelstiltskin said, moving his leg out of her grasp as she tried to lift his nightgown. "Thought the magic had cured it long ago," he added, bitterly. He sounded stronger, now that he was sitting down again, and Belle looked up to see his eyes changed once again - wide irises, paler and far more piercing than the gentle brown they'd been a while ago.

"I brought you some mint tea," Belle said, not knowing what else to say. He spoke of things that were beyond her understanding; he did not speak of them enough to let her _gain_ any understanding. "And hot water for a wash, so it's best that you're by the fire."

He gave no answer, so Belle lit two candles to see what she was about, brought Rumpelstiltskin his tea and kept her hand upon the cup until she was confident that he could manage it without her, and brought her copper wash basin to the fireside with the kettle. Her trousseau had any number of cloth oddments that could be pressed into service for bathing and drying but, as she brought them to the fireside as well, she had a sudden memory of the enormous sponge with which Rumpelstiltskin had bathed her arms, during her fever. Wherever did he keep such things?

For that matter, where did he keep a coach and four horses, and their eerie coachman?

Magic had been the mistress of Rumpelstiltskin's household for too long, she decided, watching him pretend to ignore her as she returned one more time to the fireside, this time with his black nightgown in her hands. If he would allow her nothing else then she would be, in the future, the mistress of small comforts here.

Rumpelstiltskin had drunk the tea, greedily, and if it had not settled his stomach then it had not sickened him either. Belle knelt again at his feet, took the cup from his hands and set it out of harm's way, and rested her hands on her knees, looking up at him with stern matter-of-factness. At least, she hoped that was what her expression conveyed. She felt only weary and nervous.

"Can you manage to wash, or shall I?" Taking a slight shake of his head to mean that he could not manage without her help, Belle poured water into the basin and tried to think how best to go about washing someone. Head to foot, or the other way? Would he be too cold, with the nightshirt off? Could she wash him beneath it? _Of Hearth and Stove_ , which Belle had almost finished reading, had offered no guidance on how to wash bashful husbands while they sat in a fireside chair.

Dipping a cloth and wringing it out, the water almost too hot to stand against her skin, Belle got to her feet and carefully wiped Rumpelstiltskin's face with it. Next, his left hand, and his arm as far as she could move his sleeve. The right was too swollen to attempt it, so Belle rinsed out the cloth and applied it behind her husband's neck, earning a sigh that might have been pleasure.

"Are you going to do all over?" he asked, as she brought the cloth around to swipe at his throat, going carefully where his skin was marked.

"If you'd like," Belle said, trying to sound indifferent about it, while Rumpelstiltskin gave her a passable imitation of his teasing grin. "If you're not too shy to take this off." She tugged at the open neck of the nightshirt, answering teasing with teasing to mask her sudden confusion. He was thinking about _that?_ _Now?_

Suspicious of his teasing, Belle returned to her knees and lifted the hem of the nightgown into his lap. If she began with his legs and feet, he would spend less time chilling while she washed his back and chest with the gown off.

His right foot was crooked, wasted and warped even above the ankle. An old injury? It must have been a terrible one, she thought; bone deep and healing badly. It was not visible at all when Rumpelstiltskin was himself, nor was there any suggestion of a limp. She had glimpsed enough of him to know that, as odd as his skin usually was, it was without pits or scars of any kind.

It was difficult to avoid dwelling on such an injury, but Belle remembered Rumpelstiltskin's bitterness when he spoke of it. It would keep. Gentle where he was wounded and firm where he was not, Belle washed him from thighs to feet, as much as the chair would allow.  When she glanced up, as she selected a fresh cloth and added more hot water to the basin, she saw Rumpelstiltskin lick his lips and glance quickly away from her.

He _was_ thinking about _that_! Belle surprised herself, being so sure of it. She so seldom felt that she knew her husband at all, but she recognised his furtive interest in her attentions.

"Your back," she said, calmly. Rumpelstiltskin hesitated, his mouth tightening for a moment, but fidgeted obligingly until Belle could lift the gown over his head. He sat there at the edge of the seat with his head bowed, holding the gown protectively in his lap, while all of Belle's attention was given to his injured arm. The healing had slowed, but she could make out some improvement, and no sign whatsoever of poison in the wounds. His magic had to be doing that much for him, she knew, and wondered why it had not been able to spare him the dreadful pain as well.

His back was barely injured, but had received none of her attention the first time she had bathed him because she had been unable to lift him. Tonight, Belle spent some time over it, scrubbing firmly with one cloth and dabbing him dry with another, until she could let him sit back in the chair. He still had the discarded nightgown in his lap, but the thin silk was a poor shield for what lay beneath and she could see that he had grown somewhat hard while she paid attention to his back.

"Why do you keep hiding from me?" she asked, taking her last clean cloth and wetting it, and standing over him a final time to wash his chest. There, she took more care because more of the skin was raw.

"I don't know," Rumpelstiltskin said, and reached for her with his left hand, clumsily grasping her waist. "Why do you not care that your husband is... this?" he asked, instead.

"I'm trying not to be frightened that you've changed, if that's what you mean," Belle said, knowing that it wasn't. "Are other men so different from you?" She knelt at his feet, rinsing her cloth and pulling gently at the nightgown that preserved the last of his modesty. He flinched as she took it away. "You're not so different from how you were," she decided, looking at the half-hard thing resting limply against his thigh. "So I don't think other men can be that different from you."

Rumpelstiltskin held his breath while she washed his belly, dipping down to encompass his cock and the sac beneath, but not daring to wash there in earnest because, having no such parts herself, she had no way of knowing how tender they were. He grew harder at each stroke of the cloth, though, and Belle did her best not to stare. She did not think that she would like it if he _stared_ at her in her pleasures; she much preferred that they kissed and pressed close. "Do you want me to touch it?"

"Yes," he said, unsteadily. He had sat with his knees clamped tightly together while she washed him; now he loosened them, let her between them so that she could get nearer and take the shaft in both her hands. Belle wanted to look up at him, but bent to kiss his belly instead, earning a soft sigh. The position was awkward, but she did her best to move one hand as he had shown her, and to keep the other from touching anywhere that seemed likely to hurt him. Her kisses seemed to give him the most pleasure and, thinking of how it felt when he kissed her breasts and throat, Belle applied herself with more enthusiasm.

Caressing her hair, his hand still shaking, Rumpelstiltskin made a soft sound of surprise when she touched her tongue to his belly. Having found that she liked to kiss his mouth, Belle had yearned to kiss him elsewhere, while he kept himself so stubbornly covered. She found that she liked this, too, even if she did feel silly kneeling there, guessing at what to do next. She liked how his skin felt to her lips; how his abdomen twitched when she moved her mouth and, once, dared a tiny scrape with her lower teeth that made him wriggle in the seat.

Flushed with heat and not a little embarrassment, Belle remembered that she held him in her hand. He had softened, while she kissed him, yet he did not seem to object to that; uncertain, she lifted her head and gave him a pleading look. Rumpelstiltskin's only guidance was a drowsy, hooded look and the twitch of a kind smile.

"I... I feel silly," Belle said, with a half glance at the contents of her hand.

"It's your pantomime, dearie," he said, the smile growing. "You set the stage."

"Oh, you...!" Laughing, letting go of his cock, Belle sat back on her heels and put her hands on her hips. "You know I don't like it when you tease me."

Rumpelstiltskin waved a hand towards the fresh nightgown, and Belle clambered to her feet to help him into it. She supposed that was fair enough; if she did not like to be made to feel foolish and ignorant, then he did not like to be naked. Now that she had seen all that he was hiding, and had a picture in her mind to accompany all that her body had felt, she did not mind so very much. Man or monster, she was sure that he concealed nothing that might dismay her.

"Perhaps I shall hide away under my nightgowns, too," she suggested, as she smoothed the black silk across his knees. "Never let you see me, even while we love."

"Then I would invent a spell to let me see through clothing," he smiled, with a hint of his old, bright ease. "And watch you all day as you dusted and scrubbed and fussed about my castle."

"And you say that I'm wicked and wanton?" Belle resisted the urge to put her arms around him, as she helped him to his feet. She could only hurt him, and he could bear little weight on his bad leg. Rumpelstiltskin found the wherewithal to press a kiss to her brow, as she steadied him, and she was grateful. She did not mind his teasing, not so _very_ much, but she longed for any sign that she was near to his heart, and that her ineptitude as a lover did not make him impatient. "It must hurt terribly," she said, on their wavering, shuffling journey to the bed. "Your foot."

"More than I remember," he said, tightly. "Do you prefer the monster or the cripple, I wonder?" There was no mockery in the words, only the frustration of his pain and weakness, so Belle just shook her head, too out of breath from supporting his weight to make an immediate reply. What sort of a question was that, anyway? She let Rumpelstiltskin sit while she pulled the pillows over to the side of the bed nearest the door, building them up for him the way he liked. It had not been at all convenient to play nurse to him while he occupied the middle of the enormous bed; this way, she would be able to sit beside him rather than mount a minor expedition every time she needed to reach his side with a cup or mop his brow.

As she fussed with the pillows, leaning past him, Rumpelstiltskin petted her hip. His weakness made him clumsy about it, but Belle smiled to herself as she stacked the last pillow. She had not thought that their pleasures had any place in a sick bed but, now that she thought on it, she remembered the comfort that it brought her, even before she discovered pleasure with him. She considered how much she had missed his warmth in her bed while he was away. Perhaps he, likewise, wanted only the gift of her nearness and affection?

They were a strange match, Belle thought, tucking him in and bending to kiss his forehead. Her ignorance, his reticence. It was a wonder they had consummated their marriage at all, and she had come to realise that she had not been the only one quaking with fear, when the moment came. If only one of them had known better, that night - she that she would not be abused, or he that he would not be scorned.

Knowing that he watched her, Belle made an unnecessary, slow chore of undressing herself and slipping into her creamy nightdress, leaving her day things on the trunk. She glanced around the room, but had no heart for tidying any of the mess. It would wait for morning, for daylight through the window and the fresh hope that came with a new day.

"Do you need more medicine?" Perching herself beside him, Belle made sure to watch his eyes, not fully trusting that his answer would be an honest one. Rumpelstiltskin bit his lip, sighed impatiently and nodded.

"Half a spoon, then dilute it and discard half, if you will. I felt quite unwell, before." He blinked, and in that moment his eyes became soft, human brown again. _Monster or cripple?_ The horrible question came back to her as she watched it happen. Belle gave him a kiss before going to fetch his medicine. Of course he would want to know if she preferred him as an ordinary man, if he had feared that she would be disgusted by his usual appearance. And, of course, she would not tell him that she did, even if it were true. All that she knew for certain was that she disliked the changing of his eyes. Eyes were supposed to be windows on the soul, were they not? When his eyes changed, Belle felt that she was looking at a different soul entirely, and how could that be?

She prepared the medicine as he had asked, discarding half of the diluted medicine before bringing the cup to him. The inaccuracy of such a measurement unnerved her rather, but Rumpelstiltskin knew the potion better than she did. He did not reassure her when he grimaced with reluctance as she brought the cup to his lips.

"I can make a different medicine," she suggested, helping him to keep the cup from wobbling as he drank. "This wasn't very difficult."

"There's no need." He licked his lips as the bitter liquid went down, and Belle took the cup away, setting it on the ground beside the bed. "I'll be myself again soon. No curse buries _my_ power for long, no matter how cunning."

"You'll change back? Be exactly as you were?"

Astonished at her naked relief, Rumpelstiltskin stared at her.

"You sound glad."

And _he_ made _that_ sound like an accusation.

"It's hard enough getting to know a new husband without him changing every five minutes," Belle said, flustered. "You did enough of that before."

Rumpelstiltskin continued to stare, and gripped her hand when she tried to move away.

"It is easier to be despised," he said, urgently. "I did not know how much easier, until our wedding night. I don't know anything else, Belle, but how to be alone."

The shameful thought entered her mind that if the blue poppy loosened his tongue so, then perhaps it should not be saved only for great pain. Belle caught her bottom lip between her teeth, stroking his hand with her thumb.

"But you're not alone, now," she said, small voiced. "And I don't want to be. Let me prove myself, if I must earn your trust. Please, just give me a chance."

Not the right time, her inner voice scolded. This was taking advantage of his weakened state to have her own way, pure and simple. But they could not go on as they had begun, with their only true understanding found in the bedroom; with Belle aware that her husband guarded dreadful secrets, yet ignorant of what they were and what she must not do or say. Even in his agony, that night in the turret, he had pushed her away, as though she might loathe him for his weakness rather than offer him her strength.

Drained of words and all but drained of emotion too, Belle blew out the miserly candles and got into bed. Rumpelstiltskin met her with his left arm outstretched, welcoming her to his side. That was a small comfort, and she welcomed it.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, when they were still, Belle's head resting on his arm and his left leg caught between her own. "Take you home? Furnish you a palace where you can have a thousand servants of your own? Name it, and--"

"No!" She spoke her heart but he heard her words all twisted up by his expectations. It hurt her, and most of the pain was for his sake. "Let me _know_ my husband. Let me be your wife, _truly_ your wife. _Speak_ to me when you doubt. Question me when you don't understand. Trust me with the truth of things as they are, as they must be. Trust that I can... that I can _endure_ , and not come to hate you for it."

It was a passionate speech, and it left her breathless and quaking with nervous energy, her left hand making a fierce, sweaty fist around a handful of his nightgown. She felt that she had stopped pleading only because she had frightened herself into silence.

Rumpelstiltskin was silent for so long that Belle was half afraid that he had gone to sleep in the middle of her unburdening her heart, but then he turned his head and, with considerable clumsy effort, found her lips for a soft kiss. He tasted of the poppy medicine, of the alcohol and bitter scent of it. It was quite pleasant, so diluted, and Belle followed him, greedy for more, simultaneously trying to press against him and avoid hurting him.

The longer they kissed, the more clumsy and drowsy Rumpelstiltskin became, and Belle resigned herself to sleeping with the itch of desire kindled but unsatisfied. It was nice to kiss him, anyway; to be the one doing the kissing while he, half insensible, rubbed lazily at her back and made quiet, warm sounds of appreciation.

When his hand slid from her back to the pillows, Belle let him be, curling herself up against his side again and waiting for her heartbeat to slow. Had he heard her words, she wondered. Had he truly? Would he remember them, or would it seem like only a poppy-dream to him, come daylight, that his wife had spoken so plainly?

A kiss had seemed to be her husband's answer to her heartfelt plea. Belle chose to believe it, as she waited for sleep to come.


	33. Treasure

Refreshed and cheerful, Belle had washed herself with plenty of hot water in front of the glowing kitchen fire, and then washed her hair under the chilly pump, before the sun was really up. The excessive sleep had made up for the recent lack of it; her mind was clear and her steps felt lighter as she scurried, chilly in her nightdress, back up to her room to dress. There had still been no letter awaiting her in the box, but even that had not dampened her spirits for more than a moment.

Rumpelstiltskin still slept, so Belle crept about in near-darkness rather than risk waking him. She sat in the fireside chair to see to the combing of her wet hair, and plaited it tightly against her scalp, securing it with two ribbons. She would need to buy more, very soon, if her husband kept on taking his little trophies; most of the ones she had left in her trunk were wide, bright, gaudy things that would make her look girlish. She kept them because she had once loved them so, but could not bring herself to wear them in her hair now that she was a wife, any more than she would have worn them under the threat of invasion at home. If there was one thing upon which she agreed with the pseudonymous writer of _Of Hearth and Stove_ , it was that a wife had no business being foolish.

There had been very little else in the book that Belle could agree with. As Rumpelstiltskin had promised, the advice on kitchen matters was useful, but Belle was rather glad that she did not have to live in its fictitious household and deal with its bland servants and faceless family. Nothing in life was as straightforward as the author suggested it ought to be.

With her nightdress clinging and damp, Belle was in no hurry to move away from the fire, and sat there until a muffled sound from behind suggested that her husband was waking up. Another sound was sharper, nearer to a cry of pain, and Belle was by his side in a moment, soothing and stilling him until he was fully awake.

"Medicine," he hissed, and Belle nodded, upset that the night seemed to have worsened rather than improved his condition. As she went to prepare the dose, she twitched the curtains open enough to give them some light.

Rumpelstiltskin could not swallow the cup of medicine and water fast enough, almost choking himself in his urgency.

"Slowly," Belle pleaded, but he was strong enough to keep her from controlling the cup. That was something, she supposed, rubbing his chest and making soothing sounds until he stopped spluttering and lay still, breathing hard. "Is it the same as before?"

He nodded, tight-lipped. Tight everywhere, the battle rejoined beneath his skin. Without being able to explain how, she could _feel_ it. Belle shivered at the thought. When magic warred with magic, she could think of nothing worse than to be the battleground.

"Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, when the medicine had eased him enough to breathe steadily, with an effort. "More, today. Another spoon in water."

"A-are you sure?" Had he been himself, green-grey and glistening with gold, she would not have hesitated to follow his instruction, but only his eyes were as they had been before. An ordinary man could be poisoned by the best of medicines. "You felt so ill from it, yesterday."

"Needs must," he said, struggling for every word. "Please, Belle. I've not your courage."

"You're sure it can't harm you," she pressed, speaking loudly so that there could be no doubt. "You're quite sure?"

"Sure," he nodded, and curled up on his side as the pain took him again. Belle had to keep him from falling out of the bed until it eased again, and she could persuade him to lie back. "Belle... please..."

Wordless, reluctant, Belle added another tiny measure of the poppy medicine to some water and allowed him to drink it. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, relaxing as it took effect, and held her hand tightly until it carried him off to sleep again.

He had been so much better, last night. Belle had hoped for a gentler reunion, this morning, but perhaps that had been just a foolish wish. She had no understanding of what ailed him, of what a curse could do to one as steeped in dark magic as Rumpelstiltskin. Foolish, then, to expect it to run its course like a mere cold.

Feeling helpless, Belle took a deep breath and did what little she could; fetched the bucket in case it was needed, brought a candelabra nearer so that she could read as she sat beside him, and checked his healing wounds as soon as there was daylight enough. Those, at least, were well on the mend. Even his hand, which two days ago had been a gory mess, once more resembled a hand - swollen and sore, but with patches of smooth, healed skin. Those patches, she noted, were of his usual skin colour. Had she not known that, the shade would have quite alarmed her as any part of a wound.

Wishing that she had thought to eat something while she was busy in the kitchen, Belle distracted herself from her hunger with a book selected from her shelves. It was one that she had taken from the library, upstairs - a history of armour and weaponry in the Enchanted Forest, penned by a renowned master metalworker. Belle wondered what her husband would say to her choice of reading matter. She knew what her father would say - that a girl who read widely was less likely to have any nasty surprises in life. And Gaston would say that such things were not seemly for a girl, and probably suggest that she sit quietly and sew something, instead.

How could she let Rumpelstiltskin know that she was sincere in her wish to be at his side, a true wife? No doubt it would have been more straightforward, had fate led her to wed Sir Gaston instead, but she held no illusions about that bargain, either. Her family held influence and respect. Belle, herself, would inherit land and titles one day. To Gaston's family, she had been a strategic prize; to Gaston, she had been a duty, with the convenience of uniting their families outweighing the inconvenience of taking on a bookish and obstinate bride.

She did not think that Rumpelstiltskin regretted marrying her for those reasons. She was certain that he found her agreeable in his bed, and not only for the pleasure that it gave him to take her. None of the qualities that had so disturbed Gaston appeared to trouble Rumpelstiltskin, who gave her the run of his library and tolerated her obstinate attempts to become a housekeeper. Why, then, did he refuse and refuse to believe that her affection was sincere? What caused him to doubt that it would last?

Belle sighed, bending to soothe him in his drugged sleep. The poppy had not put him all the way beyond pain, this time; his face twitched, his body tensed and trembled every few minutes. The book from which she had taken the instructions to make the medicine had warned of that, as well - that the efficacy of any poppy preparation quickly waned, requiring larger and larger doses to sustain any benefit. Once begun, that could become a dangerous habit, with the body calling for the medicine long after the pain was gone. The dose should be gradually reduced over several days, the book said, until the patient was kept comfortable by a mild tisane of the crushed pods.

Rumpelstiltskin turned onto his injured side with a mumbled complaint, and barely seemed to notice that he had trapped his swollen hand in doing so. The medicine had done that much, then, at least. She hoped that it had soothed his leg, too. More than once in the night she had awakened to find him trying to settle into a new position, comfort eluding him because of it.

His magic must be powerful indeed if it had buried such an injury for so long that he had been able to forget how it had pained him when he was a man. An ordinary man.

Studying his face, Belle allowed herself to consider that properly for the first time. Rumpelstiltskin had been just an ordinary man, unremarkable in his appearance; husband to a wife, father to a son and crippled by a tortured leg. What had become of him? Her fingertips traced the deep-set lines across his brow, then his cheeks. They had been there all along, she thought, but so much about her husband deceived the senses that she had not noticed the haggard lines until he became ill.

How did an ordinary man come by such power as Rumpelstiltskin had, now? Of all his secrets, Belle supposed that would be the one worth guarding from any mortal eyes. Even those of his wife. When Rumpelstiltskin spoke of the Dark One, he spoke as if he meant something apart from himself, yet Rumpelstiltskin _was_ the Dark One. He said that, too. _Spinner. Stealer-of-babes. Deal Maker. Dark One._

 _Husband_. The title sat uneasily with the rest, she could see that. It spoke of protection and duty and family, and power of an altogether different kind. He had chosen to take her as his bride; had been the one to warn _her_ that marriage was the most everlasting of contracts. Yet it was he who struggled to accept her status as his wife; it was he who avoided facing the consequences of his demand.

In darker moments, when he frightened or upset her, Belle had caught herself entertaining the notion that, in accepting his terms, she had unexpectedly called his bluff.

There was the ripple of change again, accompanying his twitches of pain. The golden-flecked thick hide of which Rumpelstiltskin spoke with such scorn was predominant for just a moment, and then faded again as the pain loosened its grip. Did the struggle with the pain cause the change, or was the change the cause of his pain? Belle soothed him as best she could, and occasionally managed to spare some attention for her book.

By mid-morning, Rumpelstiltskin appeared to have found a more peaceful level of sleep, and lay quite limp on his back, breathing heavily through his mouth.

Belle took the opportunity to tiptoe out of the room, to stretch her legs and to fetch up something to eat. Unsure how often she would be able to get away, she opted to bring up the stale remainder of a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and the last few apples, along with a large jug of fresh water.

Her husband had curled up again while she was gone, this time on his uninjured side. He looked comfortable enough, half supported by his slope of pillows, and did not stir when Belle cautiously lifted aside his tangled hair to have a proper look at his face. He seemed as much at peace as she had ever seen him, and so she left his side and went to eat by the fire, book on her knees.

Outside, the snow had finally given way to milder weather. Belle could hear the trickle and drip of meltwater, and bright sunshine occasionally broke through the clouds to brighten the landscape. It gave her a sense of optimism, even though she knew it might be weeks before the thaw cleared the route to Odstone. Rumpelstiltskin would be well again before that, she told herself, and believed it.

She was deep into her book before her husband made any further sound. Belle's aching, tight shoulders had loosened considerably as she lost herself in a book - truly lost herself - for the first time in many weeks. She had wondered if that would become a luxury of the past, of girlhood, along with her gaudy ribbons, but it came back to her easily and she was glad. Armour and weaponry were less interesting than she had hoped, but she would finish the book anyway, tucking away the new knowledge in case it ever proved to be useful.

When Rumpelstiltskin stirred, Belle carefully noted her place in the book and, leaving it on her chair, returned to his side.

More of his skin had changed while he slept. Both his hands had returned to being a soft greyish green, with the sparkle that caught the light and deceived the eye. His fingernails were darker too, although not the dull black they had been originally, and patches of darker skin spread upwards from his throat, leaving most of his face but going as high as his temples. He looked extremely odd, halfway between the two states, but he stirred in his sleep with no obvious signs of his earlier agony.

Giving his shoulder a gentle shake, Belle watched him blink his way to the land of the living. His eyes had returned to the way they had been before he was hurt, but lacked the sharpness she remembered. He looked drowsy and confused.

"How long did I sleep?" he mumbled, momentarily struggling to be upright, but giving up when Belle applied gentle pressure with her hand upon his brow.

"All morning. Your hand's much better. Look." He did so, wiggling newly-mobile fingers and blinking at the sight.

"You're cheerful," Rumpelstiltskin said, suspiciously.

"I'm glad you're not in so much pain, that's all." Smiling at his bemusement, Belle leaned over to kiss him, and lingered a moment when his lips moved in response to hers, grateful for even such a small gesture of acceptance. "Some water?"

This time, she did not have to battle to keep Rumpelstiltskin from downing the cup in urgent gulps. He sat up and sipped, slowly, looking around at the room as if startled to find himself there.

"You're changing again," Belle offered, trying to decide how much he was still under the influence of her medicine. Looking at his hands again, Rumpelstiltskin nodded, expressionless.

"I should get up," he said, when the water had gone.

"Is there any hurry?" As pleased as she was to see him steady and lucid, her husband was far from being himself. "The sleep seems to do you lots of good."

Meeting her eyes at last, Rumpelstiltskin nodded.

"...perhaps you're right. I do feel... strange."

"You look strange," Belle teased, leaning nearer. "Are you hungry?"

"No." He looked lost, worried. "Belle?"

"What is it?"

"I dream of him. My boy. New dreams." He frowned, struggling to explain, and Belle squeezed his shoulder. "Always nightmares, before." Dropping his head into his cupped hands, Rumpelstiltskin took a deep breath. "How much did I have?"

"The medicine?" Belle was having trouble keeping up with his wandering thoughts. "One and a quarter of the little spoons, mixed in water. Don't you remember?"

"Not really," he said, still buried in his hands. Belle stroked his hair until he straightened again, looking slightly less bleary-eyed.

"You were in dreadful pain this morning. It seems to have worked. It's nice to have pleasant dreams of your son, isn't it?"

"Until I wake." Sighing, Rumpelstiltskin let himself fall back to the pile of pillows. "Perhaps a little food." He focused on her again, the effort visible. "Some tea?"

"Yes, of course." Nervous of leaving him when he seemed so dreamy, Belle made a fuss of tucking the blanket tightly around him, as though it might somehow help him remember not to wander off while she was gone. "Try to rest."

His only answer was an obedient nod as he closed his eyes again.

Belle was as quick as she could be, fetching a tray with the tea things and two bowls of hot porridge. She was not surprised to find her husband out of the bed, when she got back, but this time he was standing at the window, leaning heavily but steadily against the wall, and gazing out at the dappled day.

What did surprise her was that the bed looked freshly made, the grate contained a roaring blaze and the room's many candles were all lit. The rest of the castle was still in chilly darkness, but Rumpelstiltskin's will once again ruled _this_ room.

"You found some of your magic, then," she said, trying to dismiss her sense of disappointment. Not that he was recovered enough to attempt his small magic, of course, but that in doing so he had rendered her careful preparations worthless. When she should be joyful, she felt that she had been usurped! How foolish! "Come and eat," she urged, too cheerfully, and carried the tray into her sitting room, while Rumpelstiltskin continued to stare out of the window.

Returning to fetch the chair from beside the fire, Belle hesitated and went to her husband instead, putting her hands on his shoulders and urging him to turn and face her. With taut reluctance, he did so, and Belle's lips parted in a soft gasp to see him uninjured, clean of all blood and, save for the faintest fading patches of pink here and there, once more wearing the mask he called _monster_.

"So fast?" She raised her hand to his cheek, needing to touch the healed skin in order to believe what her eyes were telling her. Rumpelstiltskin watched her, his lips a thin line and his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Your arm, your hand, your leg?"

"Almost." He showed her the hand, and Belle brought it to her lips and kissed it, relief rapidly washing away her confusion and her selfish dismay at finding magic once more at work in her room. "You aren't sorry, are you?" he asked, spreading the kissed hand against her cheek and staring deep into her eyes as he leaned too close for comfort. "You're truly not."

"T-that you look like yourself again?" Unnerved by his intensity, when he had been so vague and distant but half an hour before, Belle shook her head. "No."

Rumpelstiltskin did not understand. She could see it so plainly in his searching look. She could see so much pain, and it was the pain of the heart and spirit, now, and not of the body. "Come and eat with me," she urged, and saw that he still limped very slightly as he followed her, barefoot. "You're not well yet, no matter how much magic you have back."

"I told you, it never left," he said, rather sullenly, but sat at her tiny table and reached for one of the dishes of porridge and a spoon. Belle watched him closely, and his movements were tightly controlled, having none of the fluid ease that made him so graceful when he was well. He looked uncomfortable, in every sense, and his spoon rattled briefly against the bowl before he took a deep breath and mastered it.

Thoughtful, Belle fetched the other chair and joined her husband for their simple meal.

"Does it tire you, to use magic?" she wondered, when she had taken the edge off her own appetite and stopped to pour their tea.

Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, as if torn from deep contemplation.

"To a degree. Such small tricks as these..." he pointed his spoon at her brightly lit bedroom. "Not usually."

"But bigger magic does?"

"It's difficult to explain," he said, diffidently. "Magic is a resource, not a... a gift, such as intellect or perfect recall. Why do you ask?"

"To find out if I should be scolding you for doing too much too soon," Belle said, smiling. "Did your magic heal you, and change you back?"

"Heal, yes." Rumpelstiltskin flexed his right hand, carefully. He was still pink between his fingers, and in the centre of his palm. "The changing... that's not my doing. A side effect, perhaps. I will find out," he added, with more than a touch of menace. "Someone thought to cage my power. They'll live to regret it." His lips pursed, suddenly, and the spoon dropped from his hand into the bowl. It was another of the ripples of changing colour, but while it made him exhale sharply and bite down on a cry, Belle could see that it was nowhere near the pain he had endured before.

She had no doubt whatsoever that, should Rumpelstiltskin discover who had done this to him, their punishment would be ten times as terrible as his recent torment.

The medicine bottle was on the table, with her water jug and two cups. Belle poured a little water into one of them, and took up the bottle and the golden spoon.

"How much of this?" she asked, hoping that her tone would convey that she meant to insist if he refused. It was foolish to endure such pain when there was a remedy to hand.

"Ha... half a spoon," Rumpelstiltskin said, sagging over the edge of the table as it passed. "Perhaps you're right," he went on, as Belle prepared the dose with meticulous care, swirling the mixture in the cup before she gave it to him. "I will rest some more." He swallowed the bitter contents of the cup in one gulp, and pushed himself up from the table. Belle rose at once to steady him, less surprised than he seemed to be when he swayed on his feet. "I'll go to my chamber," he protested, but without fight as she urged him back into the chair.

"I won't hear of it," Belle told him, firmly, keeping her arm across his shoulders as she brought his teacup nearer. "Did you know that when my people marry - when the clerics will come and say the blessings, I mean - we promise our husband fidelity in both sickness and health?"

"How quaint." Rumpelstiltskin leaned his weight into her embrace, quite taking the bite out of his words. "I think your young Gaston was more interested in property than fidelity."

"Well, I didn't get to make my vows of fidelity to you," Belle went on, with stubborn good cheer, while Rumpelstiltskin's arm crept around her waist. "But I would have, if the priests hadn't been too afraid to show their faces, and you'll share my bed at least until you're well again, do you hear me?"

"Mmm." He squeezed her waist before letting his arm fall, the drug making him drowsy again. Belle gave him a gentle shake, and made sure that he was sitting upright under his own power before she released him and sat down to her tea.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up the chipped teacup with ponderous care, and sipped.

"Will you stay?"

"Was I not just commanded to stay, by my wife?" There was that dreamy slowness to Rumpelstiltskin's words again, and a smile that made no attempt to disguise genuine pleasure. "Will you be a faithful wife, Belle?"

Staring at him, Belle almost spilled tea down her dress.

"Of course I will!"

"My wife... my first wife... was not. Not to me." His quiet words eased the temptation to allow her shock to heat into outrage. Belle listened, still staring, and still clutching her teacup as if her life depended upon not spilling it. "Vows are broken every day."

"Not mine," Belle said, quietly. "When I give my word, I keep it."

"Words are tricky things too, my dear," he said, but gently. "And poppy makes them slippery as well. Out they slip, too honest for their own good." He gestured awkwardly with the cup, before setting it down with exaggerated care. "I'll rest instead."

Without Belle's help, but unsteady on his feet, Rumpelstiltskin limped back to her bed. Rather than journey all the way around it, he crawled beneath the covers on the window side, and made no comment when Belle came to tuck him in.

"I like your honest words," she said, sitting down on the bed. Her hip was close against his, and their hands found each other by some mutual design. "I did ask you to question me when you doubt."

Rumpelstiltskin looked up at the canopy above the bed, his eyes growing heavy.

"You did," he agreed. "My brave Belle. Not even the truth frightens her." Smiling faintly at his own humour, he drifted off to sleep.

As much as she valued his honesty, Belle found herself longing for a conversation with her husband that wasn't filtered through a dose of poppy medicine, or warped by pain. She missed him, evasive and coy as he had always been; she missed the husband she knew, even though she knew him so little. She missed his sprightly grace and his bubbling energy, and above all his kisses, which spoke without words of a true desire for her.

Satisfied that he would be able to manage without her, should he wake, Belle set about tidying the shameful debris of her nursing efforts.

It took her two trips to the kitchen to restore everything to its proper place, and then she spent a while sorting through the accumulated pile of laundry. Remembering her promise to Rumpelstiltskin, she touched nothing that she had collected up after undressing him and cleaning his wounds - the clothing, cloths and towels stained with his blood. She merely nudged the bucket from which they overflowed into the corner, with her foot, and got to work soaking the other things.

She was more than a little relieved that her husband's magic had once again saved her from laundering the enormous bedlinens. That was a job that needed two pairs of willing hands, and she could not very well ask him to lend _his_ to the scrubbing and wringing. Nor had she any fresh sheets to put on the bed while she dried the old. As willing as she was, one person could not keep the castle unaided. If Rumpelstiltskin would allow her no servants, then magic would have to take their place, at least in some things.

But not in others. Belle was determined to gain control of the food stores, the kitchen hearth, and the supply of candles. She would see to it that there were spare linens, bandages, and medicines that used no magic. Simple things, but with such small influences she hoped that she might make the hollow castle seem more of a home to her.

Last of all, before blowing out the candles in the kitchen, Belle checked her letter box. Each time she did so, now, it was becoming a tussle between dashed hope and a growing, quiet worry for her father. When Rumpelstiltskin was himself again, she would ask him to check that the box was working as he had meant it to. Perhaps he had other ways of knowing whether or not her Papa was well and safe?

It was with weary steps that she returned again to her room, looking forward to curling up with her book. Any true sense of day and night had fled, during her husband's illness, and although it made her a little ashamed to be yearning for her bed so early in the evening, that was, at least, where Rumpelstiltskin was.

He had been busy and restless, by the look of him; pillows were scattered about him, and he had moved away from the very edge of the bed. He lay, now, on his front, arms stretching towards the headboard, face buried in a pillow. It looked extremely uncomfortable, to Belle, but he seemed to be at peace there.

Belle moved about aimlessly for a little while, attending to small tasks. Her chamberpot had once again succumbed to Rumpelstiltskin's household magic, and gleamed without her needing to do anything about it. She did not mind the chore itself, but the long trek to the kitchen door and back was wearing. Still, she thought, busily cleaning her teeth with the salt, sage and soot mixture, at least Rumpelstiltskin had thought of providing her with a pot. If he managed without, himself, it might easily have slipped his mind.

Her wash basin, too, obligingly filled and emptied for her, the water hot. Belle looked longingly at the bath, but resisted temptation. Rumpelstiltskin had been quickly exhausted, and she did not know how much it taxed him to see to her bathwater. Ordinarily, she was sure, he would barely notice, but she would not indulge in luxuries if they might weaken him, now.

She sat on the bed, half watching him while she carefully brushed out her hair. His had regained a little of its curl, cleaned of the dried blood and grime, and Belle smiled, realising that she approved of that. She had never thought that she would be choosy about her husband's appearance or clothing, yet found that she already had distinct preferences; for his hair to curl, for his silk and brocade over his scaly leathers. Even for his black nightgown over the white.

Did he look at her in the same way? Wish that she wore this colour instead of that, or that she arranged her hair just so? It seemed so silly, so shallow to think like that, but she could not help herself. Had she not teased him by working extra ribbons into her hair, knowing that he found some satisfaction in playing with them? It was like a game, a puzzle, and she had played at it without even meaning to.

Belle thought that Rumpelstiltskin liked the buttermilk silk nightgown best, for he had not stolen its ribbon that matched her eyes. It had been left for her on the tidy bed, as always, spread out and without creases or marks. Of the two nightgowns he had given her, it was her favourite, although the blue one was perhaps more comfortable and, being the looser and lighter of the two, more accommodating for activities other than sleeping. She loved the simplicity of the cream one, and had sweet memories of how he had admired her in it.

Changing quickly, tidying away her hairbrush and laying out her day clothes for the morning, Belle blew out most of the candles and closed the curtains. The brief burst of activity around the room roused Rumpelstiltskin somewhat, causing him to turn over and fling one arm across his face with a grunt, so Belle did not take undue care about getting in beside him and making herself comfortable with her book.

After a while, she became aware that Rumpelstiltskin watched her, and lifted her eyes from the page to smile at him. He returned the smile, and she was relieved to see that he looked less dreamy than he had before; less cautious, as though he no longer feared he might still be dreaming.

"You look better," she said, and he nodded, fidgeting himself nearer to her side and bringing a pillow for his head. Belle considered lying down, but she was comfortable where she was, and quite enjoying her stodgy book on the value of good steel. She smiled when Rumpelstiltskin pressed his face against her hip, and slid his arm across her lap beneath her book. So positioned, she could quite comfortably toy with his hair without her reading being disturbed, and found that she liked it. Their affection was so often overwhelming, while this was... peaceful.

After a while, Rumpelstiltskin reached up and positioned her book so that he could read the cover.

"You have unexpected tastes, wife," he said, releasing her book and embracing her again. "Will I find you hammering away in the forge, next?"

"Quite possibly." Belle thought that she might like to try beating out metal. It was assumed that a woman's strength was not equal to the task, but had any woman in living memory tried to make a horseshoe? She had never heard of one. "Or wearing fine armour."

"If it pleases you," he said, in a tone of studied disinterest. Belle giggled.

"I prefer silk," she assured him, and he pressed his face against her again, kissing her hip while he rubbed at her silk-clad thigh. "The suits of armour you have around the place are difficult to dust."

"I don't think dust is high on any knight's list of foes, my dear." Kissing her again, Rumpelstiltskin worked his hand upwards, until his fingertips were teasing underneath her right breast. Belle did her best to ignore him, to keep her smile from growing, and to keep her mind on the subject of metallurgy. Some things were beyond her control, however, and her right nipple shrank and tightened, treacherously, while his fingertips played nearby.

Naturally, she was glad that he felt well enough to think of having her, and had no particular wish to deny him. On the other hand, she would like for her affection to be earned; to be seduced away from her reading by his efforts alone. After all, he had demanded her hand in marriage without overtures; had taken her virginity as though it were a chore to do so; had thought to have her around the place gathering dust, like his other trophies, with no thought of romance. She would like very much to be flattered a little, and persuaded to give herself again after so many days of heartache and worry.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed not to mind her game, doing no more than explore and tease her with one hand, occasionally giving her hip a quick kiss. Unable to concentrate on the page, Belle concentrated instead on pretending to do so, and on keeping her smile from consuming her features too completely when he resorted to tugging, hopefully, at the ribbon of her nightgown.

"Does my husband want something?" she asked, as innocently as she could manage around her persistent grin.

"He does, mistress," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, softly, hooking one fingertip into the criss-crossed ribbon. "Will you deny him, in his weakness?"

Belle could contain her laughter no longer, and gave up the book when Rumpelstiltskin took it from her hands and skimmed it towards the foot of the bed.

Wriggling down to join him, Belle was surprised that he did not immediately kiss her and clutch her close to him, instead touching her cheek and jaw, and watching her eyes. Then he worked his hand into her hair, carefully combing with his fingers, and all the while studying her face.

"I did not like to be parted from you," he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words. "To quarrel with you, to hurt you." He averted his gaze, suddenly, and cupped the back of Belle's head in his palm. "I will try to do as you asked."

"You remember." Belle's cheeks heated at once. It had been easy to speak so boldly to him while he was weak, and barely lucid.

"I do." Gently, he kissed her lips, just pressing there without moving for a long moment, and closing his eyes. "I miss you, when we are parted."

"I miss you too," Belle said, catching him up with her arm beneath his, her foot hooked behind his ankle. "You're here now, and I'm glad you're safe."

"Strange girl," he sighed, and kissed her again, properly this time. Last night, he had barely been able to join in while she kissed him; tonight, his tongue was busy and clever, reminding her of their past pleasure, while his hand moved all over her back, or slid between them to play with her breasts. There could be no better medicine than this for _her_ hurts, Belle thought, when he rolled her beneath him and transferred his gentle kisses to her throat; to be cherished so, with his promise to try fresh in her ears. She thought that her body responded as much to her gladness as to his touch or his kisses, and her eagerness outpaced his.

When the brush of his fingertips against her nipple caused Belle to gasp into his mouth, Rumpelstiltskin grew still and studied her eyes again, half a smile haunting his lips.

"So eager already, treasure?" Shifting his weight, breathing a little harder at the effort, he plucked at her breast again, circled the firm nipple with a fingertip, and watched Belle struggle to be silent. "Eager for me?"

"Yes." Belle peered down, watching his finger patiently tracing circles around the tender spot, occasionally joining with his thumb to give her nipple a pinch, or to pull it, or bend it - all so gently that, were her body not already inflamed with desire, she might barely have felt the touch at all. After a while, he moved lower, arms around her waist, and gave his mouth to her breasts in turn, suckling her through the silk until she began to shiver, to knead at his back with her hands, and to moan with frustration that his mouth was not against her bare skin. It was an exquisite pleasure, as though the finest of threads connected her breast to her lower belly where the pleasure pooled, each of his movements teasing her with an inner tug. If she tried to concentrate on the sensation, it eluded her - too delicate to be studied, yet too insistent to be ignored. She felt that she would only need a slight touch between her legs to bring completion, yet at the same time wanted the shivering, elusive feeling to last and last.

At last, rolling her atop him, Rumpelstiltskin lifted her nightgown and touched her bare breasts, leaving Belle to find her balance as best she could. His hands gave a less direct sensation than his hot, wet mouth, and the respite was a relief, even if, astride him, it took all her reserves of self control not to rub herself wantonly against him. Would he mind if she did? Belle bit her lip, wishing such questions came to her when she was capable of thinking about them rationally. The selfishness of her pleasure frightened her, sometimes; the immediacy of it, and how it ruled her. Her husband seemed always patient, always gentle, always mindful of her needs. Was it as much of a struggle for him, and did he long to simply let it go and... and...

What did a man want, when all delicacy was thrown aside? Belle had no idea. She, it seemed, wanted to rub and rub her wet place against any convenient part of him until she found satisfaction.

A glance at his face steadied her, tamed her wild thoughts - he watched her, enchanted, his eyes dark with lust. They would give to each other, selfish and selfless all at once, and perhaps she would be brave enough tomorrow to ask him to teach her what she could not yet imagine.

"Are you ready, treasure?" Hands sliding from her breasts to her ribs, thence to her hips, Rumpelstiltskin smiled as his tickling touch made her rock forward with a shiver of protest. "Or shall I make you come, first, hmm?" His voice... oh, gods, his _voice_ when he spoke to her this way! It tugged unabashedly on that imaginary thread inside her, making her breathless. "Are you close, my Lady?" Belle nodded, biting her lip until she tasted iron, and watching his lazy smile become a devouring grin. "Can you speak?" he asked, intrigued, and Belle shook her head, not caring to try. Her voice would squeak, she would sound silly, and it was his voice she wanted to hear.

Rumpelstiltskin lifted her gown again, and Belle all but fought her way free of it, shameless in her excitement. And she would not have him robed while she was naked, she decided, heatedly pulling at his black nightshirt until, grin fading, Rumpelstiltskin obliged her and sat up to remove it. They had shaken off the bedclothes, as far down as their knees, and Belle found herself staring at him with unrestrained interest, just as he had looked at her a moment ago. She almost bit through her lip when, taking himself in hand, Rumpelstiltskin gave his cock three, slow pulls to get it harder.

"This?" he said, with a forced bravado, and Belle followed his beckoning hands, straddled his hips and let him guide her until he was deep inside.

Her head fell back, her senses too swamped, for a few moments, to think about moving, and then Rumpelstiltskin grasped her hips and lifted his own, and heat blossomed inside her. It was nothing like ever before; she was sure that she was _coming_ , but it was slow, prolonged and aching, controlling her movements and her voice alike. Her husband met her greedy rocking, half a beat behind her movements, and Belle heard him say her name through the music of her careless cries.

She was dizzy, when it finally ebbed, and panting for air, and looked down to see her husband smiling bemusedly, his eyes half closed.

"I think we must see to you more often, treasure," he said, in that purring voice. "I can't have my bride in such urgent need as that."

Belle tried to protest that she had not been, but she was too breathless, too shaken, and he was still hard inside her and in need of 'seeing to' himself. Adjusting herself so that she could rise and fall or sway as she wished, she put her hands on his chest and moved her hips, watching for his reactions. He seemed calm, unhurried, and Belle was quite out of breath with her efforts before very long. When she hesitated, feeling foolish and unsure, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes and returned his hands to her breasts, rubbing them both at once.

"There's no hurry, tonight," he said, seeing her doubtful expression. "Thank the medicine for that." When her look became blank, he became coy. "Poppy is known for prolonging the act, my dear."

"...oh." Embarrassed again by her ignorance, Belle covered his hands with her own, keeping them still against her bosoms. "Should I stop?"

"Hush," he said, in that same deep voice that had made her tremble before. "Whatever pleases you, Belle. Just that."

When she bent and kissed him, he welcomed her with his arms as though he could want nothing better. Belle made a soft, involuntary sound when he kissed her with his tongue, teasing her. How did he manage to stay so... so _deliberate_ , so controlled, when he was able to reduce her to a shameless, writhing wreckage so very easily? Was she truly a wanton woman, for enjoying his touch so much?

"Prolonging it... for how long?" she asked, when she broke away from his kiss in need of a deep breath. She sounded timid, nervous, and tried to quell her blushes again.

"I've really no idea," he admitted, and he looked so untroubled about it that Belle relaxed somewhat. "I'd hate for you to get bored, pretty treasure," he smiled, slyly. "If I'd all my strength tonight, I'd see to it that you didn't, but we'll have to make do."

Belle laughed, helplessly, and loved that he could make her laugh - was _willing_ to make her laugh - even while they were joined. She tried an undulating movement with belly, hips and thighs that briefly drove the knowing smirk from his face, and at the same time found a spot deep inside her that burned with sweet, sweet heat.

"I like it when you call me that," she told him, deciding that if she must feel shy and foolish then she would turn it to a good purpose. She made the slow undulation again, and felt him dig his heels into the mattress, resisting her weight.

"Treasure?" he breathed, rolling her on to her back so that she could pull him down, close, the way she liked best. It was as if he knew her mind, sometimes, or as if their urges were so well-matched that he may as well know it. If only it persisted when they parted, she thought, moaning as he kissed her temple. If only they had the same, easy accord the rest of the time. "Sweet treasure, my Lady Belle," he crooned, playing with the words, and with his movements, and with her. It was so gentle, so simple, and her pleasure was building again in shallow, grasping pulses. She had felt, so recently, that she would be incapable of coming again no matter how long Rumpelstiltskin took about it; the renewal of her pleasure shocked her, thrilled her. "Yes, treasure," he crooned, and put his hand between them to tease her over the edge. "There, treasure," he urged, stroking her with two fingers until she convulsed beneath him, struggling to grab him closer and to make everything stop, all at once. "Yes, yes, like that. So beautiful. So perfect."

"Oh..." Gulping, lost, Belle clung to him, no longer sensible to the passage of time. It would not have mattered to her if forever passed her by, there in her husband's gentle embrace, with her grateful body singing and her heart full.

Was his pleasure as great? She had wondered before, and wondered again when, at last, he tensed in her arms and thrust deep, coming. He was silent, save for a quiet grunt of satisfaction and then heavy breathing when he'd finished; he gained a deep contentment in these moments afterwards, Belle knew, but was his pleasure the same? Could she give him more, if she only knew more?

Her mind became busy with questions as her husband became insensible, kissing her haphazardly before flopping at her side, seeming exhausted. He was asleep almost at once, sprawled naked and careless on his back. Belle propped herself on her elbow as her pulse slowed, looking her fill and smiling a great deal before she covered them both and settled down, close beside him, to sleep.


	34. Fool's Bargain

Belle awoke to kisses. It was definitely a new experience, to slide from dreaming into the dreamy pleasure of her husband's attentions. Belle gave herself to it without a great deal of thought, greeting Rumpelstiltskin with the return of his kisses and offering herself for a slow and easy coupling. Instead, she received his hand between her legs while he kissed her, attentive to her every response, and she greeted the new day in helpless convulsions of pleasure at Rumpelstiltskin's hands.

"You were restless," he crooned, lips tickling her ear as he continued to tease her with two fingers. "Did I do right to wake you, treasure?"

Belle gulped, not sure that she remembered how to speak, and resorted to a feeble nod. He'd left her feeling quite weak, and seemed intent on coaxing yet more pleasure from her before they rose. Could there be too much? Had she ever remembered to ask him?

"Sh-shouldn't you rest?" she managed, after several deep breaths while his kisses were devoted to her neck, her shoulder and her breasts. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, her nipple slipping deliciously from his mouth as he did so, and he crooked the two fingers deep inside her.

"Did you want me to stop?" he enquired, gazing up at her with a look of profound innocence. He moved his fingers again, and Belle's back arched without her say-so, demanding that he do anything but stop. "Thought not," he said, and resumed his kissing. He was at her navel before the next spasm curled her up, her heels scrabbling at the sheets while her hands clawed at her husband's shoulders. She felt herself scratch him, heard his hiss of pain against her belly, but could not summon any shame as she shook and moaned, while his busy mouth travelled slowly down to tease the crease of her thigh.

"Please," she begged, not knowing what she begged for. Was it more of this, or less? Respite or another shattering release? Belle was shaken, even frightened by the violence of her reaction, but Rumpelstiltskin was gentle and methodical, and she trusted him to bring her only pleasure. She trusted him, and when he nudged her _there_ with a hesitant kiss, she sobbed, overwhelmed, her fingers twining desperately in his hair.

She had feared that this new pleasure would break her - simply break her apart in his hands, but when he began in earnest to kiss and lick beneath her damp curls, it was a delicate sensation. Delicious. Rumpelstiltskin's moan of want reassured her that this was no well-meaning chore for him; he desired to taste her, to lave her tender, swollen flesh with his hot tongue, every bit as much as he enjoyed her nipple or her mouth. Belle tried to watch him, as he fidgeted beneath the bedclothes, trying to combine her comfort with an ease of reaching her tender places. It was too difficult to lift her head from the pillow, and she allowed her body to go limp; allowed her husband to lift her leg just so, and put a hand beneath her just so, and have his fill of her as they both surrendered sounds of startled joy.

Rumpelstiltskin was clumsy, in this new pursuit, but not over-cautious; her hand in his hair was all the reassurance he needed, when they faltered, and Belle was grateful that he needed no words from her because she could not have found them, not if her life depended on it.

When he returned two fingers deep inside her, release came at once in tight, throbbing waves that robbed Belle of breath with which to cry out. When it let her go, and Rumpelstiltskin emerged from beneath the bedclothes with his lips and cheek glistening from her juices and his eyes blazing with lust, Belle simply pulled him to her with a groan, and wrapped herself around him as tightly as she could while he took his pleasure, harder than ever before, and fast.

Afterwards, they clung together - simply clung, hands flat against moist flesh, panting and, in a way that Belle could not define, triumphant together.

"Good morning," she ventured, stirring herself enough to stroke his hair when the weight of him began to be uncomfortable. Rumpelstiltskin roused himself, relieving her of his weight by propping himself on his forearms, and gazed down at her with amused fondness. "Does this mean you're feeling better?"

"Much better," he assured her, with a lascivious wriggle of his hips against hers, and kissed her. Belle recoiled slightly from the taste of herself on his lips, but only for a moment. It was a subtle taste, far from unpleasant, and she should have thought to expect it. "I shall set my castle to rights, today. That is, if my wife is... content?"

Belle gave an undignified snigger, swatting his back with her hand, and enjoyed more kisses until, with some reluctance, they conceded the need to part. Her legs wobbled beneath her when she got out of bed, and Rumpelstiltskin watched her as though he might gladly have taken her again, there and then.

"My bath," she said, uncertainly. "Will it tire you if I..." she stopped, seeing him frown with mild, exaggerated hurt. "Never mind," she said, meeting his mock hurt with mock despair, and went, shamelessly bare, into her bathing room. Everything was restored, even the generous stack of fine towels, and the bath was already filling with steaming water for her. Belle almost turned back, meaning to go and thank him, but then felt Rumpelstiltskin step up behind her, arms circling her until his crossed hands covered her breasts. He had put on his nightgown, but the fine silk was no barrier; she could feel every contour where their bodies met.

"I must bathe," she laughed, but not without a thrill at his continued interest. It was pleasant, to be wanted - to be _shown_ that she was wanted. "Or are you stealing my bath?"

"Tempting," he confessed, kissing her shoulder. "You didn't answer my question," he added, when she made to pull free. "Have you had pleasure enough for the moment, my dear?"

He had wanted her answer? Oh dear, and she had thought he was only teasing.

"I can barely walk," she said. "Any more pleasure and I may just faint."

"Mmm." He sounded pleased, and Belle shook her head, turning to look at him when he released her from his tight squeeze. He did look better, she thought, studying him in the warm candlelight. Few patches of pink skin remained visible, and he stood without apparent discomfort, his eyes clear of confusion.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Shy, while he was clothed and she was bare, Belle took his face between her hands, hiding herself from his gaze in the process. "The book said that the medicine shouldn't be stopped all at once."

"I'd hate to have to battle a dragon, today," he admitted, pressing his cheek into her left palm. "But the worst is over. You took such care of me," he added, his voice becoming uncertain. "Took so much trouble. Tired yourself. For me?"

"Of course," she said, and kissed him firmly on the lips before turning to her bath, testing the water with her fingertips. "I was frightened, you know," she confessed, looking at her hands. "Can you really not be killed?"

"Death doesn't come calling for the likes of me, dearie," he said, heavily. "You enjoy your bath, now."

A moment later, Belle heard her bedroom door close behind him.

She did enjoy her bath, very much, and spent a long time soaking there, pampering herself with the various oils, herbs and soaps. Rumpelstiltskin's attentions had left her aching inside, tender outside and feeling strangely lethargic; she could have spent the entire morning lounging in the ever-hot water, had conscience not got the better of her.

It was approaching mid-morning before she was ready to leave her room, and watery sunlight was attempting to brighten a dull, dry day outside. Candles burned everywhere as she passed, once more, but the string with which she had tied back the curtains was still in place, brightening things further.

In her kitchen, all was spotless, and a folded pile of linen on the table hinted that she would find no laundry awaiting her, should she go and look. Rumpelstiltskin's bloodstained clothing was not among the oddments on the table.

The kitchen hearth was a roaring blaze once more, and she had taken such care with it before retiring, so that she would have a steady heat this morning. Belle sighed, and decided that she would speak to Rumpelstiltskin at the first opportunity about making the kitchen her own, and about the stove that he had promised.

Fresh bread waited in the pantry, all trace of stale food gone. There was little left but dried goods, and Belle thought she would ask Rumpelstiltskin to allow her to buy food at the market, rather than replenish everything by magic. This he might refuse, she knew - he had hinted at long-standing arrangements with the traders, and those might not be tactfully broken. Whatever else remained a mystery about her husband, it was common knowledge that he did not break his deals.

With bread, butter and plum preserve for breakfast, Belle tried her letter box again, and almost choked on a crumb when she saw a fat letter awaiting her inside it. She had steeled herself for disappointment once again, and very carefully wiped her hands before taking the letter, mindful of Rumpelstiltskin's warning that not so much as a hair should fall into the box.

It was not one letter, she discovered, but three bound as one, the outermost being written in her father's hand and addressed, above his seal, simply to _Belle_. The second was in Lotte's round hand, and the third from the daughter of her last governess, with whom she had sometimes passed the afternoons until Leorna was married.

Overjoyed, and on top of her delightful awakening, Belle's heart felt so full that she could burst. She felt that she might sing like a lark, or laugh all day, or rush to hug her husband and share her news with him. She did none of that, but imagined the terrified look on Rumpelstiltskin's face had she thrown herself at him in a fit of unrestrained joy, and she chuckled to herself as she began to read.

Papa spoke of home, of all the details that, knowing Belle so well as he did, he was sure she would wish to hear. The route to the sea had been reopened, and word was spreading that their lands were safe once more; the traders from far away were returning. Raw materials were coming in and, soon, fine exports would be leaving again; although they had lost many craftsmen in the war with the ogres, many yet remained. Where a trade was now short of a master craftsman, and no apprentice ready to step into his place, word had been sent to neighbouring lands of the opportunity for an incomer. They would prosper again.

Of course, he asked after Belle, as well. Was she well? Her clothing had been packed and would be sent at once, and there her father directed her to Lotte's letter for the details. He hoped that it was not an abuse of the magic box to enclose pages by more than one hand, and that Rumpelstiltskin would forgive their over-eagerness if he objected; Belle was much loved and much missed by her people. They hoped that her husband would soon bring her home to visit them.

The last made Belle sad, and she set the letters aside to make herself a pot of tea, and to finish chewing her breakfast. As eager as she was to devour every word, she was equally keen to make them last a while, and she smiled ruefully to herself as she remembered feeling, so recently, the same way about her pleasure with her husband.

What was in their minds, back home, when they thought of Belle, here in Rumpelstiltskin's castle? No thoughts of her being tormented by too much pleasure in her bed, that was certain. No thought of her laughing freely with her new husband, nor fretting by his side while he lay injured. The castle was not what anyone would easily imagine, either; while it was lonely and dark, and gloomy when she found herself alone there, it was hardly what anyone would expect of the seat of a monster.

Once she had poured her tea, Belle began to read the letter from Lotte. She could tell at once that her maid had been schooled with some care as to what to write, and had written very slowly as a result. There were ink blots in the middle of words, though Lotte had a fluent hand when left to her own devices. There was little in the letter besides an inventory of Belle's outfits, the occasional fond memory of when one or another of them had been worn, and Lotte's heartfelt well-wishes at the end. Of Rumpelstiltskin there was no mention, and Belle's vivid imagination supplied her with the vision of her father standing at Lotte's shoulder, containing his temper and praying for virtue as he implored the woman to write just a single line paying her respects to the 'demon' who had stolen away her mistress.

Leorna's letter had been written many weeks ago and been delayed, Belle could tell at once. Leorna and her family had been sent away by Leorna's new husband, for the sake of their unborn child, and Belle knew that the baby would have been born shortly after Belle's own wedding to Rumpelstiltskin. In the letter, Leorna wrote cheerfully of the discomforts of being so close to her confinement, of cradles and crochet, of the odd food in her temporary home, and of her fears for Naven's safety in battle. She promised to write to Belle again with news of the birth, and there the letter petered out with a terse signature, leaving Belle to imagine her friend suddenly daunted and speechless, realising the ordeal before her. Belle hoped that all had gone well for her, in the intervening weeks.

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin said, startling her from the doorway. Why did she never hear him come down those steps? "A letter!"

"Yes." Belle got up to fetch another cup, and had to turn back when she remembered his request for the chipped one. "I've made tea," she said, bringing it to the table. "Have you eaten?"

"You needn't nurse me any more, my dear," he said, absently, and produced a handful of bits of string from behind his back. "Why is my castle decorated with string, madam?"

"Because your castle has no light when all the candles are gone, sir," Belle said, pointedly. "I only tied back the curtains."

"Ah." Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin sat opposite her place at the table, and smiled when she placed a cup of tea in front of him. He began to sort and straighten the pieces of string, laying them side by side next to his cup while Belle returned to her place, and to her own tea. "I've seen all that you did," he said, absorbed in his game with the string. "You're very resourceful, my dear. And managed not to touch anything dangerous in my laboratory and turn yourself into a cockroach, which is something of a first."

Belle considered that.

"The weeping maids?"

Rumpelstiltskin looked abashed.

"Quite."

"And when they didn't suit, you thought you'd try a weeping wife about the place?" For all that he teased her, Rumpelstiltskin did not, himself, like to be teased. He took refuge behind his teacup, holding it with both hands.

"Not straight away. I managed alone for, oh, fifty or sixty years. And you didn't seem the weeping type."

Tilting her head, watching him shrewdly, Belle considered that too. It was difficult, because a less rational part of her mind kept reminding her that, not two hours ago, this man, this husband, had buried his face between her legs and pleasured her until she sobbed. It made it extremely difficult to think ill of him, and quite hard to think at all.

"You asked for my hand two minutes after we met," she said, an idea forming in spite of her current bounty of goodwill towards him. "I'd barely said a word. You saw Lotte for a few seconds before I ordered the servants to go." She allowed the words to hang, watching him, thinking through the implications and wondering why she had not done so before. "How did you know that I'd not be the weeping type, or that I'd endure? Or that Lotte cries at the least thing and drips like a slug?" He stared into his cup, so hard that he might be trying to read the leaves. "You'd watched me, hadn't you? Chosen me."

"You called my name," Rumpelstiltskin said, turning the cup around and around between his palms. "And I watched you, yes."

"And... and wanted me for your wife?"

"What man wouldn't?"

Belle shook her head, firmly. That wasn't him, wasn't Rumpelstiltskin - it was incautious, it was foolish.

"There's more," she decided. "More than that. I've thought that you named your price on a whim, but you didn't, did you?" She was being too direct, the inner voice warned. Her husband appreciated her cleverness, but she should remember to whom she spoke; she must not forget his power, simply because she had seen him rendered powerless. "Please tell me," she said, simply.

"I was alone, and you were lovely," Rumpelstiltskin said, setting down his cup with deliberate care. "And when I saw to whom you were betrothed, I saw a means to remedy both matters. Perhaps." He fluttered his fingers, somehow indicating that his thoughts were not so easily bound in mere, mortal words. "Your Gaston is from a family I know well. You were a means to an end, and the boy spends his nights in brothels. I think you would not have found love there, my Lady."

Shocked, and unsure which revelation shocked her the most, Belle clasped her hands on the table in front of her, and stared at them until her thoughts stopped chasing each other in circles.

"That's why you chose me," she said, eventually. None of it mattered, not really. She would not let it upset her that her husband had spied upon her when he might have courted her, or that her aloof fiancée had resorted to whores. What did it matter, now? It changed nothing, even if it disturbed her. "Why marry at all? You expected nothing of me, none of the things a wife is for. No," she went on, with a trace of a bitter laugh, "you expected less than nothing. So, why?"

Rumpelstiltskin was silent for a long time, but Belle could see that he was neither refusing to answer nor pretending that he had not heard her. He was only thinking, soberly, while his fingers caught up two pieces of the string and knotted them neatly together.

"Hope," he decided, at last, just as Belle's nerve was failing her. He glanced at her, unhappily, then selected another piece of string to knot with the others. "I am a monster, but I was once a man. A man who loved his child dearly, and was a fool." Another piece of string was plucked between thumb and forefinger, and deftly tied to the growing length. "The monster was forgetting how. Forgetting to remember." Swallowing convulsively, Rumpelstiltskin snatched another string, his fingers working faster. "You were lovely, alive, young, and all the things that I never was, or had forgotten how to be. I wanted that on any terms, my dear. Your beauty, here. To make a fool of me again."

His words had left a painful lump in Belle's throat, and her heart sore with compassion for him. She knew that he had given her more words than answers, yet she could see how they cost him, each and every one. If it was not all of the truth then it was _a_ truth, and it could do nothing but soften her heart towards him.

"Do you accept my terms, Rumpelstiltskin?" Her voice was hoarse, almost a whisper; she was so afraid of his answer. "A wife who means to _be_ a wife to you?"

"Yes." With no more pieces of string left, Rumpelstiltskin brought the two ends of his knotted length together, and tied them with slow care, staring fixedly at his task. "If you'll have a husband who's forgotten how to be a man."

With the string looped around his hands as if to begin a game of cat's cradle, he rested them instead on the table, and forced himself to look at her. Belle didn't know where to start in untangling his expression, which shifted from moment to moment, always subtle and yet speaking of turmoil within. Had she been able to reach him across the great table, she would have done so - grasped his hand, reassured him of her sincerity. Instead, finding him a smile from somewhere, she pushed her letters within his reach.

Rumpelstiltskin looked at them with careful, polite interest, but made no effort to pick them up or to read them.

"Your father fares well?" He spoke with the same great care and courtesy, reminding her of the first days of their marriage, when his civility had soothed her fears.

But Belle's face fell.

"He... doesn't say," she admitted, shocked that it had taken his question to make her see it. "He must be busy, rebuilding," she went on, half convincing herself as she spoke. "He can't spend all day composing a letter, the way I can." Rumpelstiltskin leafed through the sheets until he had her father's letter in his hand. He looked at it carefully, but Belle could see that he wasn't really reading it. "Can you tell anything from that?" Her voice was small; she felt foolish and ashamed for asking a mighty sorcerer to stoop to magician's tricks with a letter.

"I can tell that Death was not upon him when he signed his name," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. "That no contract of magic bound him, either. That is all." Gently, he pushed the letters back to her. Belle nodded, biting her lip as she carefully refolded the pages, smoothing them down into a neat pile. Her husband was watching her, that intent stare of his that was almost a touch. Belle wanted to smile for him, but could not compose her features no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to be a wife to him, she truly did, but she was a daughter too. "Come," Rumpelstiltskin said, rising and waiting for her at the end of the table, his hand outstretched. "Come with me."

Belle went, obediently taking his hand and walking with him, up the stairs to the great room, and through it, and up the stairs. She did not mind where he was taking her; it was enough that he held her hand, and showed concern for her worry about her father. She would rather be beside Rumpelstiltskin than alone, and so she kept up with him as best she could, skipping every few steps because his stride was longer than hers.

He led her to his turret, which had undergone a transformation since Belle's visit to retrieve the box of candles. Not only was the floor clear, and all sign of the spilled ingredients and potions gone, but the furniture had changed places, or just changed completely. There were tall, airy, open shelves of ingredients and potions in front of the book cases, and the long work tables had been pushed together in a horseshoe shape, open towards the stairs. Rumpelstiltskin's beloved spinning wheel had been banished to the wall beside the window, almost exactly where he had lain wounded in her arms, and its position put it beyond immediate use. Whatever her husband was doing, he expected to be too busy to need his favourite distraction.

Letting go of her hand, leaving her at the top of the stairs to marvel at the changes to the room, Rumpelstiltskin vanished behind some of the new shelves. A flash of light caught Belle's eye, but was gone before she turned her head. He emerged carrying a small, flat wooden case with tremendous care, bringing it to the nearest end of one of the work tables.

"Come," he urged, again, and caught her by the waist as she joined him there. "Let us see your father, shall we?"

"See him?" Belle looked up at Rumpelstiltskin, not understanding, and saw that his expression was grave. She watched, nervously, as he flicked the catch of the wooden case and opened it. Inside, the ornate silvered back of a hand mirror nestled in plush blue velvet lining. "A mirror?"

"No ordinary mirror," her husband said. "Place your hand on it and think of your father. Only of him," he warned, quickly, making Belle nervous as she did as he'd asked. Her father. She brought to mind his kind face, his huge hugs, his laughing eyes, and placed her right hand flat against the lumpy silver. "You have him in your mind, your Papa?" Rumpelstiltskin waited for her nod. "Pick it up, then, and look into the glass."

As Belle did so, Rumpelstiltskin released her, and stood at her shoulder, ill at ease. She registered her husband's discomfort only for a moment, for when she turned over the mirror, she saw not her own reflection but a purple shimmer, a swirl of silver mercury, and felt magic in her bones.

In the glass, she saw an image - a room with only three walls, the fourth in the process of being rebuilt, with mountains visible outside. Then her father stepped into the picture, and Belle gasped aloud, transfixed as she watched him, watched her dear, dear Papa, wave his hand meaningfully at a figure across the room. Belle realised that she could make out no other faces but that of Sir Maurice. Everyone else was a moving blur - unfinished portraits surrounding the one, perfect, living image of her father.

"You see him as he is now," Rumpelstiltskin said, taking her gently by the shoulders and watching the glass with her. "At this exact moment."

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but could not. After a while, Rumpelstiltskin brought her a chair and guided her to sit, leaving her to watch her father consult with a blurred figure over some detailed sketches or plans. He was as she remembered, big and sober and calm, yet there had been a change. His eyes were set deeper, somehow, and the lines of worry and age more marked on his jolly face. Hesitantly, Belle touched his face in the reflection... no, not a reflection, her busy mind insisted, a projection, a mirage... and watched the mercury scatter away from her fingertips, distorting the image in widening ripples. When she snatched back her hand, it settled again in a few moments, and her relief was profound.

"Magic, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, busy with something at the far end of his horseshoe of work benches. "Best not to poke it." But his voice was kindly, and he did not disturb her as she sat, for the rest of the morning, watching her distant Papa go about his day.


	35. Husband and Wife

So absorbed was she in following her father's progress in the little mirror that Belle barely noticed when her head began to throb, or when she began to grow light-headed. It was only when Rumpelstiltskin gently took the looking glass from her hand and placed it back in its box that her discomfort struck her, and it struck like a blow with a hammer.

She fainted.

The next thing she knew, Belle was being carried, her head on her husband's shoulder, and could not rouse herself enough to protest. Rumpelstiltskin placed her carefully on her bed, and then sat beside her, watching her with anxious, unblinking eyes.

"Belle?"

"What happened?" It was difficult to speak and oh, how her head _pounded_.

"Forgive me," he begged, confusing her still further. "The mirror... I left you too long."

"...dangerous?" Belle felt equal to using one word at a time. "Magic?"

"No, treasure, no," Rumpelstiltskin wheedled, all but vibrating with nerves. "Only tiring. Taxing. Some rest and a hot meal... all will be well." Hesitant, he fingered her cheek. "You've a strong mind, to keep the image so long. I should have taken more care. I was distracted."

Finally mustering the wherewithal to respond to his misery, Belle brushed his cheek in return. Her arm felt too heavy, her hand like lead, but it was more than worth the effort when he kissed her departing fingertips, quite visibly relieved.

"It was as though I was there," Belle breathed, while Rumpelstiltskin caught her hand and clasped it gently to his chest. "Beside Papa. I could almost touch him."

"Yes. Enough for today, though. Rest now, yes?"

"What about you?" With the headache receding to a dull, ordinary discomfort, Belle could remember what was important, again. Tired she might be, but Rumpelstiltskin had not been well. Had he been working the whole time, while she sat oblivious to him, absorbed by the magic mirror? "You're still a bit pink," she smiled, eyeing the patch beneath his left ear where the change was most visible. "Don't pretend you're better, or I'll be cross."

With a mock gasp of alarm, Rumpelstiltskin sat back, dropping her hand and raising his own as if in surrender.

"The Spinner trembles before his little wife," he pantomimed, in squeaky tones of fright, and Belle laughed, until a renewed pounding between her temples suggested she ought to stop unless she wanted to empty her stomach. Her half-chuckling 'ow' drained Rumpelstiltskin's humour in a moment, and when she rubbed her brow, he gently nudged her hand aside and laid his own there. "I lose track of time," he said, smoothing back her hair. It did little for the pain, but a great deal for Belle's spirits. "Hours, days... it means little to me. Sleep, meals, rest... You must not let me forget you, little wife. Not even when I'm at my work."

He sounded so serious, so regretful, that Belle resisted the temptation to make light of it.

"How long did I have the mirror?"

"It's after noon. It would not have harmed you," he went on, quickly, urgently. "You fainted, or you would have fallen asleep, letting it fall from your hand. No magic is without its price."

"It was worth a headache to see him," Belle said, soothingly. "Thank you."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin relaxed somewhat, and did not prevent her from sitting up, nor putting her hands on his shoulders while she, rather groggily, studied his face. "You avoided my question," she said, conscious of how her every affectionate gesture startled him, even now, unless it came in the throes of passion. "What about you?"

"Ah," he said, dodging her scrutiny and averting his gaze. "Somewhat uncomfortable. I am unused to weakness."

"Hmm." Belle pecked him on the cheek, thinking of how steadily he had carried her from the turret to her bed. The effort had not even quickened his breathing, and two days ago he had barely managed to walk the same distance before collapsing. "Then we both need a hot meal, a meat meal," she decided, even if her stomach did turn uncomfortably at her own suggestion. "And no more magic, today."

"My wife commands me?" Rumpelstiltskin smiled, wanly. "Perhaps she should, at that. Nobody has been concerned for me in a very long time."

"When did you last try being pleasant to someone?" Belle kissed him again, touching her lips to his this time, to make certain that he knew she spoke kindly. "I think you enjoy being an old monster in your dusty castle, and having everyone be afraid of you. You like being grumpy and now you've no idea what to do with yourself because you have a wife who doesn't hide away." Lacing her fingers at the back of his neck, beneath his hair, Belle watched his valiant attempt to rise above her teasing, or possibly to pretend that she wasn't there at all. "Lotte says there's someone in this world for everyone," she added, and saw his nose wrinkle. "But Lotte enjoys sillier books than I do."

Belle had to confess that she could not imagine Lotte in the arms of a man such as Rumpelstiltskin, nor whimpering her pleasure as a husband kissed between her legs. She had once seen the girl run shrieking from a pinch on the bottom, and she blushed at the sight of Belle with no clothes on, never mind a naked man who had... intentions.

"I confess, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, pained, "to being relieved that your silly maid didn't offer herself in your stead." He kissed her brow, and slipped out of her reach, straightening his waistcoat as he stood up. "Rest. You will soon feel better. I'll attend to the meal," he added, before Belle could protest, " _without_ magic."

She surprised herself by going to sleep, heavily, and not waking again until the sky outside had grown dim. An entire afternoon! Feeling terribly guilty, Belle collected herself as best she could and went downstairs, remembering that Rumpelstiltskin had promised a meal. Since he had also promised to share one meal a day with her, she did not want to do anything to deter him from keeping his promise. Besides, her husband's company had been a delight since he began to recover. If there was an opportunity to get to know him as she wished to, she would not waste it, even if she still felt utterly drained.

Had her time with the magic mirror truly done that? Belle knew that she had been fatigued to begin with, feeling quite strange since Rumpelstiltskin woke her with such unrelenting bliss. She hoped that he was right, that the looking glass would have fallen from her hand before doing her any lasting harm, because she had been almost oblivious to everything but her Papa, as long as she held it. Once more, Belle was reminded to treat magic with caution and respect, and that she did not want it intruding into the corners of her life where it did not belong. She had forbidden it in her bed, with Rumpelstiltskin, from the very first night, and she was glad of it. As awkward and uncomfortable as their consummation had been, she would not have traded the learning of her husband's nature for some spell to please her loins in spite of him. She would not have given up the stark and honest memories of those brief minutes with him for anything, nor sacrificed her own journey from innocent to lover. A thing could be too easy. Magic could _make_ it too easy, and make it valueless.

Rumpelstiltskin valued their intimacy as much as she, Belle was sure of it.

"There you are," he said, from the corner of the great room, where he'd been spinning. Belle smiled and, as weary as she felt, quickened her steps to join him. He had changed his clothing, she noted, staying a few paces clear of his spinning wheel and watching him work. His high-collared coat, and a scarf tied about his throat, as though he had become cold. She could see no exposed flesh, save his face and hands, but even there the subtle patches of pink flesh still lingered - the base of his nails, the centre of his right palm and the flesh around his eyes. He was not yet fully recovered, and Belle reminded herself to allow for it. "The wheel won't bite you," Rumpelstiltskin said, seeing how she hesitated.

"It seems... personal," Belle said, realising that she could not put the proper words to her reluctance to approach or touch the spinning wheel. It was not that it was legend - Rumpelstiltskin himself was legend, and she touched _him_ with shameless abandon, just as often as he would permit it. "It's yours."

"Come," he urged, still absorbed by the draw of the thread. Belle went to stand beside his stool, and shrieked with startled laughter when he hooked his right arm around her thighs and planted her on his knee, abandoning the handful of transformed straw in favour of squeezing her to maximise her laughter.

Belle reached to take up the pleasing white fluff, wanting to feel along the thread to the point where white became gold, but no sooner had she touched it than a shower of chaff fell around their feet.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she yelped, mortified to have ruined his beautiful thread. Peering around her, Rumpelstiltskin only shrugged.

"It's straw, dearie," he said, lightly. "It's not in short supply."

"I suppose not," Belle said, but she was still sorry. "Neither is gold."

"Very true." Gently, Rumpelstiltskin guided her hand to the wheel itself. Very much to Belle's relief, nothing happened to it at her touch; it merely turned for her, the smooth wood sliding through her palm, creaking as it turned the spindle. "Are you hungry?"

Belle wasn't, she still felt out of sorts, but smiled over her shoulder and allowed him to tip her from his knee. Sadly shaking the straw chaff from her skirts and shoes, she followed him down to the kitchen.

"Oh," she gasped, halfway down the chilly stairs to the menial levels, "it smells wonderful." And it did. Cheese, she thought, and there was garlic, and perhaps spiced meat... the scent alone perked up her flagging appetite, and her husband's look of hopeful shyness, as he drew out a chair for her at the big kitchen table, made her feel ridiculously happy. "What have you made?"

"It has no name that I know of," he said, using a cloth to protect his hand as he pulled a covered, earthenware pot from the trivet. Like Belle, he had opted to control the fire and to cook over hot embers. Unlike Belle, she was almost sure, he had used magic to achieve his ends.

Oh well, she thought. He had promised that the food would not be made with magic. She should excuse him for using a little on the fire, since he seemed steady on his feet and in a fine mood. He could not be feeling as weak as all that.

"When I was a boy," he said, placing the pot on the table and plucking off the lid with a bare hand, shaking it slightly as though it merely stung, "there was a time of fasting each spring. Clerics would check each house for the forbidden foods. Cheese, cream, meats. We'd little enough of any of it, so before they came searching, we cooked it all, like this. And ate it," he finished, with a look of satisfaction that was - yes - quite boyish. "A great feast."

Belle could see that a whole cheese had been the top layer of the dish, melted now to dripping. Beneath that, small pieces of meat graced potatoes and other root vegetables.

"So it has no name because you make it from whatever you have to use up?" Charmed by the idea, and her mouth watering as Rumpelstiltskin served her a laden plate of it, Belle smiled her thanks. Unused to hearing him speak at length about _anything_ , she was now curious about his boyhood as well as every other mystery about him.

When he'd changed, he had not looked like a young man, and that had not surprised her, even though she had not, until then, noticed the lines in her husband's features. Belle could not imagine him as a fresh-faced youth, let alone as a carefree boy.

Rumpelstiltskin poured her a generous glass of mead, then seated himself at the head of the table with his own meal. Seeing that he was waiting anxiously for her to try the dish, Belle dug in her spoon and blew carefully on a hot mouthful. It _was_ delicious - simple, rich and warming. So had been the other dishes he had prepared for her, on her sickbed, now that she came to remember. Not fine dishes for the lord of a great castle, but feast dishes for a poor man's table. She needed no encouragement to empty her plate, and even Rumpelstiltskin made a respectable effort at clearing his own.

"I never knew a man to cook unless it was his profession," she said, sitting back with her glass and watching him, for he ate more slowly than she.

"It's not difficult," he shrugged. "I watched my mother. I had to feed my own boy." With that, Rumpelstiltskin set down his spoon and, like Belle, turned his attention to his mead instead. "Some things I remember, it seems," he said, disconcerted. He always seemed to be, by any mention of his old life, and most especially of his son. He had promised to tell her, Belle remembered - about his wife, his child, and how he came to have such terrible magic in him. Seeing his quiet sorrow, there at her table over a shared drink, she had not the heart to press him. She wanted to comfort him, instead; to kiss his cheek, to stroke his brow and sweep his unhappiness away like so much dust.

"Shall we sit by the fire?" Belle gestured with her glass, and was only then aware of how it had begun to go to her head. At home, she had often drunk wine or small beer with her meals, but the water here was deliciously pure, and she had been indulging herself with every blend of teas she could think of. She had grown unused to stronger drink. But the mead had been a wedding gift, and Rumpelstiltskin was sharing it with her, so she said nothing as he topped up her glass before joining her at the fireside, dragging up a second chair.

"How is your head, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin seemed ill at ease, with the silence.

"Much better. How is your magic?" Belle tried not to smirk at him as she asked the question. Her concern was genuine, but the question itself sounded so absurd.

"My own, again," he said, seeming not to notice her expression. "The town was all but buried in snow," he added, without the least sign of regret. "They'll think they've angered me."

"Do you always clear the roads?"

"The trading routes. The road to the castle. It reminds them of what they stand to lose."

Belle nodded, glumly. This was not her land, and it was not her place to question how things were done here, yet she objected to the idea of ruling by fear. If she had Rumpelstiltskin's power...

Her mind would not embrace the question. She could not begin to imagine his power; she could only realise that merely possessing it would change a person, no matter how they tried to remain the same. It was said that Rumpelstiltskin's magic was black, unnatural. Evil. But was it evil magic, or only magic that had been turned to an evil purpose?

Seeing her husband warming his boots by the kitchen fire, sipping mead with her, it was difficult to keep in mind the things she knew to be equally true about him; that he played with mortal men and took pleasure in it. He had done so to her own father, mocking his grief, yet here Rumpelstiltskin sat, a quiet husband to an increasingly fond wife. He could not be two people.

"The mead is making me quite silly," Belle decided, getting up to put her glass on the table. As she began to gather the dishes, meaning to wash them, Rumpelstiltskin stepped up behind her and took her by the hips, nuzzling into her hair. She almost brushed him off with a laugh, meaning to say that she was busy, but something in his quiet approach stilled her. He had never demanded of her - had scarcely even asked of her, for fear of going too far or finding himself unwelcome. That had changed, and he no longer looked for a sign that he was welcome to approach her; she no longer found herself encouraging him to be with her. She should pay attention to these new gestures from him, and learn all the ways in which he wished to signal his desire. Plates, pots and pans could wait on her husband's whims.

"Perhaps an early night?" He sounded unsure, hopeful, and his uncertainty pulled at Belle's heart. Of course she would go to bed with him, if he wished it, and she was glad that he'd found the courage to ask her, even if he asked in such a small voice. Even so, she did not feel fully herself, and had not done so since he devoted himself to her pleasure that morning; she was a little unsure that she wanted more of the same, so soon. She would not mind if he sought his own pleasures, sometimes, without seeing to hers, but was that... well, was it _done?_ She had no idea how he might react if she suggested such a thing. But he had enjoyed her hand on him, she remembered, as they walked slowly to her room, Rumpelstiltskin waiting for her at the head of each half flight of stairs when she fell behind him.

He looked weary, Belle thought, taking his hand as she joined him outside her bedroom. His steps had been heavy, on the last set of stairs, and his usual energy seemed muted. Perhaps he planned no all-consuming shocks for her body, this evening. Perhaps he wanted only to rest beside her, after all? She would certainly not object to that. Between the events of the day, the hearty meal and the mead, she felt quite ready to close her own eyes again.

When she yawned, nudging the door closed behind them, Rumpelstiltskin looked at her with mild amusement.

"I'll need to lock the wine cellars if you're as susceptible as all that," he said, letting go of her hand. His gaze followed her to the door of her bathing room, which she closed firmly behind her, remembering that he had followed her there that morning. _Some_ things were too private to share with her husband, and he was unpredictable when that little smile danced around his features.

When she returned to the bedroom, Rumpelstiltskin was already in her bed, right in the middle, with all the pillows stacked up behind him.

Yes, Belle decided, with half an eye on him as she readied herself for bed without hurry; she much preferred to see him wearing the black nightgown. Since transforming it into her bracelet, he had not replaced the cord at the neck, and the collar gaped open with a carelessness that seemed so unlike him. She smiled, and busied herself with her preparations before he caught her staring.

Rumpelstiltskin, for his part, stared intently while Belle brushed her hair, seated on her big trunk. She could feel his close attention, and it made her shiver, her body betraying anticipation for his touch. Trying to imagine what he might feel, watching her care for her hair, Belle took her time with it and, before going to blow out the candles, took one of her old, wide, colourful ribbons from her trunk and used it to tie a ridiculously large bow at the end of her long, loose braid. She was careful not to catch his eye, in doing so, for she shocked herself with such a deliberate provocation.

But then, _why_ was it shocking? Belle felt him watch her while she went around the room, closing the curtains and extinguishing all but one candle. Seduction wasn't wrong, not if she seduced her own _husband_ , and his furtive enjoyment of her decorations had been her first sign - her very first - that her husband cherished her as something beyond mere payment for services rendered. If his sentimental tokens had become exciting to her, then it stood to reason that they excited him as well; that when he handled his pretty trophies in her absence, he associated them with the gratification he found in her arms, and perhaps felt a thrill of remembered pleasure. She would not deny him that, nor any other satisfaction that he found in making off with her fripperies.

Rumpelstiltskin made a wordless sound of approval, when Belle at last joined him at the centre of the bed. His eyes were dark with wanting, and, giving him a gentle kiss of greeting, Belle seated herself across his thighs and put her hands upon his shoulders. If the mead had made her thoughts silly, it had made her shame quite numb as well; she desired none of the patient preamble that had shaken her senses that morning.

Her body no longer tensed with modest reluctance when he entered her; she no longer needed the soothing balm with which he had taken care of her, the first few times. She was impatient to know if she could simply accept him, with no more preparation than afforded by her pleasure at her own teasing, and satisfy him without being so utterly swept away. Would her pleasure come, simply from having him in her?

If Belle's desires had proved to be wanton, then her curiosity was simply a harlot. Rumpelstiltskin watched her, intrigued, as she tugged up her nightgown, and then his, and studied the situation. He wasn't ready, not all the way, and curiosity darted off in a new direction, wondering how hard it had to be before it could go inside her. She bit her lip, trailing two fingers up the length of his cock and watching it fill out further as if in obedience to her. She explored, with one finger, where it widened at the head, growing darker than the rest as he hardened. Regretting putting out so many of the candles, but suspecting that Rumpelstiltskin would be less accommodating had there been more light, Belle tried not to be distracted when he rubbed her breasts with his hands. He became fully hard, almost at once, she noted; her breasts excited him tremendously, even when they were covered.

Her nerve faltered, with his cock jutting proud and ready, but a glance at her husband's face reassured her that she did not go too far. His bemusement was kindly, and his eyes still full of want; when Belle tried to position herself to put his cock inside her, her husband slithered down his pillows a way, and obligingly held his nightgown clear of the proceedings.

He used his hand, Belle remembered, a little dizzy from her own rashness. When he entered her, he guided it with his hand. Rumpelstiltskin hissed with surprise as her attempt to do the same caused the head of his cock to slip against her, spreading her wetness the way his fingers usually did. Belle bit her lip, her own pleasure startling her, and managed to hold him securely enough that she could lower herself and, slowly, take him inside. The slowness drew a long groan from her husband, but it was one of appreciation rather than dismay; his head was pushed back into the pillows, his expression one of utter bliss. Belle smiled, obscenely pleased with herself for repaying some of the morning's revelations. That she need not wait for her husband to guide her, or to teach her, was a delicious new idea.

Content to allow her this, Rumpelstiltskin lay still, other than to run his hands over her in long, lazy sweeps; Belle could see that he was enjoying himself, at the mercy of her whims, and that he had no great objection when she kept still above him to catch her breath, or altered her position to be more comfortable. It lacked the passion, the driving urgency of their usual embraces, but there was another sort of pleasure there. Belle wondered if he felt it too, the easy closeness; the freedom of it.

Her body betrayed her before she had satisfied her curiosity, driving her to angle her hips just so, and to thrust herself harder onto him in pursuit of her own climax. She had not sought it, but having him in her was enough, it seemed; where she had meant to keep her head and watch her husband's reactions, she found herself, instead, with her eyes tight shut and her body ruling her once again.

It was her pleasure that excited him the most, she realised, then, as he trembled for the first time, and made the small, involuntary sounds that had been missing. No mere, physical act gave him what he sought, nor put that expression of fond wonderment on his face; it was that Belle wanted him, took pleasure in him, not merely that she gave herself without complaint.

Recovering her wits enough to bend and kiss him, while she rocked to meet the gentle movements of his hips, Belle felt him gasp into her mouth, and grasp at her back with such need and longing before his pleasure shook him to a languid, panting stillness beneath her.

Some time after she had stretched herself out beside him, her head on his chest, Belle felt him find the ribbon that bound her hair, and tug until the bow came free. It was her hair that he desired, for the moment, rather than her ribbon; she lay, tired but wakeful, while her husband loosened her plait and arranged her tresses to his own liking, before stroking them with slow, lingering movements.

"Does a good wife do such things?" Belle asked, timid now that she had done it; now that the disinhibition of the strong drink was leaving her. She felt Rumpelstiltskin crane his neck, peering at her for a moment before his head fell back to the pillows.

"Mine does," he said, with a shrug, and Belle smiled.


	36. Baelfire

Rumpelstiltskin conjured them a tea tray and made the fire burn hotter, and Belle was too comfortably content to make any objection.

Had he shown any sign that the magic taxed him then she would have scolded, but her husband's quiet weariness was like her own; a mild thing. They had kissed until Belle became thirsty and, rather than let her leave his side, Rumpelstiltskin waved a hand and brought all that they needed to her very feet.

While Belle poured, her husband reached past her and stole a sugar lump, crunching it noisily behind her. She smiled to herself, remembering being scolded for doing the same thing, as a child.

"Do you want some in your tea, as well?"

"Yes."

She didn't share his sweet tooth enough to routinely sweeten her own cup, particularly when the tea was the very finest - the shrivelled, fragrant black leaves that came by ship from exotic lands, but tonight she stirred a lump of sugar into her own cup as well, feeling self-indulgent. Rumpelstiltskin reclined on his pillows, his mood apparently matching hers, while Belle sat cross-legged beside the tray to drink her tea.

"You almost look yourself again," she observed, studying his fingers against the white porcelain of his teacup. The hints of pale flesh were fading, steadily. "Do you feel the difference?"

"Oh, yes." Rumpelstiltskin gazed into his cup, his eyelids heavy. "The weakness is passing. There is..." he gestured slightly with his teacup, face twitching with dissatisfaction as he sought for words. "Clarity," he decided, but without conviction. Belle wondered if magic could ever be pinned down with mere words. "Memory is... different. Here." Swallowing, he placed his hand over his heart.

Belle thought of his dreams, the new dreams about his son that had shaken him so in his drugged sleep, and she ached for him.

"What was his name?" She hesitated to ask him even that, but he had given his word, and it was not an intrusive question, in itself. She should know the name of the son he mourned, if for no other reason than to honour it for Rumpelstiltskin's sake. "Your son?"

For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin hesitated with his mouth open, as though he had tried to speak and found no air in his body. Then, taking a slow, soft breath, he composed himself.

"Baelfire," he said, forcing his voice to be as steady as it was soft. "Bae." She needed no understanding of magic or monsters to recognise Rumpelstiltskin's love, or his grief. It made her feel cruel for asking even as little as she had, but she would treasure the name just like the other gifts he'd given her. "There was a war," Rumpelstiltskin said, just as Belle drew breath to change the subject, to spare him. She held the breath and listened. "Decades old before Bae was even born. I'd not have brought a child into that, but he was born and... oh, he was beautiful. Perfect." Closing his eyes, almost wincing at his memories, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. "I prayed for the war to end, for something to deliver us before he was old enough to fight, but no-one heard me. Year after year they took away the children, and fewer returned. Younger and younger. And when they came for my boy..." Abruptly, he sat up, leaning to return his half-full cup to the tray, then resting his hands on his bent knees and staring at them. When he spoke again, Rumpelstiltskin's voice was cold with remembered anger, his words clipped. "I found a way to stop being weak. I did what I had to do, to save my boy."

Belle had barely breathed, as he spoke, and breathed faster now to make up for it. She had not expected him to keep his word unless she pressed him; she had not known _what_ she expected his story to be, but not that. Not something as simple and as cruel as that.

"And... you changed? Because you used magic?" She had not seen those harsh, cold lines in her husband's face for days; it could still frighten her, even if she was beyond fearing that he would wish her harm. He could turn his shoulder to her again, grow cold and remote again, and she feared that. Tentative, Belle placed her hand on his knee. "I think I would have done as you did," she said, when he met her eyes. "If there was no other way."

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, struggling for calm.

"I lost him, Belle. I lost him anyway. And his father a monster."

Helpless to ease such an old, ingrained sorrow, Belle rubbed his knee and wished she knew what to say. She had watched sons enough go off to fight; had seen fathers weighed down by the sorrow of loss. Had seen how her Papa looked at her, as the war dragged on in unrelenting bloodshed and defeat; she, his only child, and even as the castle walls fell around them his thoughts were, first, of her.

Her husband seemed to take some comfort in her touch. He tried to smile, and released a shaken breath as he covered her hand with his own.

"You drag out my secrets, little wife," he said, softly. "You must keep them, as well."

"Of course I will." Belle felt a shiver across her shoulders, at his words. He spoke softly, yes, but with an edge that could easily turn to cutting. He commanded her, and her senses offered fair warning of what dangers disobedience could bring. But why should it be a secret, any of it? That he had once loved a son made Rumpelstiltskin no less dangerous in the here and now; no less powerful; it would not make him any less feared. "To be so long without someone to care for you, it's not right," she said, her sadness finding voice when her reason had no idea what to say to him. "No-one should be alone unless they choose to be."

"I did choose," he said, gathering her against his side before reclining again, squeezing her more tightly than was comfortable. "For centuries. But... the man I was, the father I was... I cannot let him fade forever. For Bae's sake."

And in looking to keep that memory alive, that man alive in him, Rumpelstiltskin had chosen _her?_ Belle rubbed his chest, slowly, until his clutching hold on her loosened. As much as she wanted to know about his first wife, and about what had bred such distrust of affection in Rumpelstiltskin's heart, she would wait; she would comfort him now, and ask him again when he was fully recovered from his recent ordeal.

"I should leave you to sleep," he said, interrupting her aimless thoughts. "I'll not sleep tonight."

"Don't go," Belle protested, although without being certain as to why. While she slept, his presence or his absence ought to make no difference, and yet her heart sank at his words. "You were the one to suggest an early night," she added, a little indignantly. "Or is it true that men are only after one thing?"

"Ah, you appeal to my conscience," he said, brightly, and curled his fingertips beneath her ribs, the threat of tickling her enough to make Belle squirm and giggle. "The mirror drained you, and you must rest," he went on, holding her easily in place and maintaining the threat of tickling as he spoke. "I shall return before you wake, if you like, mistress." Finally managing to catch his teasing hand and keep it out of harm's way, Belle sat up, and saw that his expression was as playful as his hand. "If I stay beside you all night then you certainly won't rest," he concluded, lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

"At least you thought of my feet," Belle said, giving in. She reached down the bed for the thick sheepskin and pulled it into her lap. "They miss you when you're gone."

"Only your feet?" He watched her get beneath the bedclothes; she could see that he was more than tempted to join her, and that pleased her more than she thought it should.

"Only my feet," she managed, hiding her smile, for if he was going to abandon her bed for a night in his chilly turret, she would at least have him be sorry for it. She tugged a pillow from his greedy pile and tucked it beneath her head, then pushed her feet into the folded sheepskin. The weight of the tray vanished, and Belle smiled when Rumpelstiltskin lay down beside her, albeit above the covers, and kissed her shoulder.

"You are bad for my concentration," he said, with a sigh that sounded not at all like discontentment. The last candle winked out, leaving Belle blinking in darkness. "I cannot lie here all night with nothing to do. Go to sleep."

She would have laughed again, protesting that she couldn't sleep at his command, but with the light gone and his warmth making her snug, she _did_ feel sleepy. She yawned, and obediently closed her eyes.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" she asked, after a while. He was quite right; it was _dull_ to lie there, awake, with no desire to do anything else. "Will you take the magic away from the kitchen hearth? Let me have a real fire there?"

"As you wish," he said, vaguely, as though his thoughts were already elsewhere while he gave his body to warm her. Belle nodded, satisfied, and kept her eyes shut until sleep came.

~+~

The kitchen fire was as he had promised, the next morning, with the addition, nearby, of an enormous wicker basket containing logs. Belle strongly suspected that it would never be empty.

As much as she had missed waking up beside Rumpelstiltskin, she had to admit that it was easier to begin her day as she meant to go on, without lovemaking before breakfast. She was up with the sun, and breakfasted before any real light made its way through the tiny barred windows high up in the kitchen's back wall. She could see that it would be a fine day, the sky bright if not blue, and wondered if she might make the trip to visit Wren.

Tomorrow would be market day, and she might miss the old woman in the bustle - better to visit her today, and hope to find her at home.

With that in mind, Belle climbed to Rumpelstiltskin's turret with a cup of tea for him. She felt that she ought not leave without telling her husband where she was going, even if she had done just that while he'd been away. She was getting better at making the long climb without spilling his tea into the saucer, and beamed with satisfaction as she took the final few stairs. There had been no doubt in her mind that she would find him there, but she had expected to find him busy and distracted. Instead, he sat in the chair he'd placed for her yesterday, his head pillowed on his folded arms upon the nearest end of the table.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Concerned that he was unwell, but not wanting to disturb him if he'd only fallen asleep, Belle went as quietly as she could to his side, and put down the cup and saucer. Everything in the room was still, with no experiment or potion seeming in need of his attention, so she watched him to see that his breathing was steady and, when it was, turned to go.

Belle almost shrieked when his arm shot out and he seized her by the wrist. He had been deeply asleep but a moment ago, she was _sure_ of it! Before her surprise could really register, Rumpelstiltskin had released her and got to his feet, the chair scraping back a little way as he moved.

"You gave me such a fright!" she protested, turning to face him with one hand over her heart. Rumpelstiltskin patted her shoulder, nervously, and then rubbed his neck with a wince of discomfort. "That's what happens when you fall asleep at your work instead of beside me," Belle said, but gently, because he looked out of sorts. "I only brought you tea," she added, and he nodded his thanks, looking around the room as though he didn't recognise it.

"The curse tired me more than I thought," he said, in equal measures of irritation and surprise. "Thank you for the tea, my dear," he added, pulling himself together. "Try not to creep about up here, hmm? Make some noise. I'd hate to turn you into a beetle."

"All right." Frowning slightly at the request, since she could not imagine him doing such a thing by mistake, Belle gave him a kiss. He tasted of his sweet pipe smoke, and faintly of her medicine, and she watched his eyes with sudden concern. "You needed the medicine?"

Lips pursed, Rumpelstiltskin moved away from her - around the workbenches to the far end, where his heavy leather coat was spread. He walked with a slight but obvious limp.

"Yes, I felt the effects of stopping it too suddenly. I shouldn't. Nor should it make me sleep, not when I'm so far recovered." His voice dropped to a mutter, full of menace. "It was a powerful spell that did this, and a crafty one. It was made by someone who understood the nature of my power." Belle could tell that he spoke more to himself than to her; she listened, more than curious enough about his magic to allow herself to be used as a convenient pair of ears. "And how to hide it from me," he went on, his lip curling. "But I'll find it." He ran his nails over the scales of the coat, eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't want them trying again, would we?"

"How did it happen?" Belle took a step towards him, stopping when his head snapped up; he looked at her as though he barely knew her, his expression so strange. "How could anyone harm you?"

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, and straightened his back slightly, and was once again her husband and not the unnerving creature, though his tight-lipped annoyance remained.

"After the incident in town," he said, taking a square of clean cotton cloth and dipping it into a small bowl of clear liquid beside the coat, "I set out to find who's sending cutthroats and troublemakers into my lands." Belle watched him wipe the cloth quickly over the coat; it came away smeared with blood. "A direct assault on my borders would be fruitless, and all know it. Infiltration," he said, raising a finger. "A farm's well was poisoned and all there died. Livestock die of unlikely plagues. The child who was murdered was not the first. Distractions." Delicately pushing the cloth into a glass beaker, Rumpelstiltskin fetched a bottle of blueish, clear liquid from the shelf behind him pouring enough into the beaker to cover the cloth. "Irritations." Belle held her tongue. To her, those things sounded like disasters. To the farmers, to the parents, they were the world ending. To their master, they were mere distractions. "I sought the aid of an ally," Rumpelstiltskin explained, adding a pinch of something that looked like ground glass to the beaker. "A seer, if you will. She owed me payment, and answers to my questions would suffice. I found her dead, days dead, and when I touched her corpse--" His right hand stilled over a leather roll of his fine, brass tools, and his fingers curled inward at the memory. "Well, you saw."

"A trap," Belle said, slowly.

"So it seems. But anyone going to those lengths, possessing such magic, would know that I cannot be killed by such a curse. Had it torn the flesh from my entire body, eaten me alive from the inside out, I would have recovered." He caught her eye and looked away, hastily. "Eventually."

"But while you fought it, you were powerless," Belle said. "Perhaps someone wanted that, instead."

"Perhaps." He waved his hand, irritably. "I've made enemies enough, and not all of them are... the motive may not be rational."

She was distracting him from his work, Belle knew, and as much as she wanted to know these things, she did not want to make him angry with incessant questions or to delay him in finding his answers. Quietly, she moved the teacup to the table where he worked.

"I was going to see Wren today," she said, with forced cheer.

"...yes." Rumpelstiltskin spared her a slight smile, as he watched the little cloth dissolve in its beaker. "The carriage, then."

"Oh, I don't need--"

"Cutthroats and curses," he reminded her, sharply. "Take the carriage, or wait until tomorrow and we'll go to market." At her expression, Rumpelstiltskin softened at last, and glanced at the teacup. "I would be very distracted should anything happen to you, my dear," he said, with a hint of his twittering giggle. "Please. Humour your husband, until I know more. I'd not lose you too."

"All right." She could hardly deny that request, not when he had told her of his lost child; not when she had seen how the grief weighed him down after... how long? Lifetimes. It was a compliment, in its way, that he valued her enough to protect her. "Tomorrow, then. Could we take more of the potion to Wren, in case she needs it? For her cough," she reminded him, when he looked blank.

"Certainly. Yes." His frown deepening, Rumpelstiltskin bent over the beaker with a tiny spoon. "Tomorrow, then."

Something drew Belle upwards, after leaving the turret. She had begun, aimlessly, in the direction of her room, at a loss now that her plans had changed. Instead, she went upwards, thinking that she might spend a while in the library. To be of any real use, other than being a wonder in its own right, Belle knew that the books ought to be catalogued or listed, somehow; if she was to spend endless days alone while her husband occupied himself elsewhere, such a task became conceivable. She had years; she had a lifetime.

Would it be a lifetime of this? The brief moments when Rumpelstiltskin treasured her, even reverenced her, interspersed with lonely days in the castle when his magic demanded all of his attention, and the pursuit of it made him so unapproachable? A castle could only be so clean. A cook could only cook so much before there was waste. Even a library could only be catalogued once. Even the _books_ would only be new to her once. How was she to fill a _lifetime_ as Rumpelstiltskin's wife, if he was to be her only companion?

It had not daunted her so, while she assumed there would be children in the not-distant future. Rumpelstiltskin told her that there would be none, and asked her to be thankful for it.

She could not. She simply could not. It was not grief she felt, for the children she would never have; her heart had not been full with the expectation of their arrival. She had not _hoped_ for children, she had simply known that they would be hers - a certainty, since she was old enough to understand that girls trod a different path in life to boys, and had little choice about it. She would marry well, be a dutiful wife and give birth to her husband's heirs. Seeing her newly married friends, Leorna among them, it had sometimes seemed that lawful children were _all_ that the world required of a girl; the anticipation, the anxiety, the waiting seemed to absorb the new brides utterly.

Belle had not felt such anticipation, as watchful as she had been for any sign that Rumpelstiltskin's seed had taken. She had not marked the days on hidden pieces of paper, as Leorna had confessed to doing, nor thought of asking Wren for herbs or a charm that promised quick success; Belle had been too preoccupied with learning how to get children, and learning that her marriage bed had another purpose entirely besides that, to worry herself about when babes would come. Her husband had signalled no impatience for heirs, not even when she'd _bled_ on him for the stars' sake, and so she had been happy to wait for nature to take its course, and relieved that it had not.

Her husband was adamant that he could give her no children, and that it was a mercy there would be none more like him. And yet hearing him speak of his son, of his beloved Baelfire, with such uncharacteristic passion, Belle found herself aching also. She would have liked to bring him that passionate, heedless love again; to place it tenderly into his arms and to see him unbend for their child the way he never could for her.

Such thoughts drew her past the door of the library, and to the room where Rumpelstiltskin kept Baelfire's belongings. His story had made some sense of the strange collection in there, and of the books for children in the library; it seemed that her husband collected all the things that he had been unable to give to the boy, in life - kept them as tokens of love, and of all that he would have given, if only he had been able.

It was a sad shrine, and Belle hesitated in the doorway, watching the room light up. She smelled Rumpelstiltskin's strange pipe smoke, and it was like a fist closing around her heart to know that he had been there recently; that her question must have exposed the wounds of loss afresh. She was sorry for that, and hated to think of her husband up here alone, tormented by the past. Or was it possible that he found some comfort in it, rather than the morbid reminder that it seemed to Belle? Did Rumpelstiltskin lose himself in memories of a happier life, up here among the things his son had never owned?

It was the smallest clothing that moved Belle the most - the things that had, plainly, belonged to and been used by Baelfire. Drawn by the morbid curiosity, by sympathy for her husband's sorrow, she took one of the threadbare tunics from the wardrobe and sat upon the bed, holding the garment reverently in her lap.

They had been poor in a way that Belle had never known. The clothing was coarse, nothing that she would ever think of putting on a child of her own - nothing that she, in her station, would ever have needed to. Rough and thinning the cloth might be, but Belle could see that great care had been taken of it. Tears had been mended with thread taken from the garment itself, with fine little stitches. The seams had been let out just as far as they would go and there, too, the stitching was lovingly done. It made Belle ashamed of her finery - that the simple linen dress she had chopped up to make herself comfortable for housework was a thousand times better than the best a beloved child once had. Rumpelstiltskin's child.

So, it was for Baelfire's sake that Rumpelstiltskin took a wife. Less as comfort in his loneliness than as a reminder to keep that man, that devoted father, alive in him somewhere. Belle didn't know what to make of it, so made nothing of it; only sat and thought about it, and about how her husband had flinched from her touch at first, as though it were possible to forget the gestures of kinship and kindness. _Was_ it possible? Belle had been raised in warmth, light and laughter; in the safe circle of her father's arms, the fond fussings of nurses and maids, and the security of a people who called her princess and held her precious. She could not imagine how a person could be so alone, for so long, as to be afraid of forgetting love.

Feeling once again that she intruded where she ought not, Belle returned the tunic to the wardrobe with great care, and went back to the library.

~+~

The library could have absorbed Belle for days at a time. Were it not for the small window, she would happily have surrendered all sense of the hour and remained there, among the books, until hunger or her bladder forced her to leave the room.

With the fading daylight to guide her, she was able to tear herself away in time to return to the kitchen and prepare afternoon tea. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would join her, but told herself not to be impatient or hurt if he did not. Whatever he was doing, up in his turret, it was in the name of discovering who had injured him and, more importantly, who was capable of being a threat to him. That was, undeniably, more important than afternoon tea with his wife. Belle made enough for him, anyway, hoping that he would come down. If he did not, then she would take it up to him and pretend not to mind.

Pleased at having her kitchen hearth the way she wanted it, Belle sat by the fire when she had finished buttering bread and putting out dishes of preserves. She must make a list for market, and speak to Rumpelstiltskin about how they were provisioned, and limit herself to simple dishes until she had a better understanding of how the pots and pans would behave. She slightly envied her husband's apparently effortless ability to produce delicious meals at will, but reminded herself that it was only a matter of learning how; as he had once learned, so would she. She did not have necessity to teach her, as Rumpelstiltskin must have done.

Necessity had brought him to magic, as well. It was not lost on Belle that he had omitted a great deal in telling her his story. How had he found such magic, when he needed it to save his child from war? Even in the legends and the story books, magic was not easily found. Heroes, and sometimes plucky heroines, set out on great quests in search of the magic they needed, and did not always find it. Rumpelstiltskin _had_ found it. It had somehow consumed the simple man he had once been, changing him until he called himself monster, and he had lost his child anyway. The price always had to be paid.

Belle hated to pity him, but every glimpse she had seen of his old life made her do so; the grieving father, the tortured leg, the poverty, the war - all of it. She wanted to catch him up in her arms and kiss away every remembered hurt, and it was not the love of a wife for her husband; it was the aching compassion of one person for another's suffering and sorrow. In the stories, in books, a girl could kiss away hurts and heal wounds with her kindness. Reality was less kind, and far less simple, and all Belle could do was hope to give Rumpelstiltskin some happiness in the here and now.

Could she? It was becoming clear to her that he had sought no such thing, in marrying her. He had meant to keep her and care for her as some kind of living ornament, and to tolerate the misery of a reluctant bride for the sake of... what? The only mortal companionship he thought he might ever find?

But that was absurd. There was Wren, hunched and forthright old Wren, who he'd saved as a babe but who spoke of him, now, as a mother might speak of a strange and wayward son. There must have been others, lives he'd touched without leaving devastation in his wake? Others, like Belle, whose gratitude for his magic opened their eyes to the possibility of welcoming him?

Surely?

But... no. Rumpelstiltskin had _chosen_ to be alone, in a way that Belle could not comprehend. Lately, seeing the harm, he had chosen otherwise.

The hurt in her chest was all for him, and Belle could barely speak to him when he arrived, promptly at three o'clock, to join her for tea. That he had remembered his promise, in spite of his urgent work, simply brought tears to her eyes and Belle embraced him, feeling ridiculous, but feeling that she'd burst if she did not. With her arms around his neck, a clumsy and childish hug, Belle almost felt that she could bridge the gulf of understanding between them; that she might, one day, conquer that vast distance of time separating her husband from the man, the father of Baelfire.

His hands against her back, clasping her gently, Rumpelstiltskin tried a soothing pat.

"My dear?" He sounded extremely nervous.

"I'm glad to see you, that's all," Belle said, swiping quickly at her eyes when she released him, and hurrying to see to the kettle.

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, stiffly, and took his place at the table. It amused Belle that he found her outbursts so unnerving. Sitting there, waiting for his tea, he looked worried that she might ambush him again, with another outburst of female effusiveness.

"Don't worry," she said, managing to keep a straight face as she took her place to his right. "I'm not going to bite you."

"...good," Rumpelstiltskin said, weakly, and made himself busy with the tea things.

Pretending to be busy caused him to eat rather more than he usually did, Belle noted. He favoured the honey over the jams and curds, and used the butter sparingly. As intrigued by his habits as he was unsettled by hers, Belle silently took notice of his preferences, and put the knowledge away safely for another time.

"Thank you for coming down," she said, when he sat back in his chair, teacup between his palms. At his slight nod, his small smile, she felt brave enough to add, "I get quite lonely, when I don't see you."

"I've been many things in my time," Rumpelstiltskin said, thoughtfully, "but never a cure for anyone's loneliness, before." He stretched out his right leg with a faint wince. "It is a draughty old place. I must see about making it more comfortable for you."

"I'd like a stove," Belle admitted, trying not to be too concerned at his lingering pain. If he had spent the whole day in his freezing laboratory, it was no wonder that an old wound twinged. "Some daylight would be nice."

"Daylight," said Rumpelstiltskin, flatly. "In the Dark Castle."

"Why not?" Belle leaned towards him, conspiratorial. "We could keep a floor dark and gloomy for when you need to frighten somebody."

"Power is all about perception," he said, wagging a finger at her. "Don't mock, dearie." Mirth brightened his eyes, though, and Belle could see that he was fighting a smile. "Would you have believed that I could save your town had you not heard the tales of my black deeds?"

"I suppose not," Belle admitted. "But..." She saw him waiting, curious to hear what she had been going to say. She wasn't sure, herself, and frowned over her cup for a few moments. "I _knew_ when I saw you that you had the power. I could feel it, somehow."

Lifting an eyebrow, sipping his tea, Rumpelstiltskin nodded.

"Not everyone is that sensitive to magic."

"Wren is," Belle answered, realising it as she said it. When she spoke of a weight being lifted when Rumpelstiltskin was away, she spoke of his magic, not his person.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, startled. "I suppose she is, the sly old witch." Before Belle could say more, he set down his cup and rose, offering her a slight bow. "I must prepare the potion for you to give her, tomorrow."

Feeling something far too close to panic for her liking, Belle rose as well, and almost stumbled over her chair as she followed him towards the kitchen door.

"I... I hope I'll see you," she managed, at his questioning look. "Later?" It was difficult to say which of them was the more uncomfortable with the anxious tone that was so unlike her. Rumpelstiltskin gave her another of those awkward little pats, on the arm this time, while Belle tried to decide why her heart was pounding so at the thought of him going to another room, and of not seeing him again before she slept. But how awful, if he thought that she was begging him for _that_ and not merely his company! She could not imagine any man being more generous than her husband in that regard, and would not have him suspect that she was unsatisfied! "I do miss you," she managed, before her embarrassment completely took her voice from her. "And worry about you."

"About me?" More bemused than ever, Rumpelstiltskin shifted from foot to foot, the tip of his tongue flicking across his lips. "Strange girl," he said, softly, with a shake of his head. Gently, he caught her beneath the chin with the crook of his finger and, watching her eyes, bent slowly to give her a kiss. When he drew away, his expression was full of wonder. "You are a very strange girl."


	37. A Courtship

Belle was woken briefly in the night by Rumpelstiltskin lying down beside her. He kept his distance, as though meaning not to wake her, and Belle was too sleepy to ask if he was well. It felt like the deepest and darkest hour of the night, and sleep clawed her back from wakefulness almost as soon as her husband lay still.

It was full daylight before she surfaced again, long past dawn, and Belle turned over to see Rumpelstiltskin still asleep, one arm thrown across his eyes. He looked anything but peaceful, and she once again regretted stirring up the memories of his past. Still, he had come to bed, for no reason other than to be close to her while they slept, and that made Belle glad. She eased herself nearer to him, and would have tried kissing him awake, had his arm not been in the way. If he was going to show her such tricks then she would not be above using them on him.

Was it possible, she wondered, to reduce a man to the same frantic state of desire that he'd caused in her, that morning? Could she pleasure him, and pleasure him again until he had no thought in his head besides her? Rumpelstiltskin seemed so reserved, when he was not dancing about in gleeful celebration of his own power, intent on impressing and terrifying. He did everything neatly, carefully and deliberately, even his pleasuring of her. Was there, beneath all that, a wanton face to match her own lack of self-control? Belle fingered the collar of his nightgown, disturbing him just enough to move his arm to the pillow behind his head. Had he watched her, the other morning, and played with her at the edge of sleep? It was an exciting thought, if rather uncomfortable to think of him watching her while she lay unawares.

Settling her head on his chest, feeling him stretch out and then pull her to his side, Belle smiled. It was not so difficult, finding ways to show her affection without seeming... well, that she thought of only one thing. She thought often of this, too; of being warm and peaceful beside her husband, their bed a world separate from the everyday. They had conspired to make it so, between her stubborn pragmatism and his determination that she should know no shame or discomfort.

As much as he disliked to sleep, she thought that Rumpelstiltskin found it soothing to be beside her, just as she found it reassuring to lie beside him. In her case, she supposed, there was true safety in keeping close to her husband; he had an ability to protect her that went far beyond that of a mortal man. If he found safety in keeping close to her, it was of a different sort.

Rumpelstiltskin stirred himself, his hand straying from her back to her hair. She couldn't tell whether his faint sound was one of greeting, or merely a protest at finding himself awake, but he toyed with her hair contentedly enough. Mischief taking her over, Belle trailed her fingertip from the bare patch at his throat, down the soft silk to his navel, and felt him wriggle, luxuriously, beneath her cheek.

Having decided that she would tease him, play with that cock of his until he woke up sufficiently to join in, she was startled to find it hard already, lying thick and stiff against his belly. At her little gasp of surprise, Rumpelstiltskin sniggered childishly, and buried his fingers in her hair.

"It must have been dreaming about you," he murmured.

"It just... does it?" Belle found herself feeling slightly offended about that, and laughed inwardly at herself.

"Hardly used to," he said, moving his hips to brush the hardness against her hand. "Does now."

Rubbing him, just lightly through his gown, Belle tried to take notice of detail that had been lost on her when she'd touched him before. She could close her thumb and forefinger in a ring around him, but only just, and was glad that she had not known how big it got before her wedding night. No promise of pleasure would have reassured her enough to lie still and hope for the best had she known the size of a man, she was sure. He fitted inside her nicely enough, but to her small hand it was more of a chore, and made her feel clumsy at a moment when she wished to take the greatest care. Rumpelstiltskin seemed not to mind.

He was not smooth, down there, though the skin below his navel lacked the coarseness of his arms and back. Thick veins stood proud from the soft skin of his cock while, beneath it, the skin of the heavy sac felt impossibly delicate, like her own intimate place while she was dry.

Her husband scarcely reacted to her curious, cautious exploration of him, though he brought up his left leg to allow her to move her hand however she wished. Belle liked that there seemed to be no urgency in him - that she could be calm about touching him, learning him, without worrying that he was impatient or that she was causing him discomfort. He made no complaint when she pulled up his nightgown, and she spent a while caressing his thighs, finding out where his flesh was smooth or less so. Curiosity drew her back to the heavy sac, for which Belle knew only vulgar names and one in the old tongue, from a book on battle wounds. She brought to mind the laughing advice of one of the married kitchen maids, when Belle had confessed to her about Gaston's attempt to paw her; to 'knee him in the balls' the next time he tried it. It did seem an unfortunately vulnerable thing for a man to have hanging between his legs, whether doing battle or merely attempting to ride a horse. However did they manage that? She cupped the weight of him in her palm, stroking with her thumb and almost laughed when she felt it properly. 'Balls' was accurate enough for what sat inside the soft bag of skin.

"We'll never get to market if you keep doing that," Rumpelstiltskin said, breathlessly interrupting her contemplative game. His hand was at the back of her head, though, and she'd heard his voice drop lower than before, strained with wanting. So, _balls_ were vulnerable in a pleasurable way, as well as to the direct impact of a knee. That made rather more sense of their location.

Pushing up his gown to the middle of his chest, moving herself lower and bending over him, Belle kissed him in the centre of his ribs while grasping his cock. She was unsure of herself, in this, but perfectly clear in her own mind that her husband should _not_ be thinking of a trip to market while she fondled him. She had enjoyed kissing his bare belly, the other night beside the fire, and tried again now, trying at the same time to stroke him. She felt awkward, _all elbows_ , as Rumpelstiltskin put it, but not so foolish as before. Like that night, he was drowsy in his enjoyment of her, and no doubt finding a pleasure of his own in her lack of skill, for he had asked to be allowed to savour her innocence a while longer. A more enthusiastic kiss beneath his ribs made him wriggle, his breathing becoming quicker, and Belle felt her own body stir in response. 

As much as she liked to kiss his mouth, she liked this too, and wondered if she'd found a hint of how he felt when he savoured her breasts, or when he'd used his mouth between her legs. She could suck, nip and lick at his skin as she pleased, teasing him as she teased her own senses. While she did so, Rumpelstiltskin's fingers were threaded through her thick hair, his fingers kneading appreciatively against her scalp. His hand went perfectly still, when her mouth tickled beneath his navel, and Belle could _feel_ his anticipation. Would she kiss him _there?_ Did she dare? A few minutes ago, she would have been afraid that he would laugh at her if she tried it. Now, feeling his body tense and his hand tremble, she was certain that he would not.

She had only to turn her head and to move her hand away to expose his cock to her kisses. Her heart thumped so hard that it hurt, with a cruel mixture of excitement and nerves, and made her own breath come nearly as short as Rumpelstiltskin's.

Just a little kiss, then, she thought, turning her head so that the tip of his cock was before her. Above, Rumpelstiltskin gave a moan, like none she'd heard during their other pleasures, so she held the thing steady and kissed him there. The head of his cock felt like silk against her lips, and the merest touch there made her husband gasp, his nails momentarily sharp against her scalp. He was beyond guiding her with words, so she followed her curiosity and his wordless reactions, slowly kissing the length of him, downwards, until her face was nearly buried in him, and all her senses full of him.

He smelled like leather, old leather, and his pipe smoke, and something that she had no name for, but supposed to be the scent of skin. She enjoyed showing her affection to it, his cock, which had given her so much pleasure and still eluded so many of her questions; if she felt silly fumbling her way forward and contorting herself to reach, she felt elated at Rumpelstiltskin's reaction. Her every kiss brought a sharp inhalation, a twitch, a moan, and Belle thought of how he was when he paid attention to her breasts. He had been far less confident, between her legs, but had tried the same movements as with her breasts; his tongue in hot little flashes, a gentle suckling, the steady strokes of his lower lip. Even his breath upon her skin had been a torment, by then. Belle did likewise, clumsily, and heard him cry out at the first, tentative touch of her tongue. Encouraged, she tried kissing while moving her hand the way he'd shown her, and licked across the silky head. She'd barely registered the faint taste of salt before Rumpelstiltskin pushed her away, head and shoulder, as roughly as he'd ever touched her.

"Stop, stop, stop," he was whispering, urgently, and Belle snatched her hand away from his cock as well, frightened, only to see him emptying his seed onto his own belly in thick, whitish streaks, each less copious than the last. His hands seemed undecided about grasping her or shoving her away, and he _writhed_ , his face all twisted up while he panted through clenched teeth.

"I... oh, I'm sorry," she breathed, looking up at his face in dread of having committed some unknown sin against him, but he shook his head, laughing through his gritted teeth, his eyes tightly shut. He swallowed, rapidly, several times, while his bruising hold on her arm loosened. It had looked like torture, but with her alarm diminishing, Belle knew that she had witnessed the throes of pleasure - the face he normally hid away, tucked cheek to cheek with her while he came.

 _Just from that_ , she thought, trembling slightly in her relief as she watched him fall still, his tongue flicking across his lips between shallow breaths. He _came_ , just from her hesitant kisses, just from _having_ her down there, and a few little touches. Oh, _goodness._

Well, she had wanted to see him undone. Kneeling beside him, not trusting herself to do anything further without his leave, Belle watched his smile grow; he was absorbed in his bliss, and it was wonderful to see him so unburdened. So happy. Was he always this way, when he buried his face in her hair, or in the pillow, or against her shoulder when the final release came? Belle regretted each and every time her own eyes had been closed, causing her to miss the breathtaking sight of her husband's pleasure.

It could only have been a few moments before he was sensible to the world again, but Belle felt the vision of him lying there, sated, score itself deep into her memory, every bit as vivid and real as the memories of her wedding night; one of those moments, in life, that were uniquely hers.

 _I did this,_ she thought, still frozen by his side as Rumpelstiltskin sat up, reaching for her with urgent hands, intent on kissing her. _I did this to him._

His kiss left her in no doubt at all about his approval. He trembled all over, his kisses wet and clumsy, and would have reached beneath her gown had she not caught his hand, preventing him. Rumpelstiltskin hesitated, at that, and met her gaze at last. He looked every bit as shaken as she felt. Belle stroked his hair, then cupped his face between her palms and returned a much softer, slower kiss that calmed them both.

"Belle," he whispered, and she understood without needing his words; she had, thanks to his tenderness, felt just as he felt now; had received pleasure and wanted to return it in kind, but been too overwrought to know how, or how even to express her gratitude. But where was the hurry? It would be theirs, again and again, and the knowledge of that had anchored itself in her heart now. "Belle," he tried again, and shook his head, frustrated with his lack of words.

"Hush," she said, and drew his head to her shoulder, enjoying how he clutched at her arms as if for support. The most powerful man in the world, and she had broken him with a few kisses. Strange kisses, shocking kisses to be sure, but still theirs. All theirs and no-one else's, and Rumpelstiltskin was _hers_.

They parted quietly and meekly, after a long time, with each stealing uncertain glances at the other. Rumpelstiltskin's hair was wild, and Belle guessed that her own was as bad, for she had not bound it before going to bed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but just sat there quietly, while Belle got up to open the curtains. When she turned back, he was blinking rapidly in the new light, his hands folded in his lap. She put her hands on his shoulders, all but aching with tenderness towards him, and fiercely glad that it had naught to do with pity.

"I'm glad you came to bed," she said, when he said nothing but began to look uncomfortable. Arranging his hair, tucking some behind his ears, Belle waited for him to lift his face and look at her. "Aren't you?" she added, something wicked winding its way into her sudden smile.

"I certainly appreciate your warm welcome, mistress," he said, unable to give the words the levity she thought he'd meant for them. "Why, Belle?" he pleaded, all attempt at calm falling away. Grasping her gown above each hip, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, and before he looked away she saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. "You are too kind to an old monster."

"Man or monster," Belle said, taking his trick and bending until her face was level with his, leaving no escape from her gaze, "you're mine." His jaw dropped, but he made no attempt to interrupt her. "Besides, I think you're more a _mystery_ than either of those. I enjoy mysteries." She pecked him on the lips, delighting in his wide-eyed silence. "Rumpelstiltskin, I think I've shocked you," she said, laughing as she straightened. She felt wonderful, somehow passionately alive, and it could hardly be contained. She could have danced about in her nightdress, if she hadn't feared that such an outburst would frighten her husband clear out of the room.

Rumpelstiltskin stood, slowly, and drew her firmly against his body, one hand spread across her buttocks and the other beneath her shoulders.

"A mystery?" There was something of the remote sorcerer in his piercing gaze, but something of her tender lover too, and something of her bewildered and shaken husband. All of him, there in one, unblinking look. Belle tried to commit it to memory, along with the sight of his undoing. "Do you plan to solve me, little wife? Starting with my cock?" He nudged her with it, a soft and squashy bulge now, and Belle giggled. "There's no other girl like you in all the world, that's certain."

"Good." Belle kissed him, meaning it to be another cheerful peck, but Rumpelstiltskin leaned into it, and made a slow seduction of it instead, until the idle way he rubbed his hand across her backside no longer seemed so innocent, and the little burn began inside her. She wanted him, but she need not act on it now. There would be tonight, tomorrow - a _lifetime_ of being Rumpelstiltskin's wife, and permitted to share his body in ways that she remained too innocent to know yet. "I must go to the market," she said, twisting herself out of his embrace, but playfully, so that he knew himself to be part of a game and might spend the day wondering what the rules were. "I've no ribbons left. Just look at my hair!"

"We can't have that," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, regaining a little composure once she was out of his reach. "When you're ready, then?"

He walked to the door, seeming to have forgotten that he wore only a nightgown, but Belle saw that he still moved his right leg stiffly, and said nothing. A man did not like to show that he was in pain, she knew that much. Rumpelstiltskin did not like even to think that his magic was weakened, and would certainly not let it be known when they went in to town. Belle would be watchful, and do all that she could to ease his road to a full recovery.

Anticipating the wonderful pastries and other treats from Odstone that she had yet to try, Belle had no breakfast. Her excitement about a simple trip to market was absurd, she knew, but even reminding herself how unwelcome she had felt on previous visits to didn't diminish her eagerness. To be out of the castle, to see fresh faces, to see Wren... it would be wonderful.

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin awaited her beside the fire in the great room. He had worn his heavy, furred travelling cloak and, just as she entered, Belle saw that he had his right leg extended towards the warmth of the fire, practically close enough to scorch the leather of his boot. He straightened himself at once, shrugging back the cloak that had, until she came in, been wrapped close about him.

Belle joined him beside the fire, taking both his hands and watching his face. There was no longer any visible sign of the recent change, not a hint of mortal flesh colour remaining, but her husband was not himself.

"You needn't come with me," she said, gently. "I can frighten them enough for both of us if you need to rest."

Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head, his eyes becoming a little unfocused, as if he strove to imagine her being frightening. Belle had to admit that it was unlikely, at best.

"I've business of my own, mistress," he said, gripping her hands firmly. "And a curious desire to spend the day with my bride. If I may," he added, with an effort at gallantry that was no less charming for coming a moment too late. Or even a month too late.

"Are you going to court me?" Belle swayed herself playfully from side to side, still grasping his hands, and watched his hesitant smile take hold. "At last?" It was the mildest possible reproach, but she felt a weight lift from her heart for having said it. To be claimed as a bride, in however fair a deal, was not to be courted, not to be wooed, and neither was his devotion to her pleasure. His simple desire for her company, his shyness about it, appealed to her wistful love of the romantic, and to her wish to be truly welcome at her husband's side.

"It's perhaps a little late?" Rumpelstiltskin suggested, but with enough of a smile that she could see the idea intrigued him too. "We're almost a month married."

"A month," Belle repeated, amazed. She had known it perfectly well, of course, but hearing the words made it suddenly real.

"Am I to court you after the honeymoon is over?"

"Yes," she laughed. "We'll do everything backwards, to suit ourselves. A wedding, a courtship, and then we can meet for the first time." The laugh became a giggle, at his exasperated little headshake, and Rumpelstiltskin put his arm around her shoulders, smothering her in the cloak, as he led her to the door.

As Belle collected her basket and coin pouch from the table in the entrance hall, she told herself that her proposal was not an unreasonable one. They had come to desire one another only after lying together, and that was surely backwards. Might they not discover, if they tried, that they wished to be married to one another, regardless of the fact that they already were?

As content as she was in his company, and in his bed, Belle could not have sworn under oath that she would have chosen Rumpelstiltskin above all others. Her only measure was that he had proven to be a better prospect than her previous suitors, and those consisted of Gaston and a string of nervous, reluctant twelve and thirteen year old boys before him. Of those, Belle had been most taken with the son of the trader Laszio, a boy called Shafer, with whom she had shared in common a love of wild creatures, scraped knees, and all of six words in the way of language.

If memory served her well, Shafer's father had bribed Sir Maurice for her hand with silks and spices while Shafer had, rather more successfully, offered Belle a live frog.

"What are you smiling about?" Rumpelstiltskin helped her up to the step of the carriage, before following her inside it with rather less than his usual, effortless grace. Belle tried not to show that she had noticed, or noticed that he gripped his right thigh beneath the cloak.

"Suitors," she said, truthfully, for those reluctant boys had _been_ her suitors. Never mind that they had been terrified rather than amorous, and that only one of them had been interesting enough to give her a frog. Even Gaston, at their first meeting, had looked like he might be sick with embarrassment, and he had been fully eighteen years old at the time. "I had quite a lot, you know."

"And still your father chose Sir Gaston for you," Rumpelstiltskin answered, seating himself opposite Belle and flashing his teeth at her in a nasty smile. "Needs must, I suppose, but then his father has an army."

"Needs must," Belle laughed, prodding his calf with her toe, "and so _I_ chose you."

Flustered by her playfulness, by a dose of his own teasing, Rumpelstiltskin fell silent. After a few moments, he opened his hand to produce the white cord from her wedding gown, and drew it absentmindedly between his fingers for the rest of the journey to Odstone, his brows knit in a thoughtful frown. Belle found herself content to watch him, and trying her best not to peek to see how her husband's... how his _anatomy_ sat inside his extremely close-fitting leather breeches. It couldn't be very comfortable, she decided, before becoming embarrassed at her own preoccupation and tearing her gaze away.

At the town gates, Rumpelstiltskin lifted her down from the carriage and placed a bottle of the medicine for Wren in her empty basket. This one was twice as large as the last, and Belle looked at him askance.

"Each time she will need double the dose," he said, avoiding her gaze. "Our bargain will only buy her a little comfort. I cannot give her time." He straightened himself, attempting to become aloof. "Be sure to remind her of my price."

"Wren doesn't seem the sort to forget such a thing," Belle said, gently.

They walked together through the gates. The market was somewhat smaller than on her previous visits, it being the week after the quarterly fair. Belle wondered how much impact the unexpectedly blocked roads had on the affairs of the town, and glanced sideways at Rumpelstiltskin, wondering if he even thought of such things. It seemed to her that he understood the world well enough, but he removed himself from it, and from all human contact and consequence. He would aid Wren, but not visit her in her final days nor admit to any concern for her. He would clear the roads while still weak from his misadventure, but not allow the people to know that he had been ill rather than cruel or thoughtless, when the roads became blocked in the first place.

"She is selling herbs," Rumpelstiltskin said, before they reached the crossroads, causing Belle to look all about her, expecting to see the old woman nearby. Her husband gestured, instead, to the left-hand street, most of which remained out of sight behind the house on the corner. Belle opened her mouth to ask how he knew, but stopped herself. They were being watched by the townspeople, however circumspectly, and Rumpelstiltskin guarded his secrets closely. "I will be nearby," he said, and tapped her back, gently, to urge her off into the market.

His unease made Belle uneasy herself, reluctantly recalling the events of her last visit to Odstone, but matters needed attending to. Wren, first, and then, fortified by a conversation with a living soul besides her husband, she would tour the market.

Belle had pictured a stall or a handcart, when Rumpelstiltskin told her that she'd find Wren selling herbs, but instead she found the old woman seated on a three-legged stool, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, with three baskets on the ground beside her. As Belle got nearer, she could see the old woman's gnarled hands working busily at something in her lap, and smiled hugely when she realised it to be one of the straw dolls that she had admired among her wedding gifts. In one of the baskets at Wren's feet, there were other such novelties, including the beautiful little cornucopias, each one stuffed with bunches of herbs. She had never asked Wren what her gift had been, and now she knew.

"Ah, girl," Wren said, nodding approval. Unable to bend herself backwards far enough to look up at Belle, she smiled instead at Belle's feet. Belle hitched up her cloak and skirts and crouched before the older woman, not caring who saw her do so. Station and propriety meant nothing to her, next to the ability to look another person in the eye. "And with more of his magic for me, I see." Wren left off her straw weaving to thump herself heartily on the chest. "I've been sound ever since, and not too proud to say I'm grateful to 'im."

"I'm glad," Belle said, and she truly was, and relieved as well. The weather had been cruel, and Wren lived alone. "Do you have all that you need? Fuel? Food? You look frozen out here."

"I've sold my herbs at market for sixty years, girl," Wren cackled. "Weather comes and weather goes. Wren carries on."

Oh well - at least the question did not seem to have hurt the old woman's pride. Belle would not have asked, but Rumpelstiltskin spoke of no-one else with familiarity; while he would not offer his assistance directly, she sensed that he was only too glad to find Belle a willing intermediary. How would it be, she thought, to touch a person's life from cradle to grave, always knowing that grief was inevitable? No wonder Rumpelstiltskin found it convenient to distance himself from any hint of care for Wren. But what of his new wife? What did it cost him, each time Belle found her way nearer to his heart?

"D'you need herbs, duckling?" Wren gestured to her baskets, breaking Belle out of her sudden, brief melancholy. "Only you're scaring away those that might."

"Oh." Yes, of course, no-one would approach a stall while their master's wife was there. "Of course. May I visit you, soon?"

"I'd welcome it," Wren nodded, seriously. "What's his price for this, then?" She gestured to the bottle at the bottom of Belle's open basket.

"The same as before," Belle said, taking the bottle and pressing it into Wren's hand. "But spare it until it's truly needed, then take it all at once. He says you'll need more each time."

"Magic," Wren scoffed, pocketing it somewhere beneath her blanket. "More trouble than it's worth." But Belle thought she saw a tear in the old woman's eye, and squeezed her hand gently before leaving her.

Belle spent some time choosing which ribbons to buy, not used to extravagant spending on her own behalf. She had a preference for greens, which were bright against her chestnut hair without being gaudy, but remembered that Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed stealing them from her nightgowns as well, and chose a range of ribbons that she thought might please him. There were other small things that caught her eye, on the same stall - threads, lace, and even a length of the finest white satin cord, which she could use to replace what Rumpelstiltskin had taken from her wedding gown. Belle detested the wastefulness of a costly gown that would be worn only once, yet she had been sorry to see the hem marked by the wet weather, and wanted to keep it, safe in her trunk. The cost of a new lace for the bodice wouldn't offend her husband, she was sure. She would not dream of asking him to return the original one to her.

It seemed to Belle that the townsfolk took less notice of her than they had on her previous visits. They had learned that Rumpelstiltskin would not punish them for simply breathing the same air as his bride, at least, nor for keeping a respectful distance from her, nor for proudly showing her their goods when she asked to be shown. It was not the progress that Belle would have liked, but she could afford to be patient with this, as well. She would show them only courtesy, concern and kindness, and as Rumpelstiltskin had said on her first visit, the people might hope that she would be able to influence their master. Perhaps they would learn to trust in her goodwill.

With her basket full, and having sampled Hadley's pastries and chosen several to take home, Belle began to look for her husband. The marketplace was not crowded, but she could not see him waiting for her anywhere. Belle made her way slowly back towards the gates, meaning to leave her basket in the carriage and perhaps return to wander the market unburdened while she waited for Rumpelstiltskin. Although a cold day and quite damp, it was bright and pleasant enough. She would much have preferred to walk back to the castle, had Rumpelstiltskin not insisted on the precaution of his company, or taking the carriage. She would certainly not ask him to walk the distance by her side, while his leg still troubled him.

To her surprise, when she opened the carriage door to place her basket inside, Belle found her husband already there. His feet were propped on the opposite seat, crossed at the ankles, and her first thought was to scold him for putting his muddy boots on the upholstery. He had her white cord woven around his hands in a complex design, and brightened at the sight of her, and Belle had not the heart to become a scolding wife, there and then. Besides, when he removed his boots from her seat, not a trace of the sticky black mud was left behind.

"You have everything your heart desires, treasure?" Showing more interest than usual in the contents of her basket, Rumpelstiltskin smiled and leaned over for a good look. Belle had hidden the ribbons away at the very bottom, so that he might enjoy the small surprise each time she wore one of them, and kept him from rummaging with a light slap to the hand.

"Cloth for my aprons, pastries, cheese, ink. Ribbons for my hair." His expression, when hopeful, was almost boyish, even as his large eyes made him seem, unblinking, to be even less an ordinary man. "Wren is grateful for the potion, but seems well without it."

"Ah." Rumpelstiltskin sat back, as the carriage began to move. "Very good."

"And your business?"

"Hmm?"

"Your business in town."

"Oh," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Fair. Fair." He returned his gaze to his game of cat's cradle, nodding.

Something in his light tone made Belle suspicious of mischief, but she did not press him. It was a welcome change to see her husband in such a mood - if not at ease then enjoying her company, and with it the ordinary pleasures of conversation and companionship. It was so different to the dark pleasure that he took in his displays of power. Beneath the stilted courtesy that he had always shown her, beneath the nervous care he took with her, she was discovering a man whose passions ran so deep that he barely had the words to express them. She had found him first in their bed, but he no longer hid himself away there all the time; he teased, he touched and, sometimes, dared a little with her. If he had not courted her, Belle thought, then she had, quite unknowingly, done quite the job of courting and seducing _him_ in their month of marriage.

"You're smiling again," he said, without looking up from his game. He was smiling as well.

"Well, I'm happy," Belle said, with a little laugh. She was, truly. It had begun when he joined her for the night, trusting himself to her welcome; it had grown when she found how very much he liked her naughty kisses. Fresh air and fresh faces, seeing Wren well and a full basket had all added to her helpless glow of contentment. Their flirtatious teasing had added laughter and excitement, and Belle looked forward to being cloistered with Rumpelstiltskin again, where they might decently continue their 'courtship'.

Yes. She was _happy._


	38. Ardour

True to his word, Rumpelstiltskin did seem intent on spending the day in Belle's company. She was flattered, naturally, but could not help wondering if, up in his turret of mysteries and magic, his careful study of his enemy's magic spell was going badly. Even his spinning wheel was forsaken, Rumpelstiltskin preferring to join her in the kitchen while she bustled about, doing what was needful. He did not shadow her everywhere, but installed himself in front of the kitchen fire and resumed his neverending game of cat's cradle, his feet stretched out towards the fire.

Belle hid away her new ribbons in her trunk, and the new lace for her wedding gown along with them, and returned to the kitchen with her glass pen, her new ink and the roll of paper sheets that Rumpelstiltskin had left as a gift. In the shock of his homecoming, in caring for him, she had forgotten to thank him for the gesture of apology, or for allowing her to keep the box that enabled her to exchange letters with home.

Leaving the things on the table, Belle went to his side and found him reading Wren's cookery book.

"I don't think your people would imagine you reading a book on housewifery," Belle said, toying with his hair where it fell across his tall collar. "Wren gave it to me."

"Ah." Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin delicately licked a fingertip and turned a page. "There are so few books I've not read."

"You've read the library?" Belle gazed at him with equal measures of awe and envy. "All of those books?"

"Every book in the castle, dearie," he said, shrugging.

"You must know _everything_ ," she sighed, trying to imagine it - so many books, all their words and wisdom...

"Everything that can be found in a book." He closed the one he held and reached around her waist, urging her to sit on his lap. "Can housewifery spare you a while?" Belle sat, careful of his right leg, and looped her arms around his neck, smiling when he kissed the cleft of her bosom. "Your husband is all alone at your hearth." Another kiss, and his tongue dipping between her breasts, made Belle squirm.

"My tutors say that one is never alone with a book," she said, but found that she'd no desire to keep him from having his way; only to tease him, to make him strive a little. "Your magic doesn't call you away, husband? Your tower and your secrets?"

Rumpelstiltskin removed his face from her bosom, and settled her more comfortably on his lap, resting back in the chair to gaze at her.

"Your husband is a tired old monster, today," he said, airily. "The poppy makes hard work of everything."

"You still need it?" Belle would not have asked, would have spared him his pride, but she was glad that he had mentioned it. "Your bad foot?"

"...no, no." He bounced her, easily, taking her weight with the right leg. "Your medicine was strong, mistress," he said, with some admiration. "You must've taken great care in making it, to extract so much potency from the poppies."

"I did," Belle said, uncertainly, touching his hair again. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No. I'm very impressed. Best not to stop it too quickly, that's all. I'm not as recovered as I hoped." Another bounce, as if to shake the sudden worry from her face. "Less today, less tomorrow."

"You said that it shouldn't affect you that way," she pressed, unhappily. "You must rest until you're truly well."

"It seems I must." Rumpelstiltskin plucked at the bow that fastened her bodice, smiling lopsidedly. "In your arms?"

"I haven't pleased you enough for one day?" Bending, Belle gave him a kiss. It would have suited her well enough to retire to bed with him for as long as he wished, but she had her letters to write. "When I've answered Papa's letter," she relented, seeing that his pouting disappointment was not all in play. "And when we've eaten Hadley's wonderful pastries for our tea."

"Are you trying to fatten me up?" Tilting his head, Rumpelstiltskin pinched at her ribs, making Belle twist and laugh. "It won't work, you know."

"If you're mortal enough to suffer from my medicine, you're mortal enough to need a good meal," Belle said, as firmly as she could while caught at the edge of laughter. "My tutors also told me that good husbands are hard to find, so I'm going to look after you." Her laughter faded when she saw Rumpelstiltskin's face. He looked as he had looked that very morning, after her pleasuring of him; frozen at some point just beyond incredulity. "You _are_ a good husband", Belle said, gently. "You could have behaved like a monster. You've been kind to me, and generous. Patient and gentle." She fussed with his hair again, flustered by her own boldness. "I don't think it's been easy for you to do any of it. You enjoy being frightening, don't you?"

"Ah, Belle." Rumpelstiltskin winced, as though her words caused him physical pain, and gazed past her into the glowing hearth. "Don't flatter me, treasure. I know what I am. Black to the bone, but I made certain you'd be safe. A contract binds me, ours most of all."

"Our deal." Belle didn't know what to make of his lassitude, or his words. "You were afraid of what you might do?" It was awful. The words stuck in her throat, wretched.

Rumpelstiltskin managed another lopsided, halfhearted smile.

"I'd not have harmed you," he soothed, reaching up behind her to play with her hair in turn. "If you'd refused to consummate our marriage, fulfil our contract..." he sighed. "You bound yourself more firmly to a beast, my dear, but to his protection as well. You need fear nothing, want for nothing." He brought her hair forward, parting it at the back so that he could arrange all of it at her shoulders, as absorbed as always with his tactile games. "You shall see the world, devour a library, know all the pleasure that a monster knows how to give. Even scrub the floors, if you wish it."

Unused to hearing him speak so, and wondering if this was how he meant to court her, Belle chewed her lip for a while, fingering his cuffs while he played with the ends of her hair, tickling her bosom.

"And in return? What can I do, to deserve all that? Only remind you what it was like to be a man?" It didn't seem fair, but then not all bargains were. Belle had grown up among traders, politicians, power-brokers. One side often surrendered more than the other.

"Just so," Rumpelstiltskin nodded, suddenly tensing beneath her, his expression hardening, as though he feared he had revealed too much. "Write your letters, mistress. Be sure to seal them all as one, as your father did, even if they are not addressed to the same person." Gently, but firmly, he evicted her from his lap. "Clever man, to think of it."

"You don't mind?"

"It pleases me," Rumpelstiltskin said, holding his right thigh as he rose from the chair, "that your father is a thinking man." He brushed Belle away, gently, when she reached out to steady him. "And that he would have refused my deal, had the choice been his." His black fingernails trailed lightly down Belle's cheek. "I think he would have tried to kill me, had I forced the issue."

"I..." Belle stopped herself in the middle of an automatic denial, and saw her husband's little smile brighten. He was pleased that she had caught herself, stopped, thought. "Had you tried to force _me_ ," she said, carefully, "then he would have."

"A good father, then." Rumpelstiltskin squared his shoulders, stepping back from her, as though their familiarity suddenly surprised him. "He deserves a letter." He shooed her with a flicking motion with both hands. "Say that we shall visit him," he added, as Belle reached the kitchen table and reached for her precious paper. She spun on her heel, several sheets spilling from her hands to the chair beside her, and to the floor. She stared at Rumpelstiltskin, her jaw slack; she hadn't dared to hope that he would allow her... so soon... "If you wish?" her husband concluded, his commanding certainty fading at the sight of her expression. Belle tried to master it, but opted to conceal it instead, bending to pick up the fallen paper.

"I do," she stammered, fumbling again with the pages before she stacked them securely and straightened up to face Rumpelstiltskin. "Oh, may we? You'll go with me?"

Again, he looked as though her words had caught him utterly off-guard and unprepared.

"Unless you wish otherwise," he answered, warily, his eyes huge and his hands fidgeting at his sides.

"Of course I don't!" Oh, by the gods, he looked so lost. If Rumpelstiltskin was a mystery to her, then surely Belle was a thorny maze to him! "When shall I say we'll go? You've been ill," she added, a more sensible part of her mind catching up with her selfish excitement and reining it in. "Not yet, then. You must rest." She was all but babbling with her excitement, and she could see that it was alarming her husband, who sidled towards the kitchen door once she fell silent, as though he feared turning his back to her would be a mistake.

"We shall leave in two days time," he said, nodding decisively, "and travel as before. If I've not found my answers by then, I suspect I never shall."

Remembering his painstaking work with the bloodied clothing, Belle felt ashamed of her excitement. Her husband's enemies had struck a blow that ought to have been impossible; it was vital that he understand how.

"I can wait until your work is done," Belle said, although her heart screamed defiance. The yearning to see her Papa again was a terrible thing, and she did not want to be false to Rumpelstiltskin. "It should wait," she said, firmly, and rather more truthfully.

"Magic fades, mistress," he said. "In a day, or two, there will be nothing for me to pursue. Write your letter. Put a father's mind at rest." Rumpelstiltskin stopped at the bottom of the stone stairs and turned back to regard her, uncomfortably. "Say nothing of my misfortune."

"Of course not. Nothing about your magic or your work," Belle said, quickly. She would not have him think that she had forgotten, not when he had eased his initial restrictions for her sake! "Don't forget our tea," she added, but it emerged as more of a question; he had that look of purpose about him, again, and if he went up to his laboratory to resume his studies, he might forget that he had wished to spend the day otherwise.

Rumpelstiltskin's expression brightened enormously, and he lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

"And after pastries, your arms?"

"If you like," Belle laughed, as much from relief that he had not forgotten his wish as from his comical expression. Smiling wickedly, Rumpelstiltskin continued on his way.

His open enthusiasm for her embraces, in place of the hopeful hesitancy that had gone before, thrilled her. She could imagine being ambushed by his desires while she dusted his strange collection, or browsed the library; how she would squirm and pretend, for just a few moments, that she meant to deny him. She blushed, imagining the scene, and realised that to have such thoughts in her mind while composing a letter to her father would be extremely embarrassing.

Belle's happiness overflowed onto the three, crisp pages - the letters no chore at all when she could offer the promise of a visit so very soon. She wrote to Lotte of her new ribbons and the aprons she would make, to Leorna of her good wishes for the birth of the child and with news of her marriage, and to her Papa of her overwhelming excitement at being able to see him very soon. She was careful to add that Rumpelstiltskin would be accompanying her, as was only proper, but that they travelled without a retinue and would, as a result, not impose greatly upon the household. She hated to think of her childhood home in the sort of uproar that preceded the arrival of a dignitary, especially knowing how little her husband concerned himself with the mundane.

She shivered a little, realising that he would be joining her in her room once they arrived. Her husband beside her, beneath her father's roof. The idea shocked her, for the guarding of her chastity had been her chief duty, as the daughter of a nobleman; there had never been a man in her rooms for any reason, without at least two women present. Even her father had never visited her there, once her childhood was behind her, and now Rumpelstiltskin would be there, her rightful husband, and they would...

Sealing her letters in one, careful bundle, Belle blushed from her bosoms to her ears, unable to keep herself from picturing - so clearly - Rumpelstiltskin moving above her in that bed, while she writhed beneath him, a creature of lust. The heat of her blush trickled slowly downwards, too, and inflamed her elsewhere, and Belle prayed that her father would not be able to tell that his dutiful, sober-minded daughter had allowed marriage to make her _wanton_.

And wanton for Rumpelstiltskin, at that. Time and reason had softened her initial terror at the prospect of earning her father's disgust, but she could not imagine that her husband would share his determined gentleness with the world. Would he mock, and leer, and plant the seeds of suspicion in Sir Maurice that his daughter was being ill-used, as he had done on the day of the wedding? Would he play the monster, the beast, and leave her with no way to tell her father that she hoped to find _love_ in such a marriage?

Love. The word gave her churning thoughts something solid to pivot around. Her father had often told her that he hoped for her to find love, when she married, as he had. She thought, now, that he had said it to reassure her that such a thing was possible, and to reassure himself, for she knew that he entertained doubts about Gaston. Not about the match, the necessity and worthiness of it, but about the man, who fought bravely but unthinkingly, and wore his pride like another kind of armour. She _knew_ that Papa had thought him a young fool, and a hothead, and still he had reminded her that love could grow between husband and wife, even if they began as strangers. Could she love Rumpelstiltskin? She loved the mystery of him, and burned with a kind of passion for the sweet, unsure lover he'd proven to be. Was _that_ love, that her body craved his, while her heart craved his closeness and affection? If not love, then it had to be the fertile ground in which love might, one day, grow. Papa would want that for her, wouldn't he?

With what she had gleaned from books and gossips, Belle had imagined that love would feel like a glow of warmth in her chest; a giddy joy, a recklessness, an adventure. Could it be the stirrings of love that she felt when Rumpelstiltskin showed her a glimpse of his heart, or when they clung together when their pleasure was done and she yearned for them to stay that way forever? Had it been love that made her sick with fear when he was helpless and bleeding? She had known compassion for the wounded soldiers at home, and pity for their pain, and honour in being allowed to give them what little aid she could. Her concern for Rumpelstiltskin had been all-consuming. What wouldn't she have done, that dreadful night in the tower, if she thought it might ease his pain?

Certainly she _wanted_ to love her husband, but a person couldn't just make it happen by trying, by willing it. Could they?

Could Rumpelstiltskin ever love her? Belle didn't believe that he was black to the core, for she had seen otherwise. In his grief for his child, he had proven to her that he yet knew love, and yet had the heart for it. She thought... of course, she had no way of knowing for certain... but yes, she _thought_ that his desire was for her, his wife, for _Belle_ and not merely for an obliging bedmate. He thought her lovely, he gazed at her with that disbelieving wonder. Belle had understood, without knowing where she had learned such a thing, that men spoke unguardedly in a woman's bed; that flattery and declarations might be sincere only for those fleeting moments in a lover's arms. She thought Rumpelstiltskin's praise of her to be sincere, all the same, and that it was only shyness or reserve that kept him from speaking such words at other times. She liked to be called his treasure, and told that she was lovely. They were not words of love, perhaps, but of sincere feeling and appreciation.

Placing her sealed bundle of letters into the box, Belle gazed at them for a few moments before closing the lid. She could not be the first daughter to struggle with such thoughts; she would not be the last. She would be patient, and hopeful, and continue to be the best wife and the best daughter she was able. What else could she do?

Unable to resist the temptation, the sheer lure of not-knowing, Belle peeked inside the box. Her letter had gone. She smiled, both at her own silliness for checking and at the knowledge that, very soon, her father would know to expect her return. She hoped that it would put his mind at rest; that seeing her, Papa would be unable to doubt her assurances about her safety and contentment.

Already, Belle felt a pang of regret for sending Rumpelstiltskin away. She had done so with the hope that a little teasing, a little waiting, would heighten their enjoyment later, and encourage Rumpelstiltskin to find ways of courting her favour. It was only a game, but she found herself enjoying it less than she had hoped. She wanted to be in her husband's arms, and allow him to seek out and satisfy the itch that had begun in her when she thought about being with him. Did he feel it, too? He, of course, had already enjoyed his pleasure once, today. Would her game be turned about, and he the winner?

Such feelings left her flustered for the remainder of the afternoon, her body in want of something that she had denied herself, and her thoughts constantly returning to her husband. Understanding the source of her frustration made it more bearable than when she had first experienced such feelings, but did nothing to aid her in concentrating on her chores. Neither could she concentrate on reading, so she was both flustered and bored by the time she began to prepare their afternoon tea.

There was little enough to do, besides arranging the pastries on a plate and laying out the tea things. Belle enjoyed the little ritual of it, the appointment with Rumpelstiltskin, and that he obliged her at all when neither food nor conversation seemed of particular interest to him. But _she_ was of interest to him, and so he came to tea - the Spinner, all his terrible power banked, joining her for tea and pastries at three o'clock. The Spinner sweetened his cup with two lumps of finest sugar. The Spinner delicately used a napkin or a silken handkerchief to mop the corner of his mouth, when he had finished his tea. Who would believe _that_ , if she told them?

Waiting for him in her place at the kitchen table, to the right of his chosen seat at the head of it, Belle rested her chin in her cupped hands and stared at nothing. Who would believe that her husband made love so gently and so generously? Who would believe that he wasn't enraged when his painstaking spinning turned to dust at her careless touch? Who would believe that he loved a son so much that to speak of his memory brought tears to his eyes?

Wren, Belle thought, running her finger slowly around the rim of her empty teacup. Wren would believe all those things. Could she be the only person in the entire world to see beyond Rumpelstiltskin's self-perpetuated legend, besides Belle? The only one?

"You look so dismal, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, from the doorway, making Belle jump so hard that the crockery rattled on the table. "I thought that you might be happy, to be going home?"

As Belle made to rise, to greet him and to fetch the kettle, Rumpelstiltskin came up behind her chair and, gently, pressed her back down. Before she could protest, he fetched the kettle and filled the teapot himself before returning the kettle to the hearth.

"I am happy," she told him, while he poured. "I was thinking about how lonely you must have been here, that's all."

"Ah." His faint smile was indulgent, as he took his place. "There is the occasional visitor."

"Here?"

"Oh, yes." Rumpelstiltskin's smile became something less pleasant, as he reached for one of the fresh pastries. "Some come to deal, some come to slay me." He made a mock-stabbing motion at her with his chosen pastry. "A fool's errand, if ever there was one."

"Somebody came close," Belle reminded him, unhappy at his smugness about that.

"Not to killing me," Rumpelstiltskin said, making a dismissive gesture as he reached for the teapot. "And most who come here are heroes. They try it with chivalry, and a blade. It doesn't go well for them."

"And... what do you do to them?" Belle watched, fixedly, as he filled her cup with steaming tea. He spoke of being deathless, of defeating heroes, while he poured tea.

"I don't kill them," Rumpelstiltskin said, with a look of mock-hurt. "Most of them are in the garden, crawling about. Some are in the pond."

"Oh." She felt that she ought to be more shocked by that. She could feel nothing. Not shock at her husband's gruesome joviality, not pity for the men who had tried to slay him. Not impressed by Rumpelstiltskin's bravado, when only days ago he had been all but screaming with pain, helpless in her arms. "Shall I need to be careful where I step, then, come spring?"

"Might be best."

Belle thought that she should be angry, horrified, and telling her husband so, but she had only lost her appetite, while gaining a burden of unwelcome knowledge. Her husband had reminded her, even as they teased by the fireplace, that he was a dark sorcerer. He pretended to be nothing else. Those who challenged him might have been more fortunate had they died, but Rumpelstiltskin would not have sought them out. They had sought to slay him, and lost. Why did it seem cleaner to slay an enemy with a sword than to turn him into something humble, yet still-living? Belle had thought no less of Gaston or her father for returning from the battlefield dripping with blood and gore; had not thought at all of the slain among the attackers. But that night upon the town walls, while Rumpelstiltskin worked his spells to save it, Belle had thought to pity the ogres their fate then.

Rumpelstiltskin watched her, nibbling on a pastry with no more or less than his usual enthusiasm for meals.

"The people who come to make a deal," Belle said, trying to pull herself together. "How often do they come?"

"More often than the chivalrous fools," he said, refilling his teacup and sitting back with it cradled between his hands. "I make no secret of this place. No-one is prevented from approaching."

"Yet the people leave their gifts at the gate. Your own people don't come here?"

"Well, they know me better than most, but they'll come knocking if I'm truly needed. Nobody else in the world desires my company, dearie. You're all alone in that." The smile he flashed at her was suggestive, still playful. It didn't dampen his other appetites to speak of such things, then.

Realising that it had dampened her own somewhat, Belle felt like a traitor to him. Never had Rumpelstiltskin concealed his nature from her; never had he missed an opportunity to remind her of what he was, when he felt that she was losing sight of it. She had given him promise after promise, asked to know and understand him as well as any wife might hope to know her husband. And now that he was showing her this side of his nature without hesitation, telling her things that she did not wish to hear, she must keep those promises.

Truth, then, for she cared no less for him, knowing that she might step on a cursed knight-errant if she trod unwarily in the castle gardens. As with the prisoner who had seized her and paid with his life, it was Rumpelstiltskin's self-satisfaction that offended her sensibilities the most.

"I'd be sick, if I trod on somebody," she said, quietly. "I could never forgive myself. Please don't let that happen."

"...as you wish." His voice had lost the sneer of self-satisfaction, so she braved a glance at his face. Uncertainty was consuming his features, becoming an unhappy anxiety even as she watched. "You will tread without fear of a massacre underfoot, my dear. You have my word." Rumpelstiltskin gave the slightest of bows, not so much as rippling the surface of his tea.

"Thank you." Hearing her own relief, Belle realised the extent of it. She would have been afraid to set foot in the gardens, in future, had she not secured his promise! "None of the weeping maids are out there, are they?" she asked, suddenly remembering what he had said about his workroom, and cockroaches.

"I don't curse people for no good reason, treasure," her husband soothed, his nervousness edging towards that eerie little giggle of his. "When I tired of a servant's weeping, I sent her home and good riddance. With gold, if she managed to do any work while she was snivelling," he added, with more dignity. "And with no memory of what she saw here to keep her awake at nights. When a warrior comes to try and stick his sword in me, I get tetchy."

Shaking her head, Belle finally selected one of the pastries. They had been so appealing, back in Odstone, but now she picked at it without enthusiasm, and sipped her tea, aware all the while of Rumpelstiltskin's gaze upon her.

"I'll go to my room," she said, when she could manage to eat no more. "Make myself beautiful for you."

"That requires no effort on your part, my dear," he said, catching her hand as she rose from her chair. "May I not join you?"

"Have you decided, yet, how you're going to court me?" Belle had yearned for him ever since he left, and now she was yearning for a moment to herself, to think about what she had learned. It would be so easy to kiss him, to allow the pleasures of her marriage to push aside the dark truths, but sooner or later she would have to face them. Her husband, this man she hoped to love and be loved by, had done monstrous things. He would likely do them again.

"I admit that I don't know how," Rumpelstiltskin said, rising and keeping hold of her hand. "I've been trying to remember. I think I never knew."

He was so... so _sweet._ When he spoke that way, Belle wanted to gather him up in her arms and promise him the world. It was monstrous that a person should think themselves too hideous or too black-hearted for his advances to ever be welcome. How monstrous would it be if, having promised to be his faithful wife and fond lover too, she rejected him for a truth she had always known about him?

"Will you tell me, later, how you got your magic?" Gently, she brought his hand to her breast, gripping it, drawing it close to her with both hands. "What became of the father who was so afraid for dear Baelfire?"

Rumpelstiltskin looked pained for a moment, even irritated, but his fingers tightened in hers and he gave a taut nod.

"I gave my word."

To Belle's relief, to her shame, she had cooled his ardour with her request, just as he had cooled hers with his mention of his former enemies crawling about in the garden. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, closing her eyes. He'd given his word to tell her everything while in a state of near-delirium. How very easy it would have been for him to deny all memory of it, later. She gave the captive hand another kiss, her heart full of a different sort of passion. It was fierce and it wanted her husband protected, comforted.

"Later, then," she said, stealing a glance at his face before turning to go. He looked wary. Confused, as if he could not understand his own, meek obedience to her wishes. Belle felt ashamed of herself for using her influence so; for using his desire so. "An hour?"

"As you wish," Rumpelstiltskin said, weakly, and let go of her hand. As she reached the door, Belle heard him repeat, just quietly, "As you wish."


	39. Needful

A steaming hot bath was still a luxury that Belle relished. It did her good, she was sure, soaking away small discomforts and leaving her warmed through. She had indulged herself with a fragrant oil in the water, this time, which left her skin soft and her whole body feeling wonderful. She shivered, slipping on her blue nightgown, aware of the way the cool silk tickled her skin as it fell around her. Lacing it closed with one of her old ribbons, a wide lemon coloured one that was soft from endless use, Belle tied a prim, tight little bow at the neck, and momentarily wished that she had a mirror so that she could see what Rumpelstiltskin would see.

Although she had become used to fastening up her hair without a mirror, she would have liked to try a more elaborate style tonight, and could not begin to do so without one. She settled, instead, for a thorough brushing, and allowing the damp ends of her hair to curl as they dried, bound in a simple, loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She used a new velvet ribbon for that, a rich plum colour, winding it around a few times before securing it with another bow.

Belle felt a little wicked, still, readying herself for Rumpelstiltskin this way, but it was a feeling that she was learning to enjoy. She had thought very little about her own body, other than during the period of rapid change a few years back; other than cleaning it and clothing it, she paid it little mind. Now she was learning to delight in it, for her own sake as well as for her husband's. From the whisper of silk against her slightly-damp skin to the pile of the carpet beneath her bare feet, Belle enjoyed _feeling_ so much. Did all new wives experience such an awakening to themselves, or was it through her husband's tender care that such sensations had flourished in her?

What else could she do to make ready? It was too early yet to close the curtains, the winter sky dull but not quite dark on a blustery afternoon. Candles had lit the room when she entered, as usual, but she could not bring herself to shut out what little daylight remained. Belle turned back the bedclothes, invitingly, and piled up the pillows the way Rumpelstiltskin liked, right in the middle. She would not have him doubt his welcome, either in her bed or in her arms, and if he wished to be with her before he kept his promise then she would accept him gladly. She thought that he found it easier to speak to her, then; it made him less guarded, less nervous and, perhaps, somewhat resigned to going out of his way to please her.

Rumpelstiltskin had never intended to reveal so much of himself to his new wife. Belle knew that. She had opened his eyes to the possibility of a true marriage, of trust and companionship, just as he had opened hers to a world of shared delights and laughter. Until now, she had not understood, herself, quite how much of his trust she was demanding. What if he told her something about his past, about himself, so terrible that she could not keep her promise? Better that than not to know the truth, she thought. Better for _her_ , but Rumpelstiltskin might have reason to keep her in happy ignorance. He feared her contempt, this man who had the power to rule the world; he prized her acceptance, even craved it. Could they strike a balance, there? Had her promises been reckless?

Her confusion only heightened when, hearing his footsteps on the staircase, her heart quickened. Was that desire, or was she nervous about what she might learn? Was it both, intermingled? Unable to find a place to settle herself, to pretend that she had waited calmly for his arrival, Belle simply stood behind the fireside chair, grasping its back, and listened to the sound of his tread. Still heavier than normal, still bothered by the leg even if he said there was no pain. And she had meant to wait until he was well before demanding the answers to her questions; before demanding her _price._ Oh dear...

Outside her door, Rumpelstiltskin hesitated for so long that Belle's palms began to sweat where she gripped the chair so tightly, and she held her breath, listening, but then he knocked, and she breathed again.

"Come in." She had bid him wait for her to make herself beautiful - of _course_ he would not enter without her leave. Leave given, he entered at once, quietly, and gazed at her from beside the door, his expression quite unreadable.

"You have achieved the impossible, my dear," he said, just as Belle drew breath to speak. "Made yourself even more beautiful." The compliment came with a nervous little smile, and Belle remembered that he claimed to be unfamiliar with courtship. He seemed genuinely uncertain as to whether such words would meet with her approval, and the best response that Belle could manage was a flaming blush that must have turned her ears the colour of beetroot!

"Thank you," she said, remembering herself, and smiling through her blushes. "Flattery is a very good start, when courting a lady."

Rumpelstiltskin looked relieved.

"I... had not wanted you to think that I chose you for that alone," he confessed, gaze dropping to the toes of his boots. "I did not."

"Then I'm glad my husband values more in a woman than her beauty," Belle said, holding out both her hands to him. "And glad that he finds me beautiful."

He had taken to wearing a well-tailored, ankle-length robe over his usual attire, since he had been unwell, and to tying a fine silk cloth about his neck, too. When he took her hands, Belle felt how chilled he was, and thought of how drawn he had been to the fireplaces in recent days. He _looked_ well enough, if somewhat weary, but she needed no knowledge of his past or of his secrets to know that he was concealing more than a troublesome old injury.

"You're cold," she said, reaching around his waist and settling her head carefully against his shoulder, for his stiff collars made it difficult to simply hug him as she would have liked. Rumpelstiltskin's hands fluttered hesitantly at her back for a few moments before he clasped her, chastely, his palms beneath her shoulder blades.

"Much better," he said, after a few moments, even though she could have made barely any difference through his layers of clothing. "Is the young maiden not meant to resist her suitor a little harder than that?"

"Well," Belle said, lifting her head and smiling up at him. "I'm no maiden."

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin lifted her, smiling at her exclamation of surprise. However out of sorts he might be feeling, her weight did not trouble him in the slightest; he arranged himself in the fireside chair and lowered her gently to his lap, supporting her easily with his left arm rather than allowing her to seat herself properly.

"A chair by the fire," he said, capturing her hand as she tried a mild-mannered swat of protest. "A willing audience, and a story to tell." He brought the captive hand to his lips, kissing it lightly. "A promise to keep, come what may."

Slowly, he righted her in his lap and let her make herself comfortable. The kitchen chairs were more accommodating than this one, with its scrolling arms, but fond memories alone would have kept Belle there, where he had first shown her how to find their pleasure. He would not be comfortable, telling her his story, so she need not be comfortable while she listened. It was only fair. She folded her hands in her lap, modestly ignoring the pleasant pressure of his thigh beneath her bottom, and looked attentive.

Rumpelstiltskin looked bleak.

"When they were about to take him from me," he began, too quietly, and cleared his throat. "When they were about to take my son away, I took him in the night. Tried to run, though we'd nowhere to go. The war with the ogres was on three sides, by then, and all the lands in the other direction were the Duke's. His men were everywhere, and the Dark One's magic had us all in fear. He served the Duke and seemed to see everything. But we were nothing and nobody, me and my boy, I thought we'd lose ourselves somehow. Not be noticed." Rumpelstiltskin was silent a while, visibly steeling himself to tell her more. "Fine young boys like my Bae, they were getting rare. They were always noticed. He was turning fourteen," Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice hardening and his body tensing with remembered anger. "Boy or girl, skilled or imbecile, it made no difference. The law said all must fight."

Belle shook her head, remembering how her father had dragged - with his own two hands, _dragged_ boys too young from the battle lines and sent them home, shouting at them to guard their mothers and younger siblings because they'd find no adventure, no glory, in war. A warrior needed size, strength and skill to stand the least chance against a single ogre. A war could not be won simply by making up the numbers at the front lines.

"Ogres again," she said, and caught her husband's eye. "It's true then, they always attack when they repopulate enough to overrun their own lands?"

"As do men," Rumpelstiltskin said, rather sharply, and then remembered to whom he spoke, or perhaps the reason why, and nodded, relaxing somewhat. "And men defeat them, because men have strategy as well as strength, but it costs a generation. More, when we fought. I fought..." there, Rumpelstiltskin took a shaken breath, licking his lips, and Belle tried not to think of him up to his knees in blood, and frightened for his life. The recent war was too fresh in her mind, though, and she could imagine all too clearly the mud, the blood and the terror. "Bae was to fight. I couldn't have that. I couldn't." Agitation crept in again, as Rumpelstiltskin spoke - he sounded as if he pleaded with her for the world to show some mercy, some reason. Had time not softened his memories at all? How she longed to comfort him, but Belle knew that she must listen. "So I stole him away, but we were caught. Driven back." Turning his head as far as he could, Rumpelstiltskin hid much of his face in Belle's shadow. She was sure that it was no accident, for she had seen his expression just before he looked away, so twisted with misery. "A beggar man we'd met on the road helped us home, told me that if I wanted the power to keep Bae safe then I must control the Dark One, or slay him and take his power for myself. He even told me how. So generous." Very faintly, Belle heard his eerie, high-pitched and humourless laugh. "I listened, I killed the Dark One, not knowing that I did him a mercy until he laughed with his dying breath, and mocked me for a fool." Taking a deep breath and sighing it away, Rumpelstiltskin gripped the arms of the chair. His words became clipped and cool. "That's how I came by magic, little wife. I made a deal that I did not understand. I took something without first asking the price. I killed for it."

"He wanted to die," Belle said, quietly. "Rather than bear this power." She closed her eyes. "The beggar man tricked you. He _was_ the Dark One, and he used you to end it because there was no other way."

Rumpelstiltskin snorted. His face remained in shadow, but she could see that he closed his eyes.

"You know your songs and stories, my dear," he said, bitterly. "You know that the old beggar will always repay you in the end."

 _Yes_ , Belle thought, mouth dry, and what she knew were the stories about _him_. Sly deals, desperate souls and heavy prices - his very _name_ a caution. _Rumpelstiltskin._ But there had been a time before him, and a bearer of this dreadful title before him, and a reason. At least a _reason_ that she could understand.

"You did it for your son," she said, but hoarsely, and while resisting the urge to curl up where she sat, because she sat in Rumpelstiltskin's _lap_ , and she was _frightened._ She knew that he had told her only a part of the truth, as before, and knew now that she dared not ask for the rest. To know would be to know how to end him, even how to steal his power, even to know how he might be _controlled_ , and how could he ever trust her if she knew that? Whatever fondness or regard he had for her, he could not value it more than his _life_. "I... I'll never ask," she said, her heart pounding away so hard that she thought he must be able to hear it. "But now I know that you can die, after all. No-one knows that."

"The knowledge is not yours alone," he said, straightening himself and staring at her, frowning, as though he had only just that second noticed her terror. "And of those that know it, I trust you alone to keep it close. You didn't make a deal that you didn't understand, did you, treasure?" Sitting forward a little, catching her waist with his left arm and touching her chin with his right hand, Rumpelstiltskin narrowed his eyes and seemed to stare into her very mind. The hypnotic sing-song was in his voice, deftly weaving a thread of danger through softly-spoken questions. "You gave all, on your word to become my wife, didn't you? Everything, and forever, when we sealed our contract in blood?"

"Yes," Belle whispered, tightening her body in the effort of not trembling. Her left hand closed into a fist as she remembered the ring there. He had given her back her blood; he had known what it was that he took from her that night, and that it was freely given. She had given herself to him, to all that he might prove to be and to anything she might learn to be true about him. To the lonely castle, the reluctant lover, the scaly skin, the sour moods, the empty cradle and to any dark secret he entrusted to her. "I understood." Why didn't he blink? Could he see her thoughts, read her heart like the page of a book? "I'll never ask. I... I don't ever want to know how someone could destroy you or control you. Please."

Did she ask that for his sake, or to appease her own terror of what would surely happen if she ever knew? Belle felt sick, and turned away from him with her hand over her mouth, fighting for a steady breath that would not come.

Rumpelstiltskin grasped her waist, helped her to rise, and did not keep her from stepping away from him to brace herself with one hand against the heavy stone mantel. He stayed where he was, standing before the chair, beginning to fidget while he waited for Belle to compose herself.

"I... I have some of his memories," Rumpelstiltskin said, when Belle's breathing and heartbeat no longer deafened her. "Him, the ones who went before. _Lifetimes_ of my own," he added, the word all but a groan, and Belle could feel the weight of it just hearing him speak of it; the crushing burden of being ageless, and of _remembering_. "I've only known one other brave enough to face me. Truly face me. One other, besides you, Belle. Please."

Slowly absorbing his words, Belle dared a glance over her shoulder and saw that his hand was outstretched, his face full of anguish. Her pride giving way to an all over trembling, and her terror to relief that her husband was still her husband, Belle took his hand in both of hers. After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin added his other hand as well, atop the pile, and bowed his head while his fingers caressed her ring.

"Wh-who was the other?" she asked, through chattering teeth, but as she said it, she simply knew. Perhaps because he flinched, his hands locked with hers, or perhaps because she truly did know those cruel stories that told how the world played its tricks. "Your son," she croaked.

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, wretched, and Belle's compassion overruled her fear; her heart overruled her head. She freed her right hand and placed it against his cheek, watching him turn his head slightly to meet it, his eyes tight shut. "You could try not being so _frightening_ ," she said, and realised that she had scolded, and had to fight her own incredulous laughter. He only blinked his eyes open and stared at her, affronted.

"I'm the Dark One, dearie," he said, exasperated. "I can't take it off like a cloak when I tire of it. I think I just told you that."

"Oh, you _enjoy_ frightening people," she said, and gave him a hard, quick kiss on the mouth before he could muster a response to that. "Whatever else is a burden, you enjoy being able to frighten people half to death just by saying 'boo' to them. Admit it."

Sheepish, he pulled a face, his nose wrinkling slightly.

"A little, perhaps," he allowed. "Everyone needs a hobby."

"Hmm." Belle studied his face in the firelight, trying to decide how much of his contrition was feigned. Most of it, she thought, because he was almost smiling, and would not meet her gaze even when she ducked her head in the effort of catching it. "I think that if I had the memories of many mortal lifetimes, and the knowledge from a castle filled with books, I might find something more productive to do with them."

"I'm sure that you would, my dear." Rumpelstiltskin hesitated before giving her a kiss on the cheek, and turning to go.

"What... you're not leaving?" Belle put her hand to her heart, so buffeted by her emotions, by now, that she was almost numb to everything except the way her heartbeat pounded. Rumpelstiltskin stopped, halfway to her door, and did not turn. "You don't think that I _want_ you to go?"

"Even I don't find murder titillating," he replied, so quietly that she might have failed to recognise that razor-thin edge of danger in his tone, had she not heard it so recently. "Even I, mistress. Do you? I have many such stories. So many. Will you hear how the blood felt, on my hands? Will that excite you?"

Belle gawked. Her nurses had accused her of doing it quite often, as a child, and Belle had denied it. Now, she gawked, well and truly _gawked_ at her husband's rigid back.

"I'll hear anything that you want to say to me," she managed, just as he gave a self-satisfied nod and began again towards the door. "And if it leaves me cold, if I cannot bear what you tell me or bear to kiss you afterwards, I'll _still_ lie beside you while we sleep. You have more than my blind promise," she half shouted, feeling that he was barely listening to her. "You have my _loyalty!_ "

"I know," Rumpelstiltskin said, his hand falling back to his side instead of turning the door handle. "I'd not impose upon it. Upon you." He spoke so quietly that it tamed Belle's sudden flash of temper. She had not allowed herself to consider that his reasons for behaving as he did might be... well, as considered as her own. As selfless and as selfish as her own. She asked a great deal of a man who had spent much of his life alone, pleasing no-one but himself. And they were married but a month, yet. She should allow him to ask much of her, in return.

"If I promise to tell you if you begin imposing," she said, her voice unsteady but her steps towards him not so, "will you stay?" She took him by the elbow, uncertain that her touch would be welcome, but Rumpelstiltskin pulled her tightly against his chest and crushed her there, his face buried in her hair.

"Belle." Holding her too tightly, Rumpelstiltskin responded to her gentle push and loosened his arms, allowing her to breathe again. "Why won't you let me protect you from these things?" It wasn't really a question, she thought; nor was it a plea, or a protest. He simply sighed the words into her hair, shaking his head slightly.

"Why do men always think women need to be protected from everything?" Belle prodded his ribs, as hard as she could through so many layers of clothing. Her words were rather muffled, still. "We don't, you know. We're not frail little blossoms, us wives." Belle thought of the girls she'd known, the childhood friends who had wilted within a year of marriage, as though starved of all that fed their spirit. "Not all of us."

"I never thought otherwise, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin protested, gently grasping her shoulders and setting her away from him, frowning. "A man envies a woman's strength, I assure you."

Ridiculously pleased, even if the statement was so sweeping as to be utterly absurd, Belle smiled at him. He found no answering smile for her, grim-faced and heavy-eyed, but met her when she offered herself for a kiss. How foolish would she have felt, had he turned away? Belle allowed him to lead her, and found that he kissed her with a kind of urgency; short, shallow little kisses, Rumpelstiltskin breathless. She was still learning to recognise his moods, but did not think that this was desire. Not physical desire, with the urgency of the body, of wanting to be between her legs, but something else. The urgency of a drowning man flailing for a rope, perhaps. Of needing her?

Gods, but that found out her weaknesses! Belle hated to be foolish, but knew that she could become a fool for Rumpelstiltskin, if he gave her too many of these candid glimpses of his heart. They reached past all sense in her, latching on to something deep inside, and it was almost painful to _feel_ so for another. _With_ another. Did Rumpelstiltskin feel it as well, this tugging inside, this yearning to be closer? When he sought to protect her from something that she wished he would not, did he only wish to feel needed?

"You're still cold," she whispered, when his hand found the bare skin at the back of her neck, making her shiver. He was clammy. "You're not well, I know you're not."

"Well enough," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, trying to kiss her again. Belle pulled him towards the bed, instead, her thoughts more of warmth than of wantonness. Warmth, food and rest were cures that she trusted, better than any medicine or magic. Some aspects of marriage she might be unclear about, but looking after her husband's interests was not one of those. Rumpelstiltskin watched her, expression frozen, as she set to work on the buttons of his long coat.

When her fingers were at the level of his hips, it dawned on Belle that she was shooing the most powerful man in the world into bed, just as she would an overtired child.

"You asked for my arms," she reminded him, deciding to put a brave face on it, as she bent to see to the lower buttons. "My arms you shall have."

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, though it was more a question than anything. At least her persistence was not irritating him. Belle's own father would drop unconscious where he stood before admitting to illness or injury, and become very irritated indeed if Belle pestered him with it. No-one liked to admit weakness, she could understand that, but all that she knew of Rumpelstiltskin told her that if he did not stay with her, he would spend tonight in that turret, no doubt further exhausting his reserves with magic.

She did not want to think what he might be like to live with if he caught a chill.

Rumpelstiltskin's misery, for the moment, was not sullenness or resentment. He watched her begin anew with the layer beneath the coat, his waistcoat, and only caught her hands when she reached for the buttons of the brown silk beneath that.

"We'll save this performance for another time, if you don't mind," he said. It was not a request, nor an apology, and as such it startled her; Rumpelstiltskin had made her the mistress of their bedchamber from the very beginning, pleading rather than refusing if he felt unable to meet her wishes. His hands were firm around hers, awaiting her assent.

"All right. I'm sorry," Belle said, disturbed. Perhaps she had gone too far, treating him as though he did not know his own mind? She had only wanted to comfort him, and to prove her words with actions. To keep him safe where she could see him. "Will you come to bed?"

"Yes." Releasing her, Rumpelstiltskin sat on the bed, heavily, as though too tired to continue standing. "In a moment," he said, when Belle continued to stand before him, unable to think what to do except fret. He waved his fingers towards the pillows, the turned back bedclothes, and Belle followed the gesture, crawling to the far side of the stacked pillows to leave room for Rumpelstiltskin to follow after her.

When she was settled, she looked back to see her husband drinking deeply from his silver flask before tucking it back beneath his coat and then, as he got to his feet, there was the thought-distorting shimmer of magic around his clothing, something that Belle perceived as an oily smoke, and Rumpelstiltskin wore a nightgown instead. She crossly ignored her disappointment that the gown was a white one, and that it fell well beneath Rumpelstiltskin's knees. She could not very well ask him to change it for the roomy black one that she preferred - perhaps he found this one warmer, or more comfortable?

Rumpelstiltskin joined her. Even through the sleeve of his gown she could feel that his skin was too cool, and was thankful when he arranged them both against the pillows and had her lie on him, her leg over his, half using her for his blanket while he became her pillow.

He breathed too fast - felt stiff and upset beneath her, and Belle was almost too afraid to try a soothing caress. When she dared, rubbing hopefully at his right arm above the elbow, Rumpelstiltskin kissed the top of her head as though grateful for the gesture of reconciliation. For their cross purposes about undressing, or for his dark story? Belle kept herself from asking.

"Thoughts of the past do not leave me in the best of moods," he said, when they had been still for a while. "Those least of all."

"Of course," Belle said, quickly, gratefully. The revelations had done little for her own mood, and she had not the memories to bear, nor the dreadful power that once caused its bearer to seek death rather than continue on. "I ask too many questions. Everybody says so."

"Everyone asks questions," Rumpelstiltskin said, drawing her ponytail through his loose fist, his words becoming less stilted. "I've yet to discover what witchcraft or wifely power you're using to make me answer them."

"Maybe you want to stop being lonely," Belle offered, reasonably. "Have somebody to talk to, at last." He was growing warmer, beneath her weight, but she could not cover all of him. With one hand, she tugged up the blankets and arranged the sheepskin across the shoulder that she was not occupying. "Someone to make a fuss over you."

Rumpelstiltskin made a noncommittal grunt, and drew her ponytail over her shoulder so that he could reach it with his right hand.

"You're looking forward to seeing your father?"

"Oh, yes." Belle smiled, resuming her idle rubbing of his arm beneath the sheepskin. She enjoyed how the silk felt, now that he was warm. "And the rebuilding, and the streets full of traders and entertainers again."

"King George must tax such prosperity heavily?"

Belle frowned. It seemed an everyday sort of question, but what a strange one while they lay in bed together, all cuddles and caresses!

"Of course. More now, I expect. The war has taken its toll across many provinces."

"And King George is eager to see his kingdom grow. A king can never have too much gold." Speaking thoughtfully, Rumpelstiltskin tickled Belle's ear with a clump of her own hair, held between his fingertips like a paintbrush. "How many of the king's troops fought with you?"

"Two hundred," Belle said. It was conversation, she supposed, and it was certainly the first time that Rumpelstiltskin had shown a real interest in her homeland. She had assumed that, thanks to his power and influence, her husband knew everything there was to know about the politics of the kingdoms. "Good men, to train others, to lead them. A hundred more from the Duke - Gaston's father."

"And his price?"

"What?" Belle tried to lift herself, to look at her husband's face, but Rumpelstiltskin soothed her to be still. "Defence of the realm is the king's chief duty," she said, bemused, huffing out a breath of annoyance at being restrained. "He spared us all the men he could, to keep the trade routes open to the sea. That would have been to everyone's benefit."

"Of course." And, with that, Rumpelstiltskin seemed to feel that he had asked enough. He resumed his gentle play with Belle's hair, while Belle listened to his oddly fast heartbeat and enjoyed the simplicity of just... being with him.

It might have been nice to sit beside him, reading, or to wordlessly share a tray of tea and cakes. When he sought to excite her, and she him, it left no space for... this. They had found it while he lay ill in her bed; perhaps even in the turret, that horrible first night when she cradled him in her lap. It was tolerance, affection, practicality and duty all bound up together; the way they shifted to accommodate one another's comfort, the way Belle permitted him to use her hair in place of his string puzzles or his spinning, the sharing of body warmth, whether for his uncanny chill or her forever-cold feet. It seemed right, for husband and wife to be so, just as their pleasure in each other had seemed right. Contented, and bursting to express it, Belle turned her head enough to kiss his chest - once, twice.

"Forgive your husband," Rumpelstiltskin said, sounding nervous. "No appetite for your favours, after all."

This time, he did not keep Belle from lifting herself to look at him. She touched his cheek, touched that he would make an apology of it; she was quite sure that he would never expect one of her, if she wished to refuse him for any reason. She would not be offended that he lacked desire when he plainly felt unwell, nor when thoughts of the past distressed him!

"Your wife can be patient," she smiled, but the smile was sad, her heart too full of the things he had said to her. "I think your wife has been spoiled, in fact," she went on, mischief giving her smile a little more heart. "So much pleasure. I've not had to do without."

Rumpelstiltskin brightened visibly, at that, and touched her cheek in return, studying her eyes. His pupils were large, his words an effort, and Belle could smell the combination of harsh spirits and her poppy medicine on him. His flask? She hoped very much that he had measured out a dose with care, when filling it.

"I remember those other lives," he said, his thumb stroking across her lips. "What it was like to... to simply _take_. I am not those men, though I am the Dark One. If I am to have a woman, have a wife, then she will be worshipped. Her word will be law. Her pleasure everything to me." He lifted her chin, very gently. "The monster will never have you, my dear."

Belle gave him a kiss, hesitantly, and felt Rumpelstiltskin move his hands behind her to rub her back through the thin silk. He wanted to kiss her, at least - that same hunger as before, and Belle tried to keep her mind on that, on that need of his that she didn't yet understand, rather than allow the sensation of being kissed to inflame her desire.

She knew that couples kissed before marriage, and that no sensible girl allowed it to become more than kissing until her wedding night. There had to be a satisfaction in kissing alone, then, or it would simply be a torment of waiting and aching. Belle looked for it, that satisfaction, in the slow rhythm of their kissing, but she had nothing to caution her; her desires, her growing wetness, her ache - it was all quite lawful, and even if it were not then there would be no child if she followed her desires. Did she simply lack self-discipline, she wondered, trying to keep herself from making pathetic sounds while he caressed and kissed her, or had she indeed been spoiled too much by an over-indulgent husband?

Gods, what would he think of her? Belle braced her hands against Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders and pushed herself away from the temptation of his mouth. He had _told_ her that his tale had left him cold; told her that he had no appetite for her tonight. He only wanted to kiss with her, to have innocent play with her, to feel her affection, and she was filling with such selfish lust!

Rumpelstiltskin's sudden, filthy grin at her expression did nothing for her self-respect.

"Wanton little wife," he crooned, and pinched her nipple. Knowing that she deserved his teasing, at the very least, Belle bit her lip and did not protest. "Desire darkens the blue of your eyes," he said, fingertip circling her nipple while he watched her - watched her eyes, his own drowsy and full of fondness. "It's quite lovely. You flush, here." He trailed a sharp nail across her collarbone, then returned his teasing fingers to her nipple, pulling and playing. "A little magic and I could fuck you," he said, scandalising her with a word that she had only ever heard by being somewhere that she should not have been. The way her jaw dropped seemed only to encourage him. "Shall I get it hard for you with magic, treasure, and fuck my little wanton wife before I sleep?"

Belle meant to scold him, tell him to stop being revolting, but all that she could manage was to whisper "Oh, gods," and tremble above him like a sapling in a stiff breeze, because whatever he called it, she wished that he would do it.

"Or will my fingers satisfy you enough, hmm?" It delighted him to have her in such a state so very easily, she could see that. At least he wasn't annoyed that she had disregarded his wishes, or that she could not simply give herself to a kiss, to being cherished, without becoming... needful.

"You don't need to do anything," she managed, but it felt like such a terrible lie. "I can be patient."

"I'll not have my treasure wanting," Rumpelstiltskin said, moving them both until she was astride him. "A husband has his pride, mistress."

Furious with herself, and heated even by that, Belle let him pull her down for a kiss that was far less gentle than before. He meant to see to her pleasure, and selfish need seduced her away from her guilt. Besides, she knew that her desire gave him satisfaction of another kind - proof of her words, written in the way her body responded to him. Words could lie, but surely these helpless yearnings could not? She could not will moisture to happen between her legs, and she had never even imagined what pleasure was possible between man and wife - could not have known enough to pretend. He could not doubt her, when she was eager, or when she came.

Overheated, alarmed by her loss of poise, Belle did whimper when Rumpelstiltskin pulled off her nightgown. He paid no attention to the ribbon, other than to loosen it enough to let her out, and raised the gown without warning, leaving her to remove her arms as quickly as possible if she wished to return to kissing her husband.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, his eerie, birdlike twitter of a laugh, as he threw aside her gown and tugged her firmly against his groin. His delight was a little cruel, a little bit at her expense, but Belle trusted his promise. The _monster_ would not have her, even if he slipped vulgarity and mischief into the proceedings, shocking her. The shock was exciting. His lips felt like fire against hers, when he allowed her to meet them, and she rubbed herself against him through his gown, feeling him harden. Did he need magic, to oblige her in that, or had her wantonness excited him? She didn't care, not now, and when Rumpelstiltskin threw back his head and laughed again, it was the deep throated laugh of a man, warm with a lover's delight.

"What a wife you are," he said, arching luxuriously beneath her and, as he relaxed again into his nest of pillows, making his nightgown simply vanish. Belle felt the magic whisper against her, right there between her legs, and went weak all over, hardly knowing it when he put his hand there too, guiding the head of his cock home. She knew _that_ well enough - the sudden, wonderful pressure of fullness, and moaned, feeling herself tighten in urgent welcome. "Not even any magic, and look, your husband is quite recovered."

Unable to speak, or even to persuade her body to move as she wished it would, Belle managed to lift her head and stare at him, hoping that he could understand her need. Laughter made him youthful, softening all the lines, and she smiled, her own jerky laughter a release, until he lifted his hips to push deeper inside, and she lost all control of her expression as well. She couldn't bear it, but knew that she would; the conflict was maddening, and Rumpelstiltskin guided her hips with firm hands until her body remembered how to do this without his prompting; to ride on him, to slip him shallower then deeper, to rub, to rock, to forget herself and her thoughts of what should be, and just enjoy the pursuit of pleasure with him.

Rumpelstiltskin spoke to her, the whole while. He had no demands of his own, save to toy with her breasts or bring her down to him for the occasional, crude kiss. He encouraged her to use him as she would, called her wanton when she did just that, and wove his voice into the selfish rhythm of her pleasure until she shuddered with it, moaning her relief at coming. He said her name, and praised her beauty, and whispered how good it felt to _fuck_ her while she came.

Was it twice or three times that her body found that shuddering peak, before Rumpelstiltskin joined her there? Belle was aching from the effort of moving, moving; had forgotten how it felt to catch a full breath, or to think a rational thought, but managed to be aware enough to move faster for Rumpelstiltskin's pleasure, when it finally came, his hands urging her with ungentle tugs that would surely leave her hips bruised. She had never heard him cry out so, or so many times, or known him to be less gentle in satisfying himself. It was _wonderful_.

"Enough, treasure?" he panted, clutching her close to his chest, his hands slipping against her damp, hot back. Belle felt exhausted, yet not _sated_ , and was too ashamed to admit to that, so she kissed his throat instead, seeking any sensation she could find. He tasted of salt, and very slightly of her medicine. "Was any husband ever so fortunate?" he asked, flipping her onto her back and staring down at her with a fever in his eyes. Had she been in her right mind, Belle might have been alarmed by it, but her right mind had little say when his right hand burrowed between her thighs and Rumpelstiltskin kissed her, hard, over and over again until she whimpered her final pleasure into his very mouth, clawing at his back.

"Enough," she panted, when she could, and groaned with relief when he withdrew his fingers from her. She had reached that point where more felt impossible, her body numb from the shocks, her limbs weak and shaking. "I want you so much," she whispered, like the confession of a terrible sin, and felt tears slip down her temples and into her hair. "I don't understand, I can't..."

Left and then right, Rumpelstiltskin kissed away the hot tracks of her tears, and then kissed her mouth, tongue teasing hers to a final, feeble attempt to kiss properly. He seemed as exhausted as she, his body trembling as much as hers, and he was no more able to muster a good kiss than Belle.

"I don't understand either, treasure," he said, his voice unsteady. "How you could want a thing like me. Let me be grateful. I'd trade you the world for that."

Hardly able to think, let alone move, Belle managed to lift her hand and bury it in the damp hair at the back of his neck, drawing his head to her shoulder.

"I don't want the world, silly," she said, slurring the words in spite of her best effort. "Just my husband."

Nothing less than concern for him could have moved Belle, after that - not even if it meant sleeping the night with his dead weight half on her. When Rumpelstiltskin began to shiver, Belle nudged him off her and persuaded him beneath the bedclothes. He pulled her close, as though fearing she planned to abandon him should he let her go, and Belle held him tightly until his shivers passed and the warmth of her body had passed to him, too. He was asleep, by then, and no longer clutching at her as if he feared she might flee in the night.

After that, she felt nothing but a pleasant, dreamy numbness, and the welcome weight of her husband beside her.


	40. The Winter Rose

Having slept too early, Belle was awake too early as well, and not surprised to find herself alone. She took comfort from the fact that Rumpelstiltskin had taken pains to tuck her in warmly before leaving her. As soon as she got out of bed, a few of the candles sparked to life, revealing the single red rose that occupied his empty place beside her.

Reaching for it, grasping the tall stem with care and bringing the bloom to her face to enjoy its subtle scent, Belle smiled. Rumpelstiltskin might claim to know nothing of courtship, but he had a talent for unspoken apologies, for gestures that melted her no less than passionate declarations. Had he brought her the rose from far away, or conjured it into being just for her? As wary as she was of magic, she could not help but be thrilled with the gift. It would need a vase and some water just as soon as she was washed and dressed. She would find it pride of place somewhere, and give her husband a kiss. Yes, definitely a kiss.

Aching from the night, feeling bruised where he had dug his fingers into her flesh, Belle allowed herself another bath. She washed her hair properly, as well, meaning to let it curl as it dried and then decorate it with ribbon. She might not be able to gift Rumpelstiltskin with a magical rose, but she could achieve something that was certain to catch his eye, and his interest.

He would be in his laboratory, of course, busy trying to catch the evaporating traces of the magic that had harmed him. Some part of Belle hoped that he would fail, because if he succeeded then he would be vengeful, and she wanted him to stay as far away as possible from anyone with the power to hurt him. That was both loyal and disloyal at once, and left her too confused to really indulge herself in her bathtub. She needed to be busy.

Her shortened blue dress had rapidly become her favourite to wear. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin didn't mind the sight of her woolly winter stockings pushed into the ruined white slippers that belonged with her wedding dress. While it was delightful that he thought her too beautiful for any improvement to be possible, she had not forgotten how he enjoyed seeing her in the gold dress, with her shoulders bare and her bodice cinched tightly enough to accentuate her hips. As a concession to effort, Belle carefully took out her mother's pendant, and the gold bracelet that Rumpelstiltskin had made for her from his gold thread. They were too fine for such a dress, but if it pleased him to give her jewels then she thought it would please him to see her wear them, at least sometimes. Something told her that his heart would be heavy, today, if he had been unable to sleep the night beside her. Their passion for one another could not drown out his awful memories for long, and telling his story had upset him.

It was good that she began to know him so well, Belle decided, preferring that thought to dwelling on his pain. She had begun to know how to reassure him, as well, and ignored her growling belly in favour of trudging up to the turret, carefully carrying her rose. It was an unreasonably perfect specimen, she noticed, as the lit passages allowed her to study it better. The bud was just open, the petals soft and lush, and the stem free of the smaller thorns that would catch a hand unawares. The scent was slight, but perfect also, bringing to mind not only a rose but a walk on a warm afternoon in an entire _garden_ of rosebushes. She had the flower against her lips as she reached the top of the winding stairs, and looked for Rumpelstiltskin among the busy assortment of new furniture.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" She could hear him moving somewhere behind the new shelving, perhaps dragging something heavy along the ground. "Hello?"

"Belle." He sounded slightly breathless, emerging with a long wooden crate in his arms and his long brocade coat streaked with grey dust. She smiled at the sight of him, not yet having seen him apply physical effort to achieve what magic could do for him instead. Did he only do it for show, to impress her? Or was it what he had said about magic interfering with other magic, up here? Or was he avoiding magic as much as he could, because he was still tired?

"Good morning," she said, unintentionally coquettish as she displayed her rose, twirling the stem to tickle her lips with the petals. "Thank you for the rose."

Rumpelstiltskin busied himself by carrying the box to one of the few empty spaces on his work benches, but Belle could see the smile trying to be born, and the blush as well. She wondered how deeply he might have flushed had he given her the rose in person.

"I could not sleep," he said, waving his hand distractedly. "Didn't want you to... it's a trifle," he concluded, but Belle had seen his pleasure, and smiled herself as she went to join him. When he pulled the lid from the rough crate, she saw that it was filled with straw and wool, protecting yet another of his intricate brass and glass instruments.

Belle had to insinuate herself between Rumpelstiltskin and the table, to win her kiss, but his exasperation was extremely mild. His kiss, on the other hand, was very gentle and welcoming and left Belle gazing foolishly up at him, hypnotised by her own depth of emotion and by his expression.

"You stand between a wizard and his magic, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, but regretfully enough that Belle believed him truly sorry. He would much prefer to keep on kissing his wife than to do whatever it was he was doing. That knowledge was almost as satisfying as a kiss itself.

"And you between a hungry woman and her breakfast," she said, certain, in that moment, that she could have seduced him back to her bed with only the slightest of efforts. Perhaps not even back to bed. Perhaps they'd do it here, among his potions and tools and secrets, half-clothed as they had been that day in the kitchen? Blushing furiously, she edged away from him and towards the stairs, her steps more hasty than she'd meant.

It just wasn't supportable, across a lifetime, to desire someone the way she desired Rumpelstiltskin. Perhaps that was the purpose of the honeymoon, to allow for all of this? Belle felt badly in need of a book on the subject - one that didn't deal in careful euphemisms the way _Of Hearth and Stove_ did, but spoke of how a girl ought to _feel_. She could ask Wren if her appetite for her husband was normal, but Wren would cackle and call her a duckling.

Rumpelstiltskin had suggested that there might be such a book, up in the library. She hadn't been looking for it while she was in there, of course - _of course not_ \- but neither had she seen such a thing while idly following the rows of book spines with her fingertip. Whatever would it be called, a book like that? And who would write or print it?

There seemed to be nothing that she could do to shock her husband, she reflected, taking out three of the leftover pastries for her breakfast. Her demands and discoveries all pleased him, and that was good, but... could there be too much lust, between husband and wife? How much distraction could she allow before it made her a poor wife in every other respect? Would she ever learn to set aside her bodily urges? Supposing that only happened after a child was conceived, and without children she was destined to feel this way forever?

No amount of willing herself or staying busy seemed to help, that was the problem. Once the ache began, once she clenched inside for the want of his touch, she couldn't help thinking of him, and when she thought of him, her body remembered how his touch felt. Round and around, until she couldn't bear it. Her own fingers seemed a poor prospect, next to Rumpelstiltskin's embrace, but by mid-morning Belle succumbed to the temptation, rubbing herself timidly though her skirts while she knelt by the kitchen hearth, to see if her own touch began to provide what she craved. She had meant to rake the ashes and to build up the logs, but the task was hardly urgent. She had too much time in her day, not too little, and if it kept her from running shamefaced to her husband...

It went much better if she thought about being with Rumpelstiltskin. Kissing him, especially, and the way he ran his hands over her body while they kissed. Belle closed her eyes, feeling foolish and yet determined as she burrowed her hand beneath her skirts and fingered herself through her cotton smalls. That was better, maybe even better than a direct touch; the cloth was wet through with her wanting and slipped obligingly against her flesh with the gentle rubbing of three fingertips. The secret shame of it added a sharper edge to the building climax, as did her leftover tenderness from last night, and relief soon came; building slowly, ending sharply, to leave her panting and flushed by the fireside.

Relieved indeed, Belle clambered to her feet, ever so slightly unsteady, and saw to it that her skirts were in order. Would he know? Could he tell, when he touched her? She did not _want_ Rumpelstiltskin to know, and frowned about that as she swept and then built up the fire. Of course she was a little ashamed that his generosity could not seem to satisfy her, but that wasn't at the heart of it. Something else made her want to guard this, jealously, even from the one who had taught her that such pleasure was within her grasp.

It allowed her to go about her day, at any rate. With her kitchen as she liked it, Belle checked her box for letters and found a simple note from her father, telling her that the proposed visit was a welcome one. Leaving the letter open on the table where she could see it, pinning it down at one corner with the rose in its small vase of water, Belle laid out her new cloth and got to work on making herself two aprons. There had been no such thing in her trousseau, for with her anticipated rise in station there had been no prospect of her ever needing to get her hands - let alone her dress - dirty. A future duchess did not scramble about on the kitchen floor or sweep the stairs.

Had she risen in station, with her marriage to Rumpelstiltskin? He had no titles that she knew of, no ancestry among the noble houses of the realms. He appeared to be content with his modest lands, his empty castle and his odd collection of treasures. All that, and still his name was feared and his power known the world over. What would the world expect his wife to be?

Probably not a chit of a girl in poorly-sewn aprons and ruined silk slippers, her knees sooty from indulging her own lust beside the kitchen hearth. Belle sighed, pausing in her cutting and pinning to look down at herself. Their honeymoon was almost over. A wife would be expected to face the world well-dressed and well-prepared, as befit her station. Belle had no great interest in rank nor station, and had rediscovered the comforts of dressing as she pleased, lost to her since she became a woman, but she would not want to disgrace her husband on their coming journey. How _did_ the wife of a sorcerer dress?

She would have to ask him. However uninterested he usually was in her clothing, she knew that he had a great interest in preserving his reputation. He did not seem to mind her being seen in town in her plain blues and greens, but these people knew him well enough that nothing his new bride did would sway their view of him. For the rest of the world, reputation was Rumpelstiltskin's currency. It would not be enhanced any by a cheerful drab of a wife who had barely mastered the basic care of her own wardrobe.

Occupied by her sewing and her thoughts, Belle forgot about a midday meal entirely, and did not not think of taking a cup of tea up for Rumpelstiltskin until some time after that. Sighing at herself again, Belle set about preparing a pot. All he had asked her to do was fetch him straw - which he never seemed to be in need of - and to bring him his tea. She was pleased that their relationship had eased so much, since those first days of strained courtesy, but it would not do to forget how they began.

In case he was too busy to come down for their afternoon tea, Belle carried up a tray for him. On the way, she left her rose in its slim pewter vase on the table in the great room, turning back to admire how it looked there, in such solitary splendour. At first, she had wanted to keep it in the kitchen, but it was too warm there and, besides, she wanted Rumpelstiltskin to see that his gift had been given a place of honour. And not only the rose; she was constantly aware of the close-fitting bracelet she wore. Even hidden beneath her cuff it was a weight, a pressure that reminded her constantly of him. She hoped that he would catch a glimpse of it, too, and know that he was in her thoughts.

Expecting to find him still busy with his investigation, Belle was surprised to see Rumpelstiltskin standing at the open window, hands folded behind his back as he gazed out at the world. A glance around the room indicated that all was not well. The bloodstained coat of leather scales appeared to have been thrown with some violence against the bookshelves at the top of the stairs, and followed by a large jar of something green and sticky.

Picking her way through broken glass and green splashes, Belle bit her lip. He was not pleasant company, while in a temper, and preferred to be alone rather than upset her. Should she just leave the tray and go?

"Tea, my dear?" He spoke without turning, his voice too light. "Thank you."

"I thought you might be too busy to come down." Belle slid the tray onto the end of the nearest bench, glad to let go of the weight. Rumpelstiltskin turned his head very slightly at the sound. "Is... is there anything I can do to help?"

At that, her husband turned on his heel, smartly, and grinned at her. There was something false about the smile that alarmed her more than a fit of temper would have.

"Would you be the sorcerer's apprentice?"

"I'm not that ambitious," Belle said, her laugh dying unborn because his brittle mood alarmed her. "But I can hold things, and fetch and carry." She glanced behind her. "Mop the floor."

With a sound not unlike a growl, Rumpelstiltskin waved his hand and the mess simply vanished. Belle sighed. What did it cost him, magic like that, or like conjuring her a rose? A little fatigue, such as when she had used the magical mirror to watch her father? Did he even notice when he did such things, or was it habit, so ingrained that he would find it hard to remember what a mop and bucket were for?

"Don't take to tidying in here, if you please," he said, gruffly. "Some of it would fight back."

Not at all sure whether that was his odd humour or a statement of fact, Belle nodded obediently and poured a cup of tea, adding two lumps of sugar and a drop of milk.

"You said that the magic will fade?"

"Yes." Was it that he preferred her company to the lack of it, in spite of his mood, or had he not the heart to ask her to leave him? Belle shivered, up and down her back, as he moved behind her. She had thought that he was going to retrieve his coat, but he took her by the waist instead, and looked over her shoulder at the tea tray. "It... resists. With every effort to unravel the curse I weaken again." Belle could feel his anger, both in his taut frame and in the way his magic felt to those senses she barely understood, but had quickly learned to trust. She was not the target, nor the cause, and she trusted his promises. She need not fear his rage and he, in turn, could look to her to soothe it. "Your husband is defeated, mistress," he said, lips against her ear. "I cannot tell you how rare that is."

Belle carefully put the spoon back on the tray, and covered his hands with her own. Something about this place, this room, magnified her sense of his magic. Ordinarily she was as unaware of it as she was of the sound of his breathing, or her own; something always _there_ , yes, but not impinging upon conscious thought. In this place, or when he became angry, she could feel the magic clearly. It was wrapping itself around her, now. Not like an embrace, not in the way that his arms came around her, his hands grasping at her belly and below her breast, but like a vine around a tree; both protection and a cage.

She ought to be afraid of that, of a cage, but he would not hold her in it. How could she believe otherwise, now? The words he spoke in her bed were the most sincere, the ones unguarded in his vulnerability while enjoying her embrace, not the careless promises of a foolish lover with no thought for his lady. When Rumpelstiltskin promised her the world, promised her safety, promised that her word would be law to him, she could believe that he meant it.

It was, she thought, probably very fortunate that she did not _want_ the whole world, and that her husband first thought to appease her by giving her a rose in winter.

"If I can't help you," she said, her hands following his as they twined and grasped in front of her, "then I can distract you?" A little nervously, she drew his hands to her breasts and cupped them there, making the offer as blatant as could be.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, breathless relief warming that growl of a voice. "Oh, yes." He kept her from turning, frustrating her wish to kiss him, but kissed her neck while his right hand delved between her thighs, teasing her through a handful of her skirts. It was a vivid reminder of her own touch, just a few hours earlier, and he took her shiver as encouragement, dragging up her skirts and pinning her deftly to the edge of the table as he loosened her drawers. Those were damp with evidence of Belle's earlier self-indulgence, and for a moment her breath caught with the fear that he might realise what she'd done. Or would that excite him, knowing that she had been unable to wait even half a day for him?

He was not gentle, arranging her so. Belle found herself gripping the edge of the worktable to steady herself as he tugged down her drawers to her thighs, her skirts draped over her left arm and obscuring her view of his wandering hand below. He touched her thigh and followed the telltale wetness upwards to its source, making her gasp with sensation, if not exactly with pleasure. Her face was flaming with embarrassment, with being caught in the aftermath of her private pleasures, but she would not have him stop; there was a new delight in this makeshift approach, and she found the frustration of being denied his kisses curiously appealing.

For a while, Rumpelstiltskin did no more for his own pleasure than rub himself against her bare backside, leather against skin, occasionally fumbling with her petticoats to keep her bare. Belle entrusted her support to the table rather than to her knees, which went weak each time his fingers brushed her most sensitive place, and tried not to think how she must look there, hot and dishevelled with her husband pinning her in place.

"Like this, mistress?" His voice still quiet, Rumpelstiltskin was breathless. It took Belle, distracted as she was, some moments to realise that he sought her permission. Her _permission_ to have her, while she bared her bottom like a tipsy harlot! What else could he think she meant by that?

"Like this," she agreed, refusing to admit - either to her husband or to herself - that she was not sure what _'like this'_ actually entailed. But if she was a treasure then she was hardly a dainty one that needed to be wrapped in overcautious protection, like the fragile brass and crystal tools of his laboratory. She would manage.

Belle felt magic against her skin, against her buttocks, and tried not to think about it; magic defied all description, and the sensation was what it was. Fleeting, subtle and unsettling, and somehow more of a violation than any touch of Rumpelstiltskin's body had ever been. It left him bare against her, his skin reassuringly warm and his cock very clearly ready for the business at hand. "Bend over, treasure," he urged, his voice rather strained. Trusting, if not any the wiser, Belle did as he said, pushing the tea tray out of her way and bending over the table, taking her weight on her forearms and spreading her hands against the potion-stained wood.

For a few moments she felt unbelievably foolish, posed like that, and had the unwelcome thought that he might be laughing at her gullibility rather than preparing to enjoy her in this new way. Then he pushed his cock between her legs, guiding with two awkwardly placed fingers, and all such thoughts fled her mind. He was _in_ her, grabbing her bundled skirts at her hips to steady himself, and it felt like never before. She felt tight, and his slightest movement made her weak at the knees without offering any particular pleasure or discomfort.

 _Angle,_ she thought, as the table in front of her shook with his hasty thrusts. It was a question of angle. Nothing rubbed the little nub of flesh where she was most vulnerable, this way, and her sensations were entirely different. Deeper, aching, nearer to pain than she had known since he had her straddle his lap in the kitchen. Rumpelstiltskin was brisk about it rather than rough, and Belle liked that he didn't hesitate more than she liked the act itself; it seemed rather impersonal, while she could not see his face; she was uncomfortable, bent over the table, and her feet were hurting from trying to keep herself firmly planted rather than be buffeted by the force of his thrusts. The tea things rattled merrily, and at the other end of the workbench several of Rumpelstiltskin's precious instruments wobbled precariously.

She certainly wouldn't have noticed _that_ , had she been face to face with him in the usual way. This was... less consuming. Pleasurable enough, where he was inside her, and wickedly so when he faltered and almost slipped out of her in a great, hot rush of her own fluids. Was it that she had come so recently, by her own hand, that kept her pleasure muted, now, or was it that she craved their usual clinging closeness as part of her satisfaction? Or was it simply that she was so obscenely inquisitive that her busy mind was spoiling it for her?

It was the first time she had ever caught herself wondering how long he was going to take to finish. Not that she _minded_ , not at all, but her legs ached and it was hurting her neck to keep her head up. Giving in, she folded her arms on the table and pillowed her head there, cheek down so that she could almost see Rumpelstiltskin. He stopped, buried deep in her, and stroked her straggling, damp hair from her cheek with shaking fingers.

"Sh-should I stop?" Even half-blinded with lust, he thought of her. Belle felt the bursting joy beneath her ribs, stealing away her breath. "Belle?"

"It's all right," she promised, and smiled, because it was. Now that she wasn't struggling to keep her head up, her back was more comfortable and her knees didn't strain so. "Go on."

Rumpelstiltskin leaned closer to her, after that, his hands either side of her on the table, and moved more slowly and deliberately, and Belle liked that much better. He had seemed too far away, before, but the small change had made an embrace of it, and changed the angle of his thrusts again so that, for the first time, she had the urge to move herself and to meet them for her own enjoyment. That finished him almost at once, his soft cry sounding startled, and his final thrusts were firm and demanding.

He was no sooner out of her than scooping her up from the tabletop, turning her, clutching her against him while he panted into her hair. Belle clung, foolishly happy, and wished for the dozenth time that his high collars did not keep her from comfortably kissing his neck, or burying her face there. At such moments, being as near to one another as possible seemed to be all that mattered in the world. At least, all that mattered to Belle. Did it give him the same respite from his thoughts, from his long and terrible life? Did it make him as irrationally happy? Oh, she hoped so!

Breeches around his thighs, Rumpelstiltskin shared her utter lack of dignity and so she did not mind that her drawers were half down and her skirts twisted. She ached almost everywhere, but could have laughed with joy that he had been so _bold_ with her, not anxiously seeking to appease her with her own pleasure, as though he must earn her. What else had he to teach her, that she had never imagined between a man and a woman?

"Can a man be wanton?" she wondered, when they parted with sheepish little smiles and some hasty adjustment of clothing. She rather envied his magic, this time, because her underthings had been a disgrace to begin with. She would _have_ to go and change them now. Rumpelstiltskin, meanwhile, was pristine again with the wave of a hand.

"I imagine he can," he said, catching her in the crook of his left arm and reaching past her to pull the tea tray back towards them. He sipped the tea and then, seeing that she had brought no cup for herself, offered it to her. Belle took it, shyly, and avoided the chip in the rim of the cup as she took a sip. It was far too sweet for her liking, and nearly cold, but her mouth had been dry so she took another sip. She passed it back, and he released her with some reluctance when she made her way to the chair and sat. "You will tell me, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, half hiding behind the cup, "if I impose?"

"I said that I would." Missing the surety he'd shown a moment ago, Belle untied her hopeless, straggling ponytail and rearranged it as best she could while glancing around the room. "I hope you'll tell me if I do. I'm sure a wife isn't meant to have so much--" she caught herself before the end of the idle thought, but then wished that she had gone on when Rumpelstiltskin sniggered into his cup.

"Cock?"

"Fun!" Embarrassed, she threw her velvet ribbon at him and saw him catch it, easily, with an unnaturally fast snatch of his left hand.

"You're pretty when you blush," he said, and tucked the ribbon away beneath his waistcoat, watching her with insolent glee. She would not have been surprised if he had poked his tongue out at her like a schoolboy. "And you wear my gift," he added, abandoning his cup and taking the few steps to be beside her, catching her left wrist. "Lovely," he said, as her cuff fell back to reveal the slender gold bracelet.

His satisfaction at seeing her wear it made Belle glad that she had thought to do so. Rumpelstiltskin held her hand, her fingers hooked delicately over his, while he studied the bracelet against her skin.

"You like gold, don't you? I mean, you find it beautiful," she added, quickly, because she did not speak of avarice, but of his sensual pleasure with his golden thread.

"I suppose I do," Rumpelstiltskin said, tilting his head to one side as though her question merited serious consideration. "Gold, and silk, and my wife." He smiled, so softly. "I have refined tastes."

Would she _ever_ stop blushing at the least provocation from him? His teasing and his flattery could both reduce her to burning cheeks and squirming awkwardness, and both were tinted with joy. She cared not if the world thought her beautiful, but to have her husband admire her for it... yes, she wanted that, very much.

"Without a mirror, your wife is probably turning into a haystack," she said, standing as he released her hand. "Lotte will take one look at my hair and start scolding."

Rumpelstiltskin refrained from an unkind remark about her maid, but pursed his lips, drifting back towards the open window. Being with her had not substantially altered his mood, although the brittleness was gone and replaced with a more familiar weariness. Belle wondered what it would be like to be weary of the entire world.

"You'll get better, if you're no longer working on the curse?" She joined him at the window, in spite of the chill, and enjoyed the unthinking way in which he draped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her near, as though she belonged against his side. "I've been worried."

"There's not much magic in this world that can rival mine," he said, his voice a lot less gentle than his easy embrace. "This curse _taunts_ me with its impossibility." He said the last through clenched teeth, glowering out at the wintery world.

Belle could think of nothing to say. What had she to offer on the subjects of wizardry or alchemy? She was no more an expert in dealing with a husband's smarting pride, though if bending over a table while he had his way helped at all, then she was quite willing to oblige. That he was content to have her beside him, in such a mood, made her feel accomplished in a way that she could not put words to. She closed her eyes and rested against him, her hand gripping loosely at the back of his long coat.

"Weary, little wife?"

"A little." Belle wondered if he would come to bed with her, if she asked. She would certainly like to lie down for a little while, but did not want to leave him while she felt so welcome.

"That's a shame. We seem to have company." Prodding her in the ribs at the last word, causing her to open her eyes before she had understood his remark, Rumpelstiltskin nodded towards the distant road beyond the boundary of the castle. Belle could barely see anything through the gloomy mist that rolled from the mountains, but his senses were far sharper than her own. After some moments of dutifully peering, she saw it; a carriage, black and drawn by four horses, flanked with mounted guards.

A visitor!

"I... we... I can't be seen like this!" Belle was thoroughly ashamed that her first thoughts were of her appearance but... well, she was Rumpelstiltskin's _wife_ , and mistress here, and she was a disgrace with her sooty knees and tumbling hair! "I must change my dress and comb my hair and..."

Rumpelstiltskin's twittering giggle brought her up short, not sure whether to be offended by his lack of sympathy or to laugh, herself, at her own panic.

"You needn't trouble on _her_ account," he said, stabbing a finger towards the distant carriage. "But as you will, my dear. As you will." He pulled her velvet ribbon from beneath his clothing and dangled it in front of her, his expression a mock-pout and the laughter in his eyes none too kind. It took Belle several, outraged moments to understand that the approaching visitor was the target of his malice, while _she_ was merely being indulged.

No, she was being _patronised_ , and for the first time since the morning after her wedding, when he'd teased her about the bloodied nightgown, she thoroughly disliked him. Snatching her ribbon, managing to curb her tongue but not contain her irritation, Belle gestured crossly down at her crumpled dress and stained slippers, spreading her arms wide to show him the extent of the problem.

"You could _help,"_ she complained, and watched him pantomime a gasp of shock, hand to his throat.

"You'd have me use _magic_ , my treasure? Gild the lily? Fragrance the rose? Tsk." Rumpelstiltskin waggled a finger at her, smiling.

 _"Oh!"_ Eyes narrowed, Belle spun on her heel before she said something unladylike, and hurried for the top of the stairs. She would _not_ receive a visitor to his castle while she looked like his scullery maid - she would _not_. There would be time, later, to tell him what she thought of his manner.

Belle did the best that she could, trying not to give way to foolish panic as she brought out clean clothes and washed herself in great haste. She did not think that Rumpelstiltskin had meant to distress her with his indifference. He wasn't to know the painstaking hours that had gone into Belle's education in the matters of hospitality, deportment and the many other subtle ways in which a wife might be expected to support her husband's business or political ambitions. Isolated as he made himself, he probably wasn't to know that, besides the greater duties of managing a household and providing healthy heirs, these things made up the entirety of the world's expectations, for a girl in Belle's position. Oh, she had been _allowed_ to learn other things, but with the expectation that they would be set aside when they were no longer needed to amuse or refine her; when she became a wife and a mother.

Why would he not want her at her most presentable, to meet a guest? Belle tried, when fastening her hair with pins, to see her reflection in the window, but it was too bright outside. Suddenly, it seemed irresponsible of her to have allowed her hair to curl however it liked while it dried. Nothing she could do to it would make it look neat, so she settled for artlessly pretty instead, and hoped that it didn't simply make her look like a child. And their visitor was a woman, a fine lady! _She_ would understand exactly why Belle was furious with Rumpelstiltskin.

Not that a dutiful wife would let such anger show in front of the guest. Belle tried to compose herself, as she heard the pounding on the outer doors, excited and nervous at the same time. Hearing the distant voices downstairs, she took a deep breath and began to make her way down to join her husband. She did not hurry, not wanting to arrive flushed and breathless. They would be in the great room, of course - where else in the castle was fit to receive a guest? - and she would join them there, not apologising for her lateness because the caller was, after all, unannounced.

Belle heard two voices as she crossed the marble hall - one Rumpelstiltskin's and the other a woman's. The woman laughed, a pleasant, confident sort of laugh. Not afraid of him, then? That interested Belle enough to overcome her nerves and walk steadily towards the double doors, which opened for her as always.

Her husband was standing at the fireside, one hand resting elegantly on the back of his armchair. The woman was seated at the head of the table, the chair turned to more comfortably face the fire, and Belle's first impression of her was merely the colour black - from her neat hat and half veil to the tips of her shining button boots, the newcomer was swathed in black, but everything was the very finest.

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin said, holding out his hand for Belle to come and join him, facing the black-clad woman, who made no effort to rise but crossed her legs and smiled warmly as Belle arrived at Rumpelstiltskin's side.

She was beautiful, Belle saw at once. The veil might have been a nod to mourning, or merely the latest fashion somewhere far from the places Belle knew. The dress was silk-satin and shimmered with dark gemstones, as did the silver-set collar at the woman's throat and the many rings on her slim fingers. Her lips were painted, her face powdered, and it reminded Belle of what Rumpelstiltskin had said to her in the tower. A gilded lily. Like the too-perfect rose on the table, the effort at improving upon a natural beauty somehow diminished the woman. Where she would have been quite enviably lovely without all the finery, paint and powder, with it, the visitor had only a cold reflection of beauty.

Before she could be accused of staring, Belle looked up at Rumpelstiltskin, who was watching the other woman's face with an unreadable expression. His fingers closed more tightly around hers. Belle was about to ask to be introduced when the gilded lily rose from the chair with smooth grace, and renewed her red-painted smile.

"Rumple," she said, with a warm little laugh that belied the cool way her gaze swept over Belle - her clothing, her hair, her complexion, taking in everything and drawing conclusions just as Belle had in return. "Surely this can't be your blushing bride?" The smile widened to reveal the most perfect, white teeth Belle had ever seen, except on a porcelain doll. "I'd heard she was a princess."


	41. The King's Widow

Rumpelstiltskin's strained giggle broke the silence, but nothing seemed to disturb the self-satisfied smile that played about the stranger's features.

"My dear, this is Queen Regina, recently the widow of King Leopold."

As Belle curtseyed, her fingers still held too firmly in Rumpelstiltskin's hand, she was able to collect herself. Often, she thought that was what such formalities were for - to give people time to avoid costly political mistakes. A moment to think. The wife of good King Leopold, the young stepmother of the princess, Snow White. Neutral in affairs concerning her own kingdom, that of King George. But what of Rumpelstiltskin's lands?

"Your Majesty," she said, obediently, and rose with her eyes slightly downcast, concentrating on Rumpelstiltskin beside her. If he had expectations of her - and he surely did - then she did not know what they were. She must be alert.

"My wife, the Lady Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, letting go of Belle's hand. "Such terrible news about the King," he added, as the Queen gave Belle a gracious nod of acknowledgement. Belle began to wonder if the smile was as painted-on as the immaculate kohl around her honey-dark eyes. "I see that widowhood suits you."

He spoke this way to a queen? Belle's breath caught with the shock of it, but she kept it from altering her expression. Rumpelstiltskin spoke to anyone, just as he pleased, and who could prevent him?

"It's been a trial," the Queen said, her smile vanishing, "but life must go on. I never thought I'd see you married," she added, sounding both playful and scandalised. If she objected to the way Rumpelstiltskin spoke then she did not let it deter her one bit. "You never seemed the type," she said, her gaze returning to Belle, who met it unflinchingly, taking in the words and giving nothing back. "You poor dear. I know how it is to be traded away to an older... man."

"I'm sure there's nothing that I can tell a queen about a lady's duty," Belle said, with a polite smile. _When you don't know what to say_ , her father always said, _say nothing and think, instead_. But there were ways and ways of saying nothing. It need not be silence. "King Leopold will be much missed, Your Majesty."

"Yes." The Queen, too, knew the ways of saying nothing, but no-one had schooled her in how to avert her gaze to keep a flash of rage or malice from being seen. Belle remembered the slight relish with which Rumpelstiltskin had used the word 'widow'. He was watching the two of them now, betraying nothing but a keen interest in the proceedings. "And the people's grief is made all the worse by the treason and treachery of his daughter, Snow. That's why I came, today."

Belle's expression betrayed her, in turn; she could not hide her surprise. She had met Snow White, when they were both children and King Leopold a widower in search of a wife. He had searched the world, it was said, to find a mother for his Snow. A true Princess of the blood, and Leopold's heir, it was difficult to imagine her up to treason or treachery. Belle remembered her as a round-faced, smiling child with wonderful dark ringlets and laughing eyes. She remembered envying the older girl's ability to dance with still-older boys and not fall over her own feet.

"Treason?" Rumpelstiltskin strode away from Belle's side, and she felt his absence like a growing panic. He would not leave the room? He'd not leave her alone with this woman who clearly knew him - called him by a pet name, of all things! - and made herself at home in the castle in a way that Belle could not? "Snow White? The gentle princess, beloved of her entire kingdom?"

"She's deceitful, sly," the Queen declared, her gaze following Rumpelstiltskin to the far end of the table where he stopped, turning to face her with his eyes narrowed. He looked for all the world as though he might pounce - leap onto the table, carve up its length with his inhuman speed and fall upon the woman. Belle's mouth grew dry, but Rumpelstiltskin made no movement whatsoever. He merely stood, hands held loosely at his sides, staring without blinking. "But she is not above the law."

"And she's escaped justice, I imagine? Snatched too soon and watched her wriggle through your fingers like a slippery silver fish, did you?" With that, Rumpelstiltskin waggled the fingers of both hands, playfully, at chest height. The Queen bristled in her chair, uncrossing her legs and almost rising, until Rumpelstiltskin held up a hand. "Well, she's your prey, dearie. Don't look to me. I'm busy."

"Busy with 'prey' of your own, I suppose?" Regina's sneer conveyed true disgust, even anger, before she managed to turn it into a look of haughty disapproval. Before Belle could evade her, the woman had risen and draped a protective arm across her shoulders. She was rather taller than Belle, her height enhanced by the impractical heels of her boots, and Belle felt quite smothered by the motherly embrace. "Shame on you." More than the embrace, Belle could feel _magic_ about the Queen's person. It was not like Rumpelstiltskin's, that unfathomable power that somehow acted as an extension of his whims, but it was recognisable nonetheless; the slight prickle on her skin, and the way the shiver crawled down her spine at its touch. Magic was around the Queen like a small whirlwind or a swarm of bees - close, self-contained and powerful. Alive. "At least you didn't lock her up in a dungeon," she sniffed. "He does like his little amusements, dear. I expect you've realised that?"

Giving her husband a pleading look, Belle saw that his eyes were warm with approval, a tiny smile playing about his lips. She had found out a witch, and Rumpelstiltskin was pleased with her for that. What did he want her to _do_ about it?

"Can I offer you some tea, Your Majesty?" Belle tried, not liking to be the mouse between these two cats at play. "I have delicious fresh pastries as well."

"Why, thank you," Regina said, drawing a fan from her sleeve and graciously resuming her seat. _Rumpelstiltskin's_ seat, Belle reminded herself, firmly, as she turned to leave by the door to the kitchen stairs. "Hospitality, here. That's new."

"Husband?" Belle tried to let her expression beg him for more guidance, but if Rumpelstiltskin noticed her dismay, he chose not to respond to it. Behind her, she heard the _snick_ of the Queen opening her fan.

"Tea, yes," he agreed, with the stiff formality that had marked the early days of their marriage. "Perhaps you'll see to it while I find out what our _guest_ really wants?"

It was with some relief that Belle slipped out of the room, to the sound of the woman's indignant laugh, and hurried down the cool steps to the kitchen. Rumpelstiltskin and the Queen seemed as familiar as old friends, yet each spoke of the other with such naked spite that friendship seemed out of the question. The last thing Belle wanted was to be used as ammunition against her new husband, in a battle that she did not understand. And the Queen was treating her as the mouse, very much the mouse, while propriety kept Belle from correcting her false assumptions.

Propriety, and the reasonable certainty that Rumpelstiltskin did not want her happiness in their marriage known to anyone. A monster who made his bride happy was less a monster and... no. He would not want that, so his wife must be as quiet as a mouse, yet without supplying any hint of criticism of her own. Belle would much have preferred, now that she was certain of their animosity, to firmly take Rumpelstiltskin's side, yet she was hardly an asset, hastily dressed and ill-prepared.

Belle took out the silver tea things and found herself anxiously polishing the pot with her sleeve while she waited for the kettle to boil. The stranger's efforts to appear sympathetic to her had unnerved her more than the chilly repartee with Rumpelstiltskin. Perhaps the Queen _had_ been traded away to an unwelcome husband - although it was difficult to apply that description to the sad and learned Leopold - but Belle had made her _own_ bargain, thank you very much, and a whole province was the better for it!

The distorted glimpse of her reflection in the silver teapot only added to her frustration; her hair was tidy, if she ignored the unruly curls about her shoulders, but it was plain for anyone to see that she had taken no great care with it. Perhaps that was the impression that Rumpelstiltskin wished to give - his poor, dishevelled little wife with no maids or finery to her name - but Belle felt that he wanted her to face this woman down like some sort of foe. Did he know nothing of a woman's weapons? How could he be ignorant of them, with Queen Regina sitting in his place and _glittering_ from head to toe, radiating power and self-possession?

No, Belle might be no princess, but she was no mouse either. The fact that she, the lady of the house, was about to serve a guest herself because she had no servants, offended her far less than Rumpelstiltskin's apparent indifference to the difficult position in which he'd placed her.

They would have words, she decided, taking tremendous care with the heavily laden tray as she began to climb the stairs. She had left the door open, up there, in her haste to leave the room, and could hear their voices now; Rumpelstiltskin and Regina, in heated discussion. It was a simple matter to eavesdrop a little, by holding her breath, slowing her steps and redoubling her efforts not to rattle the contents of the tray as she climbed.

"You were _seen_ ," the Queen was insisting. "Her death has your mark all over it."

Belle could not make out her husband's reply, for he lowered his voice when angered rather than resorting to shouts, and rarely spoke that loudly to begin with.

"Just remember that you're not the only power in these lands," Regina warned, coolly. "If you go too far there will be repercussions."

"Sounds to me like a _power_ anxious to distance herself at any cost from our friend's death," Rumpelstiltskin said, with vicious pleasure. "As I imagine you did in the matter of your husband's murder. A snake, wasn't it? When I take a life, madam, I don't make such a _mess_."

Silence indicated an impasse and Belle took a steadying breath before pressing ahead, into the room with her burden.

Regina snorted, now leaning elegantly against the end of the table nearest the spinning wheel, while Rumpelstiltskin occupied his hands with the wheel and the draw. From the hard expression on his face to the rigid line of his shoulders, Belle guessed that he was doing so in order to keep from putting his hands around their visitor's throat. He was _furious_!

"When you take a wife, Rumple, you're not supposed to make her double as a maidservant," Regina said, and moved aside to allow Belle to place the tray at the table's end. "I'm sorry, dear. If I'd known, I'd never have imposed like this." The woman had a lovely voice, Belle thought, even if she oversweetened it with too much honey to pass for sincerity. Her laugh, too, was deep and should have sounded warm.

"Magic is an excellent servant," Belle smiled, glancing at Rumpelstiltskin as she said it and seeing him turn his head to conceal a smirk. "It's no hardship to carry a tray for a guest, Your Majesty." She set out three cups and plates, concentrating on making her movements confident and precise. She would not betray her husband's desire for privacy, but nor would she play the part of his quaking victim. "I have to admit, the kitchen is a bit of a novelty."

"I prefer the stables, myself," the Queen said, conspiratorially, and Belle smiled, filling the first cup and plate for her.

"Will you sit, Your Majesty?"

"No, thank you. Your husband is hiding away in that corner. I shall stay here and keep an eye on him." She accepted the cup from Belle, who placed her plate beside her at the end of the table and moved around to the side to pour the next cup.

"Husband?"

"No," Rumpelstiltskin said, shortly, and Belle wondered if, perhaps, their guest had a point; perhaps he _was_ hiding away behind his spinning wheel, and leaving his wife to attend to matters? Oh well. Belle had experience enough to know that most guests - and hosts - would set aside hostilities and business alike, to take refreshments.

With no desire to engage the Queen in conversation, Belle stood demurely with her own cup and saucer in hand, and played the part of attentive hostess. Regina, for her part, watched Rumpelstiltskin just as she had said she would; she did not trust him at all, for all her familiarity and apparent lack of awe.

While the visitor watched him, Rumpelstiltskin worked at his wheel, insulting her with his studied disinterest. Belle sincerely hoped that not _all_ visitors would receive the same lack of courtesy from him. The Queen had not helped matters by suggesting that he'd had a hand in murder. Murder he might, but he seemed more likely to crow about it than to conceal it. A month beside him, even protected from his darker nature and his business dealings, had been enough to show Belle that much. Did Regina not know him as well as that, or was she simply trying to rile him?

Belle tried to be dainty about eating her own pastry, but it was difficult while standing up and trying so hard to pay attention to the others in the room. She found herself extremely hungry, to the point of light-headedness, and realised that she had eaten nothing since the other pastries that she'd taken for breakfast. It was so easy to lose all sense of time, here, but her distractions today had been so selfish, so carnal, that she was ashamed of herself.

"Do you miss your home, Lady Belle?" Leaving an inch or so of uneaten food on her plate, as was the custom among many of the noble houses, Regina returned it to the tray and picked up her cup.

"Of course," Belle said, without thinking, but prevented herself from saying any more. She truly _had_ needed to eat - she needed her wits about her, if Rumpelstiltskin meant to leave her to fend for herself with alarming strangers! "I've heard that your lands are among the most beautiful," she said, idle conversation coming more easily to her than she would have liked. She'd had so little need of it, with Rumpelstiltskin. Between them, words mattered. "Clear and bottomless lakes, lush trees."

"Very beautiful," the Queen agreed, no more interested in the topic than Belle. "You'll be most welcome to visit, of course. The Summer Palace has the most remarkable views of the kingdom."

Belle looked down at herself, not needing to feign modesty.

"I'm no courtier, Your Majesty," she said.

"And newly married," Rumpelstiltskin interrupted. "Don't go luring her away just yet, _Your Majesty._ In fact," he said, rising smoothly from his stool and closing the distance between them in long, easy strides, "you're interrupting my honeymoon." He placed a hand at Belle's waist, his touch as gentle as ever, but his body rigid with his displeasure towards the other woman. Belle could imagine what the Queen saw; how slight she must look, beside her husband; how his black fingernails dug slightly into her dress. "No husband would thank you for that, would they?"

Regina's powdered nose wrinkled in disgust, and she returned her attention to Belle.

"Many wives might," she said, coldly. Mortified, Belle looked at the points of the Queen's perfect shoes. "Treat her well, Rumple. You know what they say about a woman scorned."

"I think you'll find that my wife can speak for herself," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. "But perhaps you'd show our guest out, my dear? We can't have her interrupt our _wedded bliss_ any longer, can we?"

It was a command, however softly spoken, and gave Belle the clear authority to evict this woman from their home, without her own courtesy being called into question. She found a quite genuinely apologetic smile for the Queen, who barely hesitated before returning it. The look she gave Rumpelstiltskin, however, was one of barely suppressed anger.

"I can't persuade you to make a deal for Snow?" Rumpelstiltskin made no effort to answer the question, instead drifting towards his spinning wheel and behaving as though the Queen no longer existed. "Fine. I was merely passing. I admit that I'm shocked to find the rumours are true. Princess or not, she's too good for you. But, really," she added, with a cruel little laugh, "who wouldn't be?"

Regina carried herself like a queen, there was no doubt of that. With an anxious glance over her shoulder at Rumpelstiltskin, who had set his jaw and said nothing to that parting barb, Belle was swept in the woman's wake, out into the marble hall. The Queen collected a pair of perfect, black lace gloves and a parasol from the table. The doors to the great room closed behind Belle with a distinct air of finality.

"You do have him distracted, child," said the Queen, putting on her first glove with slow and graceful care. "I hope the deal that snared you was worth it?"

"Quite worth it," Belle said, levelly. "I'm sorry that your visit was a wasted one, Your Majesty," she said, feeling that she should make more effort to be courteous to her first guest.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, dear." Fussing with the second glove, the Queen's smile seemed warmer for just a moment. "Will you walk me to my carriage?"

"Yes," Belle said, doubtfully. The woman wanted more time in her company, after trading insults with her husband? "Of course." A queen could have no genuine interest in the affairs of a gentlewoman from the provinces, but she might have good reason to spy on a man as powerful as Rumpelstiltskin. And, like her beauty, her maternal concern was layered over with deception. Belle was not comfortable, alone in her company, but Rumpelstiltskin had freed her to speak and act as she wished. Either he trusted her, or he was testing her. She would rise to it.

Expecting the Queen's black-clad knights to be waiting outside the doors, Belle was surprised to see that they were outside the gates, instead.

"They're afraid to come any closer," Regina laughed, seeing her frown at the guards' slackness of duty. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Everyone else seems to be afraid to come in," Belle said, once more paying attention to careful neutrality. She noticed the guards' horses, waiting obediently behind the black carriage, stamping and tossing but, remarkably for such powerful beasts, not tethered or held. "Have you known my husband for very long, Your Majesty?"

"Quite a while. I have to say, he's never shown any interest in _marriage_ , before. Or anything, really, except his precious deals. I hope it's not too awful for you, dear."

Belle bit back her automatic defence of her husband, and saw the Queen glance sideways at her as they strolled down the clear path between the snow-laden shrubs. The Queen saw her biting her lip with that worried frown, and drew her own conclusions from what she saw. And that was politics, Belle thought, excitement leaping in her at the revelation. This was _politics_ , and it all came down to not showing how confused and anxious she really was!

"I imagine it's sons," the Queen said, returning the solicitous arm across Belle's shoulders. "Men all seem to want that, to turn us into mothers. Soon, I think, yes?" As they reached the gates and waited for them to swing open, Regina let her go and lifted her chin, studying her face much as Wren did when she wanted an answer. Belle wondered if there was magic in the gaze, somewhere. "Yes, I think quite soon. Well! Should you need an ally, dear, call my name into a looking glass. You'll be heard." Releasing Belle's chin, the Queen strode through the gates, her six knights snapping to attention where they stood, flanking the path.

"Um... thank you," Belle called after her, astonished by the entire exchange. At times, the witch's concern - or, at least, her indignation on Belle's behalf - had seemed quite authentic; something deeper than the pale powder and the lip paint, and more sincere than her words. "Goodbye!"

The guards swung themselves into their saddles, the coachman closed the door behind the Queen, and without any command being given, or any great fuss at all, the party rode off towards the mountain road. Queen Regina gave Belle a black-gloved wave from the window as they went by.

"Well," Belle said to herself, muffled by the sounds of hooves and harness, and of the gates slamming shut in their wake. " _That_ was interesting."

"Wasn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin's voice came from right behind her, making her start so violently that she stumbled as she spun to face him. He was smiling, but the smile was all teeth and didn't reach his eyes at all. "How do you like the Queen, my princess?"

"Not at all," Belle confessed, hand over her still-pounding heart. How did he _move_ like that, so silently or so fast that she was unaware? The path was gravel, and no longer frozen solid; her every slight movement made a sound. "I'm no princess," she added, more bitterly than she'd meant. Hugging herself against the biting, light breeze, Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin pull another of those mock pouts. This one seemed to be in sympathy with her.

"Take no notice of the witch," he crooned, blocking her way back to the castle. "The blood in your veins runs bluer than hers, I assure you."

"You let me greet a _queen_ looking like _this!_ " Belle twisted away from his attempt to catch her hand. "A queen of the realms!"

His playfulness giving way to alarm at this wifely scolding, Rumpelstiltskin took a couple of small steps back, giving her the space to pass him. Belle did so, not even sure why she was so cross with him, and heard his slower paces behind her own determined, marching steps, all the way up the path to the doors. They both scrunched loudly all the way.

Catching up with her just inside, Rumpelstiltskin blocked her path once more. Belle had no idea where she had meant to go, in any case. She folded her arms to keep him from taking her hand and distracting her from her displeasure.

"I don't understand," he said, speaking as though of a delicate matter - lightly, and with a nervous little laugh. "You dress as you please, my lady. I thought that you preferred..." he gestured awkwardly to his own ribs with both hands "...comfort."

"Without a mirror, without a maid, I do the best that I can!" Belle sounded shrill, even to her own ears, and she hated it, but her protest would have its voice. "If I'm to be at your side when queens come to visit, it can't be like _this_!"

"I'd have you no other way," Rumpelstiltskin complained, peevish and scowling. "You scorn my magic, mistress. It has always been your servant, yours to call upon for your comfort or vanity. You do not."

"My--!" Speechless with her own indignation, Belle had a moment in which to see herself as she must look now - facing her husband with her fists clenched and her expression sour, all but quivering with outrage. "It's not... not _vanity_! How your wife dresses tells others about your status, don't you know that? You must _warn_ me, I must prepare myself!"

Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, too astonished to be much more than mildly irritated by her petulance.

"You speak of... weapons," he said, weakly, but with a trace of hope that he might be making up some lost ground. "The tools of a trade?"

"Of a wife," Belle nodded, breathless, seeing the seeds of understanding take root in him at last. "The Queen thinks me beneath her, now, and I am _your_ wife. Do you see? It would have been better for me to stay in my room, out of sight!"

Cheek twitching, Rumpelstiltskin watched her with narrowed eyes.

"I see," he said. "Regina is armed to the teeth while my wife is defenceless?"

Without his teasing, without his protests, Belle's annoyance had nothing to resist against. She felt off balance, and foolish, and slightly out of breath.

"Something like that," she conceded. "All you had to do was _warn_ me," she said, trying to soothe them both with her softened tone.

His pained puzzlement returning, Rumpelstiltskin spread his hands.

"I thought you wanted a wardrobe to match the Queen's?"

"No," Belle said, quietly. She could not be angry with him, not once he stopped making faces and teasing her. He was no longer enjoying her discomfort - he was miserable himself because of her scolding. What would the Queen think to that, when her outright accusations and insults had failed to move him an inch? "I'd like to look just as _Rumpelstiltskin's wife_ should, when queens come calling."

They stared at each other. It was a difficult silence.

"What would you have worn after your wedding to the dukeling?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, rather sullenly, the first to look away. He no more enjoyed being proved ignorant of something than Belle did, it seemed. For her part, Belle was rather glad that some things in the world remained a mystery to her husband, who had lived so long and seen far too much. "You brought your best with you, did you not?"

"The Duchess made it very clear that I was to leave that to her," Belle said, not relishing the memory. She had not minded Gaston overmuch, but his mother was the sort of person who thought a great deal about dresses and jewels. She had hinted more than once that Belle read too much, spoke too plainly, and would be expected to stop doing both, once she lived with her new family. "I don't think she approved of me at all. I expect she would have had the seamstresses try to alter me to fit the dresses, not the other way around." At Rumpelstiltskin's look of naked dismay, Belle laughed aloud and swatted his arm with her fingertips.

"I... had not realised that I was expected to clothe you." He scratched behind his neck, looking her over. "What should Rumpelstiltskin's wife wear, if not... what Rumpelstiltskin's wife wears?" Gently, he took her hand and guided her in a slow, unsteady twirl while he looked her over.

Belle laughed again, relieved that they were no longer quarrelling, and looked down at herself when she faced him once again. Her dress was very fine, in its way, but had been made for warmth and durability more than to flatter her or display her status. The statement it made was in the workmanship, the expense of the cloth - in her quiet pride that all of it, every thread and stitch, had been crafted with consummate skill by her own people. Preferring plain cloth to heavy embellishments, and modesty to fashion, Belle had an entire wardrobe that marked her as the dutiful and sober minded daughter of a nobleman. A wealthy man, an important man, but not a man who required his daughter to mix regularly with courtiers, nor joust words with glittering queens.

"I don't want to disappoint you," she said, catching his look of helpless frustration. He liked her as she was; he had given no thought to how she should be displayed in public, or how her preference for loose laces and woolly stockings might reflect upon him. He saw only his lovely wife, beside Regina. Belle was as flattered by that realisation as she had been offended by his lack of concern, earlier. "I should be your ally, and everyone should be able to see it. She invited me to be hers, instead."

"Did she?" Attempting to feign disinterest, Rumpelstiltskin circled Belle slowly, as he had when they first met. This time, he was merely examining her clothing, but Belle still found it unnerving. "I don't recommend it. Snow White and the King seem to have fared rather badly."

"She says you must want sons." Belle stayed still, allowing him to lift her arms and - rather unnecessarily, she thought - feel her shape from chest to waist. He was already perfectly familiar with _that_. "And that I should call her name into a mirror if I need her."

Rumpelstiltskin returned to face her, then, and Belle dropped her arms, feeling more self-conscious than she did with no clothes on at all.

"Any sorcerer can use a mirror to intrude where they don't belong," he said, gravely. "If you value your safety, do not allow her that."

"My safety?" Belle shook her head, not understanding. She had obeyed him, and not given in to the temptation of the one mirror that she had found. Did he think that she would disobey him, now, without such a warning? "Why have any mirrors, if they're so dangerous?" Remembering his nervousness in handling the magic hand mirror, when he had allowed her to spy upon her Papa, Belle looked at him askance.

"I'm a sorcerer too, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. "Mirrors have their uses, and I don't like to throw anything away. Now..." He made a strange gesture towards her, as though pushing with both hands, and Belle shut her eyes at the sensation of magic all about her, pressing tightly. This time she tasted copper, and something burned to ashes, and blushed deeply at the realisation that, unlike when he had changed her dress in the kitchen, he was using his magic on _every_ stitch she wore. Shifting cloth and tingling magic touched her simply _everywhere_. "Hmm," her husband said, in a tone of distinct doubt, and Belle opened her eyes to see what he had done.

"Oh..." she breathed, holding out her arms in front of her. The bodice and skirts were of velvet, the same dark plum shade as the ribbon they had played with earlier. Embroidery in golden thread decorated the stiff panel that cupped her bosoms and tapered into her skirts, while the chemise beneath was of a smoky, gauzy grey that almost revealed skin. That covered her from shoulders to wrists, where the cuffs were gathered with slim bands of embroidered velvet to match the bodice. It was extraordinary, and so unlike anything she had ever worn that Belle simply stared at herself. The skirts were less bulky than many of her own gowns, without any padding beneath to emphasise her hips. When she ran her hands down her sides, the transition from the bodice to the skirt felt seamless. "Oh, my goodness." She looked up at Rumpelstiltskin, who awaited her verdict with anxious eyes. "Is this how you like me?" she asked, shyly.

"I liked you perfectly well as you were," he said, as though that were something he now felt he ought to apologise for. Once more, he took her hand and encouraged a twirl. Belle glimpsed the toes of velvet slippers that matched the dress in colour and embellishment, but were matchless in their comfort as she moved. "But you make a good argument for change. When appropriate. Can you, um, breathe?" he asked, as he released her at the end of her twirl.

"Yes," Belle said, surprised to find that she could. Rather than cinch her in so tightly that her ribs could not expand, the rigid panel at the very front drew the eye to her bosoms and away from the reality that she was not being crushed by the garment as a whole, which merely accommodated her own shape in a firm embrace. It would not be easy to bend, but it was far more comfortable than her wedding gown. "I think you may be wasted as the Dark One," she laughed, and saw his uncertainty break into self-satisfied pleasure at her approval. "Women would queue at your door for a fitting. If they didn't like the colour after all, you could change it with a wave of your hand."

"My grandfather was a tailor," Rumpelstiltskin said, dubiously. "I preferred my mother's trade, spinning wool."

"So you didn't always spin gold?" Belle liked that. "I'm glad my husband is capable of making an honest living. Papa says every man should know a trade or profession."

"Oh yes?" Apparently relieved that she had stopped teasing him, Rumpelstiltskin straightened and met her gaze. "What's his?"

"Master of horse," Belle said, proudly, and thought of her father's gentle hands soothing a frightened mare, and of his patience in breaking an animal thought by others to be unbreakable. She pushed up her new sleeve, slightly, to better display the gold bracelet at her wrist. "I think he'd prefer breeding prize horses to running a city."

"He sounds wiser than most."

"He is." Belle smoothed her hand down the front of the dress, trying to make out the design of the embroidery. Roses, she thought, all tangled in thorny knots, like a runaway hedge in full flower. By hand, such work would take weeks, and Rumpelstiltskin had done it in moments. What was the cost of such magic? What had she asked of him? "What's the price of a magical dress?"

"Nothing that need concern you," he assured her, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course, only magic can get you out of it again." His grin came from nowhere, full of mischief and lust, as Belle reached behind her and discovered that he was not teasing - there was no lacing or other fastening back there.

"That's not very practical," she laughed, weakly.

"Magic doesn't have to be. Not all the time. Do you look the part, my dear? The lovely young bride of an evil old monster?"

Belle stroked her hands down the skirts again, enjoying the softness of the velvet and the tickle of the lighter cloth against her arms.

"If I do something about my hair I shall," she said, and caught Rumpelstiltskin's arm as, nodding approval, he turned to go. "Thank you," Belle said, uncomfortably conscious of how she had harried him. "Is that the part I must play, to please you? The lovely young bride of an evil old monster?"

"You had no difficulty with Regina," he pointed out, letting her take his hand. "So unsure of yourself?" His right hand found her face, warmed her cheek a moment before brushing back her hair. "You were perfect, my treasure." The kiss he gave her was chaste and kind, and Belle considered herself forgiven for quarrelling over a dress. "She came all this way to get a look at you, and she's none the wiser. Perfect."

"Me?" Belle shook her head, relieved that he approved of her actions. She quite wanted to kiss him again, and this time it had nothing to do with lust. "She wanted you to help her find Snow White." And accuse him of a murder, she remembered.

"No, no," Rumpelstiltskin scoffed. "She knows I'd not do that. She wanted to see for herself if the rumours were true, about the beast and the 'princess' he carried off to his castle." He drew her with him towards the warmth of the great room, and Belle marvelled at the softness of her petticoat and stockings. She had asked that Rumpelstiltskin help her to look the part, but she was deeply touched that he had remembered her complaints about the other gowns, and thought of her comfort as well.

"She speaks to you as if you're old friends," Belle said, stopping behind the chair that the Queen had recently occupied. Rumpelstiltskin continued across the room to his spinning wheel, but did not sit. He merely turned the wheel, slowly, staring at nothing. "Are you?"

"No," he said, frowning. "She envies my power. I find her position... useful, on occasion. I wasn't expecting her to kill the King," he added, as though it were a matter of only mild interest to him.

"Do you suspect, or do you know?" Belle asked, aghast. The woman had seemed false and vain, but murder...

"She didn't sully her own hands," Rumpelstiltskin said, stopping the wheel abruptly only to start it again, the wood sliding against his palm. It seemed almost to hypnotise him, just as his string puzzles did. "But I'm certain that his death was by her design. Little Snow's lucky she got away. It's a situation that needs watching," he added, and Belle was sure that he was speaking to himself, not to her.

"It's terrible." Belle had never been more grateful that she had been born outside the machinations of the various courts. Her marriage to Gaston would have elevated her to all of that, while marrying Rumpelstiltskin appeared to have set her quite apart, at the side of a man whose influence was far more subtle than that of a duke. How many more reasons would she find, against the expectations of the whole world, to be _grateful_ that she had merely needed to marry a man scarred and twisted by magic? Reasons quite apart from how well she liked him as a husband.

Distracted, Rumpelstiltskin sat on his stool and sorted aimlessly through his basket of fibres, his brows knit in a deep frown. As disinterested as he pretended to be in Regina's taunts, Belle could see that the visitor had unsettled him. His spinning would soothe him; questions could wait. She went quietly from the room and upstairs, to begin packing for their journey.

It seemed almost a waste of her time, given that Rumpelstiltskin could conjure or bring her anything she desired, but she wasn't sure she liked the thought of being dressed in clothing that could not be removed without his magical assistance or a sharp knife!

With her door shut behind her, Belle lifted her new skirts to the knees and peeked at the white petticoats below. The hem, which no-one but she and her husband would ever see, was embroidered in white silk in a design to match the roses and thorns of her bodice and cuffs. Drawn thread work enhanced the petticoat's beauty, lending light and shadow to the whitework embroidery. She drew up the petticoat as well and had a look at the slippers and the stockings, the latter, though white, being so sheer that she could see her skin through them. Touching, she found that they were silk, much like the ones that belonged to her wedding outfit, but so much finer. Peeking higher, Belle smiled to find white garters tied with ribbons in a blue to match her eyes, the garters embellished with soft roses made of silk. Rumpelstiltskin had surely added _that_ touch for his own delectation - so much soft and pristine white beneath the dark velvet of her skirts, and only they would know it was there, or how he enjoyed her ribbons.

Slowly, distracted and thoughtful, Belle began to remove from her trunk everything that need not go back with her. The pristine household linens took up most of the space, along with the wedding dress that she had done her best not to crush. There would be no washing it, no ironing it, and of course no rescuing the once-white shoes. It saddened her to look at it, and that made her feel silly; it was just a dress, one that had not even been made for her wedding to Rumpelstiltskin. It had spent more time, in her mind, being associated with Gaston and that no-longer future by his side than with the man she had married. She had worn it for less than a day; in fact, she had spent longer at the various fittings and consultations than she had wearing the finished dress. Such a waste. Such a shame that looking at her wedding gown made her sad.

Shaking it out gently, Belle hung the dress with her others in the wardrobe and lightly threaded the new white cord into the eyelets at the back. She wondered if the Queen, Regina, clothed herself with magic, as Rumpelstiltskin seemed to, or if she had a small army of maidservants to help her achieve such flawless perfection while she travelled. She had been a ravishing beauty, no doubt of that, with her raven hair and dark eyes.

Belle had never taken to powdering her face or painting herself. By the time she had been old enough that she might decently do so, they were already embroiled in a then-distant war. She had set herself against frivolity with her usual quiet stubbornness and nobody had questioned it - not when sons were already falling in some far-off battlefield, and when the precious trade routes were under threat. It had been a good example to set as the daughter of their leader, perhaps, but it was it appropriate for a wife?

Lotte had an interest in such things, always seeming to find out what was new, what was fashionable, and where it could be obtained. She understood all the secret messages that could be conveyed by colour, by the choice of a flower, the position of a fan. Sometimes, Belle thought that Lotte wished herself a great lady, as grand as Regina, walking beside a king. When they were both younger, they had swapped dresses and Belle had played at maidservant while Lotte played the part of mistress. Even then, Lotte had imagined a fine husband for herself, and her definition of a fine husband had differed vastly from Belle's own. _She_ would be able to advise on powders, rouge and the like, Belle knew. And soon!

Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she remembered how soon she would be home. The coming journey would be so much more pleasant than the one that brought her to Rumpelstiltskin's castle; she was no longer afraid to speak to him, and if she still had fears about the future then they were different from the ones she had brought with her.

How she had changed. Would the people at home notice? Would her father? Did Rumpelstiltskin know how much his young bride had changed, in just a month? No, of course he didn't - couldn't, any more than Belle could be sure if he had changed, or simply begun to share more of himself over time. Perhaps Queen Regina knew him well enough to notice, though. That wasn't a pleasant thought. A wife could be a strong ally, yes, but a man's affection for her could equal vulnerability, and she was quite sure that Rumpelstiltskin could not permit that.

Come what may, Belle decided, she would be very, very careful about mirrors from now on.


	42. Queen of Nowhere

As prepared as she was ever likely to be for travel, Belle glanced at the window and saw that it was completely dark outside. At home she had never been one to live by the clock, but her newfound ability to lose entire _hours_ while performing the most mundane tasks had begun to alarm her. There were several clocks among Rumpelstiltskin's collection of oddities; she definitely needed to get around to asking him if she might take one of them for her bedroom and another for the kitchen.

Something made her wary of touching the objects in their display cabinet - there had to be a reason why Rumpelstiltskin kept and valued them, and Belle supposed that they were magical in some way. She wouldn't touch them without his leave.

Closing the lid of her trunk, Belle realised that she felt cold. As lovely as the gossamer sleeves of her new gown looked and felt, they were none too warm compared to her usual things. She pulled the curtains shut and then closed the drapes all around the bed, leaving only the end open where it faced the fireplace. For a few days she had thought that winter might be coming to an end. She hoped very much that her husband was prepared to warm her toes in bed, tonight.

Rumpelstiltskin was still at his spinning wheel, engrossed and working at some speed. Usually, he seemed to use the wheel as an occupation for idle hands, in no hurry to turn out spools of gold. Belle could see that he had been extremely busy, this evening - his basket of straw was almost empty, beside his stool. He spared her a half-glance, as she passed by on her way to the kitchen, but Belle did not disturb him, seeing that he was deep in thought.

After a quick meal of eggs and bread, Belle placed a basket upon the kitchen table, into which she put a few fruits, a flask of water, a knife, several hard-boiled eggs, one of the bottles of mead that had been a wedding gift, and the two gilded cups that had come with it. In the morning she would add a loaf and a cheese. _This_ time, she intended to travel in comfort. Another basket, in her room, contained four books, her sampler of nursery stitches and the two half-made aprons. Rumpelstiltskin might be able to amuse himself indefinitely with a piece of string, but Belle knew that she would be restless on the road. Her extreme caution in her new husband's company had kept her from so much as fidgeting, during her journey to his castle, let alone complaining about her comforts. It was so different, now.

Belle liked the feeling of warmth, the sweet little ache below her ribs, when she had such thoughts. She knew that she had _been_ that frightened girl, miserable in her wedding dress and travelling beside a forbidding stranger. She knew that it had been _she_ who spent the journey half sick with worry about what her wedding night would bring. The memories were all there, yet she could not feel the terror as more than a faint echo, now. Rumpelstiltskin had been a good husband, and trust had put away her fear of him. Her greatest fear now, concerning his company, was that he might laugh at her, or think her foolish. Probably, he would think her foolish for packing food for the journey, but Belle was beginning to realise how impractical her husband could sometimes be. It came from his sheer disinterest in the world, she was almost certain; he had grown weary of so much, and had only to reach for a little magic now and then to avoid most of the necessities that ruled the daily lives of others. He dismissed the cost to himself of the small magic - her bath, her clothing, the spells that gave them light and warmth, but there must _be_ a cost, and it must be cumulative. She could not help feeling that to use magic, any magic, was to succumb to it in some subtle yet vital way.

Satisfied with her preparations, Belle saw to the fire and then checked her letter box, unsurprised to find it empty. Her father's brief note was still open on the table, and Belle stopped a moment to read the words again. How relieved he must be that she was coming home! Rumpelstiltskin might have taken her away forever, forbidden them to write to one another. As the Queen had said, he might have thrown her into a dungeon. She was his wife, and no law in all the lands said that a husband might not rule her in all things. Except here. Frowning, Belle remembered what Wren had told her. Men would hesitate to raise their hand to their wife, here in Odstone. That was Rumpelstiltskin's law.

Yes, soon Papa would see that Belle had found a good husband, and that he need not worry about her even when they were apart. Whatever Rumpelstiltskin might say, or try to imply, his actions towards her spoke for themselves and would continue to do so. Queen Regina had seen what she wished to see, coloured by bitterness at her own marriage. As far as Belle was aware, there had been no children from the match; Regina had been stepmother to Snow White. Had that been what she meant, in saying that men wished to make mothers of them?

Rumpelstiltskin expected no sons - demanded nothing of her at all, but that she keep his secrets. As sorry as she might be that the Queen had not been so fortunate in her marriage, Belle could not forgive the blatant attempt to undermine Rumpelstiltskin in his own castle. The insults, the sneering disgust and the sugar-coated sympathy for Belle seemed at odds with the woman's confidence and poise; too obvious, too reckless and too poorly aimed for the attacks of a queen. And what had she meant by "soon"? She was not to know Belle's situation, of course, but what a prediction! Sons, and soon?

Shaking her head, Belle made a fresh pot of tea and carried it upstairs, with two cups. She would not disturb Rumpelstiltskin if he wished to be alone, but she wanted to sit with him, even if that meant occupying the fireside while he worked at his wheel, all but oblivious to her presence. On the tray, beside the cups, she had a single bundle of straw for him. She could always go back for more, but hoped that he would want to join her upstairs before he had want of more straw.

He stilled the wheel and smiled slightly, when Belle entered the room, apparently pleased to see her. Leaving the tray on the table, she took him the neat bundle of straw.

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin said, shyly taking it and tucking it into the basket beside him. "How does the dress please you, my dear?"

"It's very comfortable," Belle smiled. "But I may need a cloak to go with it. It's not very warm."

"Yes," he said, his eyes sweeping over her in a way that would have been unforgivable, were he not her husband. It took in every curve, every dip, every blemish, crease and speck of dust. "Of course you will." To her delight, Rumpelstiltskin abandoned his spinning and, stepping down from the dais, took her hand and walked with her to the table. Belle had left the tray at the near end, opposite his chair, but Rumpelstiltskin prevented her from moving it and, making her giggle, caught her by the waist and lifted her up to sit on the table next to the tea things. "I hope that the Queen didn't upset you," he said, staying close and keeping his hands at her sides. "My business is often... unpleasant."

"She didn't." Not that Belle would have been entirely honest with him about it, if she had. "Why do you let her call you that? Rumple?"

He cocked his head, considering.

"It's more polite than the things I sometimes call her," he said, brightly. "But names have power, you know that. Perhaps she's afraid to say my name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin," Belle said, clasping her hands loosely behind his neck, and smiling at his surprise. Still surprise, every time she made such a gesture of affection. How could it still be unexpected, when their hands and their mouths had been everywhere, and after all the things they had said? "I'm not afraid. All that ever happened when I said it is that you came and helped us."

"For a price," he reminded her, lowering his gaze. "Bringing an old monster straw and tea."

"A fair price," Belle smiled, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "She upset you, didn't she? Those silly things she was saying, about things that are none of her business."

"I'm pleased that she underestimates you," he said, breaking away from her and becoming busy with the tea tray. "That you do not make the same mistake, with her."

That was not an answer to her question, but Belle didn't press him. His behaviour seemed answer enough; the woman had, if not upset him, then at least unsettled him. Perhaps not her words then, the ones that had been unguardedly spiteful, but the other business? Snow White on the run from a charge of treason was hard to credit. Snow White on the run from the malice of a stepmother capable of murder, on the other hand...

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin passed her a cup and saucer, which Belle accepted with a smile of thanks. He added several lumps of sugar to his own cup, then stood stirring it, still on the tray, and watching the sugar slowly dissolve rather than making any effort to drink.

"My trunk is packed," Belle said, when his brooding began to unnerve her. "Will we leave early in the morning?"

"Eager to be off?" Still gazing into his cup, Rumpelstiltskin sounded wistful. Belle remembered stories about people who could see the future in tea, in the leaves or in the swirling liquid, and wondered what her husband saw. She wondered why he preferred the cup that she had chipped.

"Eager to see Papa," Belle admitted. "I don't much look forward to the journey."

"I could take you there in a puff of smoke," he said, still lost in his game with the spoon and the tea. "You'd probably be ill for days afterwards, mind. It's a very long way."

"Yes," Belle said, pausing with her cup almost to her lips. "Where _are_ we? I never asked! Are these King Leopold's lands?"

"You mean, are they _Queen Regina's_ lands," Rumpelstiltskin said, straightening and placing his spoon neatly on the saucer, before lifting his cup. "And no. I bow to no-one. My lands are neutral. Bordered by several of the kingdoms but not a part of them." Draining the cup in one, he set it down and then, flicking his fingers towards the table behind her, sent a stream of magic past her. Belle jumped out of the way, half of her tea spilling onto the floor in her haste. The oily, purple-black smoke faded to reveal a large rectangular map in the centre of the big table. It was a beautiful thing, she saw at once; not merely a plan of the kingdoms of the continent, but richly illuminated to show the chief qualities of each. Abandoning what was left of her tea, she hurried to see the exquisite map.

It was tall enough to fill the table and slightly overlap the edges, and wide enough that Belle could have hidden most of herself behind it, if she held it up. Everywhere was colour and detail, and with it the feeling of great age - the pigments had cracked on the vellum, and some of the gilding had flaked away. It _felt_ old and it _smelled_ old, like the musty ledgers at home from which she had learned to read the old tongue. That aside, Belle could see very clearly that the map was current. Queen Regina's silhouette and titles alone filled the space that should have shown King Leopold, beside her if not alone. The painting of King Midas' castle overflowed with gold from every window of the lower floor, each tiny detail picked out in gold leaf.

Eagerly, she sought her own kingdom, that of King George. He looked more handsome in his silhouette than Belle had found him to be in the flesh; more noble in his crown than he looked in well-used armour. Towns, sometimes entire provinces that had fallen in the ogres' war were absent from the map, and it seemed to Belle that the green-black swathes of the Enchanted Forest were, even as she watched, very slowly closing to fill the space where those places had once been.

"Good, isn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, peering over her shoulder. Again, Belle jumped half out of her skin to find him suddenly there, so close that she ought to have heard a footfall, if not his very _breath_. He caught her waist with one hand, reaching beneath her other arm to place a black fingernail delicately on the map, where a roughly triangular patch of land was flanked by a wide river and the spine of mountains that rose up to divide the land between the kingdoms of Midas and Leopold. "Here we are." A small representation of a castle was just beside his finger. The third side of the rough triangle bordered, just barely, on the furthest spur of the forest claimed by King George.

Belle could see that Rumpelstiltskin had positioned himself at the most accessible pass through the mountains, very much like the fat spider at the centre of a well-placed web. He had only to reach out, this way or that, to touch most of the world. Odstone was nowhere and yet could have influence everywhere.

"Shall I declare us a kingdom, treasure, and make you a queen?" Hands at her hips, Rumpelstiltskin nuzzled her hair.

"Then I _would_ need to wear uncomfortable clothes," Belle said, but some part of her was thrilled by the suggestion. He _could_ do it; he had that much power. At his word, she might be a queen. The Queen of Nowhere. The thought made her smile a little. "Are you going to let me out of this dress?" She hadn't meant it to sound so saucy, but it couldn't be helped; not with Rumpelstiltskin so near that she could feel his breath against her ear.

"Here?" He sounded intrigued, and Belle wondered if he wanted her again. She'd found no pattern or logic to her own desires, after all; she could want more of him scant minutes after he'd made her come, or she could pass days with nothing but a comfortable feeling of belonging when she thought of his touch. There was no reason that a man's desire should make any more sense than her own.

"Not here," she said, firmly. "But I'd like to get ready for bed. Will you come up?"

"Yes."

Allowing her to lead the way, Rumpelstiltskin went with her to her room. Glancing back at him, once or twice, Belle saw that he remained thoughtful. He had been so even before the Queen's visit, she reminded herself - upset at his failure to uncover the secrets of the curse that had struck him down. He had found some solace in having her beside him, then. She hoped that he would find it beside her again, now. She would have liked to ask more questions, both about the visitor and about the curse, but now was not the time. If he sought distraction in her arms, she would provide it. If he chose to tell her things then she would listen.

Rumpelstiltskin stood just inside her bedroom door and looked around the room. It was cosier than when Belle had gone downstairs, and she hoped that the bed would have captured a little of the warmth.

"Still too cold, my dear?" he asked, indicating the way she had left the four-poster draped, except for the end nearest to the fire. "The castle has many rooms. We must find you a better one."

"It wouldn't matter if my husband didn't wander off in the night," Belle said, archly. She tried to contain her smirk. "I'm sure you must need more sleep, and proper meals."

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin replied, his tone light. "The honeymoon ends and the nagging begins."

"I'm not nagging," Belle laughed, taking her nightgown from the bed and giving it a shake. She had packed away her silk ones for the journey, and realised now that she would miss the softness of them tonight, and their loose shape. Even the way his touch felt through the cloth. She was quickly learning to share her husband's taste for fine silk. "I'm surmising."

"My mistake." Moving to her side, Rumpelstiltskin caught her chin and gave her a kiss. Belle felt the caress of his magic at the same time and shut her eyes, her kiss faltering with the discomfort of it. She didn't think she would ever become used to that. It reminded her a little of dreams where she could not breathe. Now, she held her breath and tensed her body until it ended. Her nightgown was no longer in her hand, but cool against her skin, and her husband wanted to kiss her.

To Belle's delight, he had changed his own clothing as well. When she reached behind him and clasped his back, her hands found silk. Tearing herself away from his mouth, she glanced down and smiled, foolishly, when she saw that he wore black.

"What?" he asked, unnerved.

"Nothing."

"You're smirking, mistress, that's not nothing." Rumpelstiltskin pulled her against him, tightly, and watched her with a questioning expression until Belle gave in.

"The black gown," she said, rubbing his back. "I like it best."

"Oh." He frowned slightly. Belle wondered if he had even noticed the colour, himself. She was certain - absolutely certain - that he dressed with an effect in mind, whether it be the silks of a gentleman of leisure or the nasty, hard coat of scaly leather. She had assumed that he had a purpose, in choosing the black gown or the white ones, even if it was only his own comfort as he lay beside her, but perhaps he gave it no thought at all? "Black it shall be, then," Rumpelstiltskin said, giving a weak little shrug.

Slightly disappointed when he did not kiss her again, Belle kept still while he sought out the various pins in her hair. It gave him less trouble this time than the last, she noted, or perhaps he was less tentative about it. He plucked out the four pins in pairs and placed them on top of her trunk. As Belle shook out her locks, Rumpelstiltskin's lips parted for a soft, indrawn breath.

She could have cried with the joy of it - that her husband could flatter her more deeply with an involuntary reaction than with any sweet words. Even so, it made her shy, and Belle lowered her gaze, feeling her cheeks grow warm as he stared with open appreciation of her beauty.

"May I brush it?" Rumpelstiltskin clasped his hands in front of him, as though afraid he might find himself touching without her leave. He tilted his head, boyishly coy about it and so very different from the way he had spoken to her in bed last night. So many faces, Belle thought, and the thought made her sad. She brought her brush and comb out from her travel basket and offered them, wordlessly. Rumpelstiltskin looked thrilled, and Belle thought, ruefully, of the first time he had brushed her hair, when she was injured and unable to do so herself. It had been a tender favour, then. Tonight, he asked to be allowed to tend her hair for his own sake, his own reasons.

Pulling open the drapes just enough to admit her, Belle scurried for the middle of the bed. The sheets felt even more chilly than they usually did, and she shivered and stayed kneeling by the pillows, hugging her arms. She liked her rooms very much, and regretted that she had found little use for the bright little sitting room with its inviting bookshelves, but maybe Rumpelstiltskin was right? Maybe, when they returned, she would look for somewhere a little warmer to make her own. Or theirs, she thought, being bounced gently by the mattress as Rumpelstiltskin arranged himself to her right side and slightly behind, kneeling as she was, and took up a handful of her hair. She shivered again, at that, and was uncomfortable until her body decided which shivers belonged to discomfort and which to the sensual enjoyment of being touched so.

Although he had little experience at it, Rumpelstiltskin dealt with her hair with a rapt patience that well suited the task. Prone to curling tightly when it got wet, and being both thick and quite fine, Belle's hair tangled unless she plaited it and needed far more attention than, for example, Leorna's ever seemed to. Her friend had dark hair, straight and shiny. She could untie it and give her head a little shake and it would simply settle about her shoulders, neatly.

Lotte would chatter away, while brushing Belle's hair of an evening. Rumpelstiltskin did not say a word, though he made the occasional sound in his throat that conveyed his enjoyment of the process. Belle was happy to keep still and allow him to indulge himself, but pulled her sheepskin against her and hugged it tightly for the warmth.

At that, Rumpelstiltskin set aside the brush and comb and drew her against him, arms folding over her own across her belly.

"Why so cold?" he asked, squeezing. "We cannot travel if you're not well."

"The bed is cold," Belle said, shrugging her shoulders. "It soon warms up, with you in it too."

"I'm not very good at providing for you, am I?" Glum, Rumpelstiltskin released her and went back to his gentle combing. "You were much plumper when you got here."

Belle did her very best to fight down a new smirk.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she said, trying to sound serious, " _never_ refer to a lady as 'plump'. She might slap you."

He hesitated, the comb dug into a hank of her hair.

"Oh." Glum became positively maudlin, at that, and Belle turned to face him, sorry that she had teased.

"You're right," she said, kindly, and cupped his face between her hands, hoping that he saw only her affection. Shrouded by the drapes, Belle could not see very much of his expression, but knew that he would be able to see her. "I keep forgetting to eat. Wren told me off for it as well." Lowering her hands to his knees, she let Rumpelstiltskin take up the last of her uncombed hair and work at it while she spoke. "I've never had as much time to call my own as I have now," she said, "but the days seem to fly past, and I hardly get anything done. I don't think I would have made a very good duchess."

"Not for long, certainly, if you didn't eat," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, mildly. "I'd miss you very much, if you wasted away."

Oh, she would have given _anything_ to be able to see his expression, then. As much as he might have liked to follow up his patient work with the comb by brushing, Belle's clumsy kiss distracted him. Rumpelstiltskin lay back and pulled her with him, brush and comb abandoned above the bedclothes while they stretched themselves out beneath.

Lying above him, appreciating his warmth as her limbs met the still-chilly sheets, Belle kissed him again. She tried to be as clever as he was with their tongues, but it never worked; she got too excited and forgot to try, or one of them went the wrong way. Tonight, it simply worked and they kissed contentedly until Belle's jaw ached from the effort, and the space they occupied in the bed was wonderfully warm.

Rumpelstiltskin grasped her back, lightly, but did not caress her as he usually did. Belle liked to think that he enjoyed the kiss too much to risk distracting her from it. For her part, she remembered being taken in his tower, and how much she had missed the kissing and the nearness of their usual embraces. She had it now, without the driving passion that so often diverted her from her intentions, and she savoured it. Once they parted, breathless and reluctant, Belle could taste him still. Her lips felt tender, her throat dry; she felt quite hypnotised, and not driven to her usual distraction by desire. Were it not for her aching jaw, she thought she might have wanted to kiss him until one of them fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Her husband seemed content, also. He kept quite still, his breathing becoming calm while Belle, ever so reluctantly, eased herself to his left side and snuggled as close as she could. Rumpelstiltskin held her there and, when they had been still for a little while, began to pet her hair.

"She was... wrong?" Each word seemed a struggle for him, so Belle thought hard rather than ask him to make his meaning clear. Of course, the Queen and her hateful remarks. Knowingly or not, she had found a weakness in Rumpelstiltskin - that contempt for his appearance and nature that existed alongside his enjoyment of his own, sheer power. His fear that his bride, having promised so much, would yet find him unacceptable as a husband, undesirable as a lover.

Even Belle's momentary silence as she considered the question brought him pain; she could feel it in the way he held himself, waiting for her answer. His fingertips were still buried in her hair, but his hand had fallen still.

"She was wrong," Belle said, quietly. "I'd try hard to be a good wife to you, even if I didn't--" Tears pricked her eyes, forcing her to close them. How could she speak of the wanting, the tenderness, the hope in her heart? Affectionate words could never be proof enough of love, nor love proof of loyalty. Perhaps _nothing_ would be proof enough for a heart so scarred as Rumpelstiltskin's. "Even if I didn't want to," she finished, hoarsely. "I do. I truly do."

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her, briefly, and Belle reached across him with her arm, captured his legs with her own, and kissed his chest. A quiet indignation that had been simmering in her breast since she saw Queen Regina occupying Rumpelstiltskin's seat caught aflame in her, now, and became fierce. Insults and empty words she would tolerate, allusions and false empathy she would bear, but the seeds of doubt planted in her husband's mind? No. No, she would not put up with that. Not even from a Queen of the Realms.

"Does she come here often? The Queen?"

"Not often," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Only when she wants something, and thinks that she can afford the price."

"Good," Belle said, gripping the front of his nightgown tightly, trying to let go of the sudden and unfamiliar rage. "Good."

It took Rumpelstiltskin's hand, once more caressing her hair with sweet care, to calm the sudden pounding of Belle's heart; to unlock her jaw and allow her to close her eyes with sleep in mind. She found it difficult to bear any ill-will towards anyone, on her own behalf, but for the sake of another - for her dear husband - she found it difficult to let her displeasure go.

The candles flickered out, gradually, and Belle thought that there was some pattern to how they were extinguished around the room, but could not quite make it out. Rumpelstiltskin continued to caress her the whole while, and she supposed that he was sleepless and amusing himself with his trick for putting out the flames. She hoped that he would sleep, at least a little while.

Belle was at the very edge of sleep, herself, when Rumpelstiltskin spoke again.

"Belle?" So fogged and heavy-limbed was she, he had to say her name again before she could muster a response. "Belle?"

"Yes?" she mumbled, fidgeting slightly for more comfort beside him. His words seemed to drift to her from a great distance, but they were softly spoken and welcome.

"You are a perfect wife."


	43. Rumpelstiltskin's Wife

For the first few moments after waking, Belle thought that she was alone. Then, her eyes adjusting to the dull light, she saw Rumpelstiltskin sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, his back against the left-hand bedpost.

"There you are," he said, approvingly, and made his way back to her side. Drowsy, Belle welcomed him for a kiss, and wondered at his eagerness. How long had he been awake? Not all night, surely? Still heavy with sleep, she contented herself with one hand at the back of his neck while he rubbed and teased her, and took a languid pleasure in his forthright approach.

"Nice," she managed, when he hesitated at her stillness and silence. Gently, she combed her fingers through his hair. "Go on. It's nice."

It _was_ nice, for all that her pleasure remained a soft inner glow. Nice to be kissed, to be wanted, to curl herself around him while he took his pleasure, and to find her own in the reassurance of his strength, the gentleness of his demands. Nice that her husband had begun to trust in his welcome, both in her bed and in her arms.

Rumpelstiltskin's urgency drove him to finish with her quickly, his face buried against the curve of her neck and his hands clutching her shoulders. He made no sound save his unsteady breathing, as though anxious not to impose so far as to wake her up further. Belle smiled, satisfied beyond any mere physical sensation, and urged him to remain where he was, covering her, until he was calm again and she, herself, felt a little more awake. Then they kissed, as languid as last night but with the addition of his hand between her legs until she shuddered for him, biting her lip to keep the sweet silence between them for a little while longer.

 _The perfect wife_. She remembered, just as they parted, that he had called her that. No doubt it had contributed to the depth and comfort of her rest, for she remembered nothing else prior to opening her eyes in daylight and seeing Rumpelstiltskin across the bed, occupying himself while he waited for her.

Belle was discovering a taste for flattery along with her taste for silks, and could not contain her smile as the memory came to her. Beside her, already becoming restless, Rumpelstiltskin sat up. As Belle did likewise, she saw him reach down to the end of the bed, to where he had been sitting, and retrieve something. Returning, he drew open the tapestry on the window side of the bed, admitting so much daylight that Belle had to squint and shield her eyes until she became used to it. She was sure that she remembered closing the curtains, last night, so it appeared that her husband had been up and about long before she woke. Had he gone and come back, or kept to her room? How lonely, she thought, sadly - to wait quietly, sleepless, for a lover to wake.

"How do you like these?" Kneeling, knees peeking from beneath his bunched nightgown, Rumpelstiltskin offered her a handful of gold, tipping it gently into the pool of fabric in her lap. "I made them," he added, when Belle failed to do more than stare speechlessly at the items in front of her. "To accompany your dress," he explained, and she remembered herself enough to reach for his hand and give it a squeeze of reassurance. She understood - she simply had yet to find the words or even the breath to thank him.

There were five pieces of gold in her lap and, other than when she had rummaged in one of Rumpelstiltskin's endless chests of golden thread, she had never held so much of the precious metal in her entire life. She remembered, as a small girl, being allowed to stack up coins before her father secured their coffers with the taxes for the King; she had held twenty discs of pure gold, then, and Papa had ruffled her hair and laughingly told her that it was as much gold as she would ever see at once.

Her husband had made two matching combs for her hair, each the width of her hand at the top and decorated with the same intricate design of roses and thorny stems that adorned her new gown. There was a tiara, its shape almost a match for the simple silver filigree one that went with her wedding gown, but when worn it would form a half-inch wide band of pure gold against her hair. It ought to have been terribly heavy, but it felt hollow and impossibly light for its size. There was a matching band that, like her bracelet, had a near-invisible hinge; this one would fit her throat, perfectly, she knew. The last was a cloak pin with a chain between the two pieces, each of which was the size of a large coin and embossed to match the hair combs. As fine as the chain and the pins looked, Belle guessed that they would grip her cloak about her in even the strongest of winds. Rumpelstiltskin had an eye for beauty, and magic at his disposal to ensure that beauty did not need to make way for any practical considerations.

"Do you like them, my dear?" Anxious to please her, Rumpelstiltskin looked so worried. Belle, blinking away tears as she finally tore her gaze from the treasures in her lap, saw him lick his lips, eyes wide.

"They're beautiful," she said, hoarsely, because she had to say _something_ before her poor husband fretted himself all the way to an apology, mistaking her speechlessness for a lack of enthusiasm. "They're wonderful. Thank you."

"You shall be warm, as well," he said, relieved. "I enjoy making things."

Belle touched his cheek with her knuckles, and thought of a lame spinner, alone with his son in dark times. He had always made things, whether with his hands or with his magic; the desire to do so came from before his encounter with the Dark One, his predecessor. The love of creating with his hands, the love of his son - two things she knew about the man Rumpelstiltskin had once been.

"Thank you," she said again, dropping her hand to his knee and gripping there. "I don't think I can put up my hair without a mirror. Lotte will do it," she said, quickly. She did not want him to think her ungrateful! "Wait and see."

"There are other ways," Rumpelstiltskin said, a little distantly. "You were quite right, my treasure. The whole world must see what a treasure you are, and that you are mine." He blinked, the distance gone, and was her anxious suitor once more. "Your bath, my dear, and a banquet for breakfast, and then I'll armour you against the world."

"Lotte will be scandalised," Belle predicted, with glum certainty. "That I need a man's help to get dressed."

"And undressed," he said, expression brightening, a little dart of mischief out of nowhere.

"I don't think it's a secret that husbands _undress_ their wives," Belle laughed. "I'm not very hungry."

"Eat it or don't, sweet one," Rumpelstiltskin said, wagging a finger in front of her nose, "but my bride will no longer go hungry through my failure. A banquet there will be, every morning after your bath."

Belle sucked in her smile and nodded, obediently.

"Shoo," Rumpelstiltskin tried, flicking his fingers in the direction of her bathroom. He was little better at being stern with her than Belle was at containing her grin.

"Yes, husband," she said, as soberly as she could. "Will you join me for this banquet?"

"Will it help?" He looked dubious, but Belle knew that there was little that she could not ask of him. Not the husband who called her _perfect_ and showered her with gifts of pure gold. Pure gold made by his own hands, his own magic. She would treasure them, every one, but in some ways the promise of his company at her meals was of greater value to her.

"It would help me remember breakfast," Belle said, truthfully. "And I'd be sure to give you a kiss."

"Deal," he said, quickly. It seemed more a reflex than a joke, as though he could not resist binding her to a small promise. Or, possibly, he found it difficult to resist a promising deal. Belle carefully moved the jewels from her lap to the nearest pillow, and uncovered her legs, rising on her knees until she could reach for him, her arms around his neck, and kiss him. Rumpelstiltskin sighed with contentment, left hand wandering shamelessly to her breast and kneading it until she drew away.

"That one was just because," she said, and gently plucked his hand from her chest, placing it in his lap. "I don't want you thinking that you have to bargain for every kiss."

Oh, how she enjoyed being able to rattle him with such a small thing as a kiss! None of his knowledge, none of his power, nothing in his centuries of living had prepared him for a wife who offered her affection freely. Beneath his looks of wonder, there was sometimes a little fear.

Belle was quick about her bathing, finding that she was anxious to be on the road. She assumed that they would once more stop for the night along the way, and the sooner they reached that halfway destination the better, as far as she was concerned. Even in comfort, even with amusements and supplies, she knew that she would not enjoy the journey itself. Her husband's close company would help, of course, and the magic that allowed them to travel so fast also seemed to ensure a smooth ride, but it was a thing to be tolerated. A means to an end. At least, this time, she would not be afraid to ask him to stop the coach and let her out to stretch her legs or visit the bushes.

She found herself thinking a great deal about the quaking bride who had come to Odstone but a month ago. That lost and bewildered Belle seemed such a stranger to her. Rumpelstiltskin had called her _child_ and she had resented it, but she had been, in a way. Had he been right, she wondered, that it was a pity she came to him a virgin? No. Belle wished that she had _known_ more, before her wedding night, but Rumpelstiltskin relished her purity and enjoyed spoiling her, little by little, without alarming her. She was his, and he liked that she had been no-one else's before him. That much, at least, was as she had been taught to expect.

While she could not imagine things having gone any other way, Belle did wish that she had been less afraid of him, during that first journey. She could look back, now, and see how ashamed he had been - how eager to reassure her that his expectations were humble and her position a safe one.

Ashamed herself, Belle wondered if she would have been less afraid had her new husband looked like an ordinary man, wizard or no. He seemed so _familiar_ to her, now. More than that, the sight of him pleased her, as his touch did. As his voice did, when it was soft and sad, or kind. She no longer noticed that he glittered faintly in the right light, or that his skin bore the marks of the dreadful magic that changed him, long ago. Just as the sensation of his magic had become ordinary to her, so had Rumpelstiltskin's appearance. She had thought no less of him when he was ill, and looked mortal; he had been recognisable as the man she'd wed. Nevertheless, it had been strange to see him ordinary, and a relief when he became strange again, and familiar. Besides, he had been in such pain while his magic was dimmed, and his leg so horribly scarred that she could see no prospect of it healing on its own. Mortal, he would live in agony. How could she prefer that to a little strangeness?

Another guilty thought followed Belle from her bath to the fireside chair, where she huddled in a bundle of towels and shivered until she became dry. She almost certainly need fear no rival for Rumpelstiltskin's affections, when he'd struggled even to allow his _wife_ to desire him. He hadn't only disbelieved her - he had tried to prevent her, thinking that to do so would be a kindness! He was not, Belle had to admit, what most young women were looking for when they dreamed of a lover or husband to carry them away from a tiresome life. How many people bothered to look beneath the surface - of anyone, or anything?

Yes, she was his and he would show the world so, but he was hers as well. It was a wonderful feeling, to belong.

Dressing quickly in her work things, Belle put her brush and comb into the basket. As an afterthought, she added another two books, then one of the silk handkerchiefs that Rumpelstiltskin had given her. The gifts of gold she left where they were, safely nestled on the pillow. She knew that he would wish her to wear them, but the collar of gold would look silly with her untidy dress, and she had spoken truthfully about the difficulty of putting up her hair without the aid of a mirror. Since his warning about Queen Regina, Belle hesitated even to improvise with her reflection in the basin or the back of a spoon.

There were other ways, he'd said. What did _that_ mean?

Belle could smell the promised breakfast before she was three-quarters of the way down the stairs. Leaving her basket on the table in the chilly marble hall, she went into the great room and saw two places set at the nearest end of the long table. For the first time, there were two chairs - a new one to the left of her husband's, and the small portion of the table that they were to occupy simply groaned with silvered dishes. He had not been exaggerating, when promising her a banquet.

Rumpelstiltskin occupied the fireside chair and there, too, a second seat had been added, with a small table between the two. Belle had never minded too terribly that he kept the enormous room all to himself, but she had minded a great deal when the Queen made herself at home there. It seemed that her husband had found it unpalatable, as well, or perhaps only wished to make it clear to Belle who was queen _here_.

Of the stunning map of the realms there was no sign. Belle was rather sorry about that, for she would have liked to look at it for much longer. She was sure that there was magic in it, somehow keeping the illustrated parchment current, and would gladly have sat for hours with it spread before her, trying to catch the moment when something changed.

"Breakfast!" Rumpelstiltskin announced, rising smoothly to his feet and, turning, giving her a little bow. "My Lady?" Glad that he had that sprightly energy about him, once more, Belle smiled as he drew out her chair. He waited for her to sit before taking his own seat, and reached at once for a tall silver pot, filling his chipped teacup with something that definitely wasn't tea. It smelled rich and bitter, and made Belle recoil slightly as she reached for the nearest of the domed silver covers. As she had feared, there was enough food for a large family - meat sausages, coddled eggs, thick bacon and any number of hot items. Another dish held porridge, another smoked fish. There was toast, butter, jams, honey, tea and, the aroma weaving around all of it, whatever Rumpelstiltskin was drinking.

"What _is_ that?" Belle could not manage to conceal her suspicion of it.

"Coffee," Rumpelstiltskin said, taking a single piece of smoked fish onto his plate, and then a piece of toast which he began to butter with his usual, meticulous care. "A roasted bean from the lands far beyond Agrabah. Ground and infused. It's quite invigorating."

"It smells vile," Belle declared, and filled her own cup with tea. This, too, was the very best - the sweet, astringent, shrivelled brown leaves that sold for shocking amounts at the docks, and was prized by those who could afford to serve it to their most honoured guests. Rumpelstiltskin had all manner of such teas, from the fine near-black leaves to strange, curly green ones that made a brew with an aftertaste of honeyed grass. Belle had yet to try them all, being often drawn to the herbal tisanes that she had liked at home. Chamomile, mint and rosebuds tasted like home, while these exotic, expensive teas tasted like... here. The mystery and adventure of her new life, and of being so thoroughly spoiled by her new husband that she could easily forget herself.

Oysters! The last of the covered platters held oysters, on a bed of chipped ice! Belle hardly knew where to begin, and felt frankly embarrassed by the extravagance of the meal. Still, it was a feast of items that she had not tasted since the battle lines pressed close to her province, and the smell of sage in the sausages coaxed her to a greater than usual appetite. She filled her plate with as much as she thought she could manage, and smiled at Rumpelstiltskin.

"I don't think we need quite so much food, my dear," she said, gently. "Not a whole banquet."

"Possibly not," Rumpelstiltskin said, looking at her strangely so that, for just a moment, Belle was worried that her frankness had offended him. He enjoyed his grand gestures, and she felt that she should enjoy them for his sake, even if she would have been equally content with a flower plucked from a garden, or a kiss.

When she was full to bursting, and indulging in one last cup of tea, Belle sat back with a little sigh. Certainly she had not been going hungry, these past weeks, but her own insistence on preparing everything had meant that she had gone without richness or a variety of flavours. As much as it embarrassed her to admit it, she had thoroughly enjoyed every bite of her breakfast. Rumpelstiltskin continued to pick at the bones of his small fish, without enthusiasm, but had refilled his cup twice with the steaming hot coffee.

"Thank you for breakfast," she said, not sure what to make of his thoughtful silence. It was not the restless brooding of the past days, nor the lassitude of his illness. He _had_ told her that he did not care for breakfast. Did he simply prefer to begin his day in quiet contemplation? Belle preferred to take her meals in company, as she had always done, but she would not hold him to a promise that truly inconvenienced him. "How would you like your kiss?"

At that, Rumpelstiltskin brightened up. Abandoning the murky-looking dregs of his drink, he eased his chair back a little way and patted his knee, looking hopeful. Belle laughed, softly, as she went and sat on his lap, placing her hands on his shoulders. His mantle of leather scales had made a reappearance, she was sorry to see, and looked none the worse for its recent adventures with blood and green potions. Well, it was impressive to look at, she'd allow it that much, but she disliked the sensation of it beneath her hands as she bent to kiss her husband. The leather jerkin beneath was softer, and beneath that he still wore silk. Armour, indeed.

He tasted of the coffee, slightly bitter, and closed his eyes while she kissed him. As impatient as she was to be going, Belle found that she would gladly have remained where she was on the promise of more than a kiss, and pulled herself away before the temptation overcame either one of them. Rumpelstiltskin's expression was as soft as she could remember seeing it. It made an unsettling contrast with the sharp leathers.

"Now then," he said, evicting her from his lap as though he, too, had realised the danger of tempting themselves. Rising, leading her a few paces away from the table, Rumpelstiltskin gave her another of those sinful looks. Belle shut her eyes, tightly, and held her breath, and felt the magic work and weave all around her. Braced for it, prepared and with her lungs full of air, it was a less disturbing sensation, but she could again taste something burned, something metal. It was not so unpleasant that she would protest or try to prevent him doing it, but still, she thought that she would need to ask him to make the gown one that she could put on and take off for herself. "Open your eyes, my dear. You look the part."

Belle did so, blinking rapidly to clear her vision and with her head swimming slightly as she released the trapped breath. She felt considerably heavier than before, a weight on her shoulders and arms, and saw that a cloak of velvet now matched the gown. It had wide sleeves trimmed with fur of a smoky grey that almost matched her chemise. Reaching up, Belle found a wide and fur trimmed hood about her shoulders, also, and the gold cloak pin at her breast. Her hair! With her senses returning to normal, Belle realised that most of her hair was pulled up, no doubt trapped with the golden combs, and that the tiara now crowned some elaborate style that, as on her wedding day, left only wispy ringlets about her face and neck.

Rumpelstiltskin looked extremely pleased with himself, but before she could speak, made an elaborate gesture in front of Belle, stepping quickly backwards and away from her, himself. A dull mist of purple-grey took shape where he had stood a moment ago, and Belle watched, more curious than alarmed, as it resolved into a perfect likeness of herself. When her jaw dropped, so did that of the mirage-Belle.

"Oh..." Belle said, weakly, and watched her twin's face match the movements of her own, silent as a looking glass. Her hair was, indeed, much as it had been for her wedding, but with the addition of the golden jewels. The dark cloak was lined with black silk, emphasising the plum colour of the velvet dress. She stared at herself until, compelled to reach out and touch the mirror-Belle, she saw the figure burst like a bubble, releasing the misty magic. Behind it, waving his hand to clear the small resulting cloud, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head.

"Don't poke the magic, little wife," he said, jaw clenched with more than his usual mild exasperation, but as the air cleared, Belle could see laughter in his eyes. "It might poke you back and then what would you do?"

"Sorry," she said, sheepishly. He _had_ warned her before. "I suppose I'm not very good at believing my own eyes."

"Always believe them, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin said, cheerfully. "Are you ready to go?"

"In a minute," she promised, and made quickly for the kitchen, trying to get used to the weight and bulk of the cloak. It would be wonderfully warm but, unlike the relatively simple dress beneath, it made her feel rather like Queen Regina - far too grand.

This was how Rumpelstiltskin chose to clothe her, when asked to give her a gown that befit her status as his wife. Velvets and gold, silks, and the fur of some creature so rare that Belle could not even name it. She needed the long moments that it took her to add the last things to her basket of food; needed to collect herself, to adjust. She was going out into the world, beyond Odstone and the lands owned by her husband. Though he had not demanded it of her, she had committed herself to being a wife whom he could proudly display in public. For the moment, Belle simply felt swamped in all the finery, but she would learn, she decided. She would learn to wear it, and to be the ally that Rumpelstiltskin had every right to expect her to be.

The little worry niggled beneath her breastbone, as she carried the basket upstairs, that her father would barely recognise her when they saw each other again. How much _had_ she changed, even before her husband outfitted her like a queen? Papa couldn't possibly know that she had become some kind of wanton creature in her husband's arms, could he? She had heard it said that mothers always knew the condition of their daughter's virtue. Did fathers? Would he gaze into her eyes and see another man's wife, instead of a daughter?

Oh, it was a foolish worry, she knew. Giving herself to her husband was natural, it was the way of things - it was _expected_ of her, and Papa would be awaiting the news of a grandchild in her belly, not expecting her to return to him just as she had been when she left. Wouldn't he?

Rumpelstiltskin awaited her in the marble hall, and had been picking through her basket of items for the journey. He did so with a fingertip lightness, as if nervous of what he might uncover. Belle watched him for a few moments, for once unaware of her approach while her slippers were still upon the plush carpet of the great room, and his view of her very slightly obscured by one of the open doors. He had put on his cloak of deep brown wool, and where it had once been trimmed with a mottled white fur, Belle saw that it now matched her own smoke grey. The world would see them united, even in that. A part of her smiled indulgently at the realisation. Another part of her trembled.

Hearing her first footfall beyond the carpet, Rumpelstiltskin looked up, his expression halfway guilty, halfway exasperated as he snatched his hand away from her belongings. His eyes went immediately to the second basket hanging from her arm.

Gods, but he looked so different to her, all armoured in his leather and mocking finery. His face seemed sharper, his nose more hooked, his cheeks more hollowed and his eyes... Belle had grown used to his eyes, the irises overlarge and the pupils far too small in any bright light, but she had a momentary memory of how startling they had been, at first. She noticed the colour and texture of his skin anew, too, and suddenly wished that they did not have to do this. To go. To leave their honeymoon and their days of painful, joyful discovery behind; to put on this costume display for the benefit of the world beyond their walls; to face the world beyond Odstone, where their marriage was a curiosity rather than a scandal.

Belle put out a hand to grasp the door frame, feeling weak at the sudden, dark turn of her thoughts. Her breath came short, hurting in her chest, and her lip trembled. She was _afraid_ , and wrapped around that like a serpent was a sudden jealousy, a resentment of the world that had, she thought, begun when Regina intruded upon them and lingered, smouldering subtly in her, ever since. This marriage, this adventure, this strange, dangerous and conflicted husband - they were _hers_ , and Belle wanted to bar the door against all comers, and make sure that it stayed that way.

He had been about to make a pithy remark about her baskets, she knew, but when Rumpelstiltskin saw her face he bit it back and came to stand before her, hands beneath her elbows to support her.

"My dear, you don't look well," he said, fretfully, his voice thin with a discomfort that, Belle thought, most likely matched her own. "We can delay another day or two?" He hoped that she would nod, say yes, show him her relief at the suggestion, but where would that lead? The two of them, holed up in Odstone with their secrets and their delight in one another, forever able to find a reason not to leave this castle.

When she had arrived, Belle had noted how undefended the place seemed - a palace more than a castle, for display and not defence. Now, for the very first time, she felt in sympathy with the way Rumpelstiltskin wore the vast estate like a sort of shell. It did not need to be fortified or guarded with terrible magic; it merely needed to give him a safe distance from everything and everyone.

"Too much breakfast," Belle said, her voice steadier than she could have hoped. Though her knees felt rubbery and her heart pounded in her nervousness, her head began to clear. They could not live by their fears. _She_ could not. Come what may, she was Rumpelstiltskin's wife, and must face the world as such. "I'm all right."

"If you're sure," he said, weakly, and gave her a hollow smile. "All is ready."

Reassured, in a way, because Rumpelstiltskin appeared to share her uncertainty, Belle took up her other basket from the table and followed him outside. She could see that he had added a pair of black gloves to her basket, and a muff of grey fur and - her heart skipped several beats - a fresh rose. He only gave a shy smile when Belle caught his eye, then he allowed the castle's doors to slam shut behind them.

"Do all the candles go out, and the fires?" Belle remembered arriving to a castle in darkness, with the chill of disuse.

"Yes," he murmured, with his usual disinterest in the finer workings of his household magic. "And the castle is protected while it stands empty."

A fine drizzle, nearer to mist than to rain, settled on their clothes and hair as they hurried to the waiting carriage. The door stood open for them, with the driver as unnervingly still and silent as ever up on the box.

"Thank you," Belle said, feeling the unease still between them as they walked. There was a reluctance in every step, and it was a shared one. "For the rose. For letting me visit him. For everything."

Rumpelstiltskin's bashful nod in appreciation of her thanks was a far cry from their wedding night, she thought, remembering the wordless, toneless grunt that had acknowledged her heartfelt thanks, then.

He watched her strain to place her baskets on the floor, as far inside the coach as she could reach.

"You don't wish to go back for anything?" Taking her hand, but keeping her where she was rather than assist her to mount the step, Rumpelstiltskin regarded her curiously. "The bed, perhaps? The east wing?"

Laughing, Belle swatted him with her free hand - a doubly ineffectual gesture while he wore the heavy cloak.

"I was miserable on the journey here," she protested, as he helped her into the coach and, she was relieved to see, followed her with an effortless leap, catching the top of the door frame and swinging himself inside to take the seat opposite hers. "I was too afraid of you even to ask for something to eat."

Slamming the door, Rumpelstiltskin nodded and looked at his boots.

"Of course you were," he said, lightly enough, but Belle could hear the effort to make it so. As they began to move, Belle stretched out her legs and captured his left shin between her feet, ducking her head to encourage him to catch her eye. "I fear I'm no better at conversation now than I was then," he added, but with more certainty, and with warmth in his eyes.

"That's why I brought the books," Belle said, and rested back against the upholstery while Rumpelstiltskin, still intrigued or concerned by her preparations, fetched up the kitchen basket and picked through it, gingerly, as if he expected to find a man-trap beneath the bread and cheese.

"A picnic?"

"If you like." Belle enjoyed the innocent little revenges - being able to baffle and alarm her husband every bit as much as he sometimes did to her. "Picnics are quite romantic. For courting, I mean."

Flustered, Rumpelstiltskin nodded and set the basket on the seat beside him. From the other, Belle took the new rose. This one was a delicate pink and more heavily fragranced than the first. She twirled it to tickle against her lips for a few moments, pretending not to notice how he pretended not to watch her.

"Does it please you, my dear?" There was that wistful, hopeful note to his voice again. Her husband liked to please her, and his eagerness laid him as bare as did hers, beneath the bedclothes. She ought to be more gentle with it, but did he not tease her in her vulnerability, with his saucy remarks? Lovers could tease and be forgiven. She and Rumpelstiltskin, lovers. Courting. Belle smiled behind the flower.

"Of course it does," she assured him, and nudged his ankle with her foot. "But why roses? Of all the flowers, are they your favourite?"

His hands began to knot and wriggle in his lap.

"They are matchless in every way," he said, haltingly. "Like you."

Belle took pity on him and, placing the bloom very carefully on the seat to her right, bent to take out a book. Rumpelstiltskin's relief was almost palpable, and he had the white satin cord in his hands by the time she straightened again. He wove it through his fingers and then pulled it through, slowly, quickly becoming preoccupied and, Belle was glad to see, relaxing against the seat back rather than sitting rigid as he had been. They had a very long way to go.

The driver slowed the horses to pass over the cobbles of Odstone. Belle could not resist peeking out past the small curtain, just for the chance to see other people. As when she had first arrived, she had glimpses of people standing respectfully aside and watching, soberly, as their master's carriage passed by. Their unhappy faces quelled any urge that Belle might have felt to wave as they went by.

"Wren says that there's a change in the air, when you go away," she said, letting the curtain fall with a sigh as they turned at the wide crossroads. "She knows whether you're here or gone."

"Wren says many things," Rumpelstiltskin replied, gruffly, but he did not deny the possibility. Belle wondered if she would be able to learn to do the same - to take her awareness of his magic and use it to know how far away he was. A room, a mile, an ocean. Then she sighed. Fanciful thoughts were how she had occupied herself during the few long journeys she had ever made, but she had been a child then. As a wife, as Rumpelstiltskin's wife, she ought to try keeping her feet on the ground.

Belle found, quickly and to her disappointment, that trying to read while they swayed and jolted along made her feel ill, with a pain behind her eyes that warned of real pain to come if she did not desist. Neither did she feel equal to sewing a neat line of stitches for her apron in the poor light.

When Rumpelstiltskin heard her sigh of irritation, he looked up from his cat's cradle in concern. It was unlike her to be ill-tempered, even in the slightest, and Belle was sorry for it, but if she could not read and her husband did not wish to make conversation, the journey was going to be tiresome indeed.

"How ill would I be," she said, half-serious, "if you took me there in a puff of smoke?"

Startled, he palmed the white cord and came to the edge of his seat, leaning across the gap towards her.

"My dear?"

"How bad would it be?"

"It takes everyone differently," Rumpelstiltskin told her, his expression one of wary concern. "You're unused to it. It's a very long way. If you wish to travel that way, we need to start small. Work up." He gave an encouraging nod, not at all used to her displaying any interest in magic for her own benefit.

"You took me from the kitchen to our bed," Belle smiled, leaning forward to take his hands. "To Odstone, next time?"

"As you wish." Frowning, Rumpelstiltskin watched her eyes, plainly hoping to find answers there. "We can move a little faster, if you don't mind being very weary tonight, and the road seeming more potholed than usual. We'd be halfway there by sundown."

"The inn?" Belle squeezed his hands, nodding vigorously, her self-pity forgotten with this new realisation. "I hadn't thought. We'll end our honeymoon just as we began it!"

Rumpelstiltskin looked down at their joined hands and then, very gently, brought hers to his face and kissed them each in turn before releasing her.

"Oh, treasure, I hope not," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the corner, folding his arms across his chest as the coach began to move faster. He turned his face away from her, but there was no shadow in which to hide and Belle saw his tiny flinch. Was it of magical effort, or of pained regret? "I do hope not."


	44. Acceptance

Rumpelstiltskin had been quite right about how tired it would make her if they travelled faster. By the time the sun was past noon, Belle was longing to lie down and wondering if she might impose upon her husband to lend his lap as a makeshift pillow, or at least his shoulder as a prop to keep her from spilling from the seat the moment her muscles let go. Her eyes felt gritty and heavy, her stomach uneasy and her head throbbed. After a while she could not contain her yawns, or even manage to keep them politely hidden behind her hand.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" she croaked, eventually, ashamed that she could not endure the very magic that she had encouraged so eagerly. He glanced up, twitching a smile her way. "I feel awful."

Having spent most of the journey thus far in quiet contemplation of his finger puzzles, feet propped jauntily beside her on the opposite seat, Rumpelstiltskin stirred himself and moved to her side, wordlessly reaching his arm and cloak about her and allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said, meekly, for she felt childish and foolish all at once. "Thank you."

"You feel something nearer to the true effects of the journey, going this fast," Rumpelstiltskin explained, without impatience. "Sleep," he urged, and when Belle curled herself up on the seat and timidly placed her head on his thighs, Rumpelstiltskin merely secured her there with his arm draped over her, and took to petting her hair instead of playing with the white satin cord. She could hear him breathing, in spite of the rattle of the carriage, and it comforted her.

Belle couldn't sleep, not exactly, but she rested, drifting in and out of dreams once she grew confident about not tumbling from the seat at the occasional sharp jolt. Rumpelstiltskin held her fast, one hand tucked beneath her breasts without wandering at all. She was grateful, for she truly did feel terrible - as limp and restless as her moon time, yet too queasy to succumb easily to sleep. It was better lying in her husband's lap, if only because his eagerness to comfort her made her happy.

They arrived at the coaching inn just as the sun was setting, and with Belle more comfortable and clear-headed than she might otherwise have been, had he not taken such care of her on the way. Rumpelstiltskin appeared unaffected by their means of travel, but even he looked relieved when he jumped down from the coach and stamped his feet upon solid cobbles. He had spent several hours keeping perfectly still on her behalf, with nothing more to distract or amuse him than the loose ringlets of her hair, and Belle promised herself that she would thank him, generously, as soon as she was recovered from the journey.

The bald innkeeper, tucking a cloth into his belt, was already hurrying out and across the cobbled yard to greet them. Rumpelstiltskin lifted Belle down gently and, winking, raised the hood of her cloak around her face. Belle at once felt like a conspirator, excited and rather guilty, even if she was rather unsteady on her feet. She clung firmly to her husband's arm.

As before, Rumpelstiltskin deposited several coins into the palm of the nervous innkeeper.

"Take up my Lady's belongings," he said, his voice so imperious that Belle hardly recognised it. He gestured carelessly back at the coach, and the overflowing baskets. "A hot meal, some wine."

"Yes, yes," the innkeeper said, falling over his own tongue in his haste to appease the Spinner. Belle knew that he would be a man of some standing, to own such a large inn. He would have servants, stable hands and likely a wife and sons too, yet he groped inside the carriage himself to collect her baskets and, ever bobbing, scurried ahead to lead the way to Rumpelstiltskin's room.

On their first visit, Belle remembered that the innkeeper's wife had produced the key to the room. This time, Rumpelstiltskin did so, in a visible puff of purple smoke that earned a gasp from the few early patrons of the main bar. The heavy key swung from his crooked finger as Belle, lent privacy and shadow by the wide hood, glanced quickly around at the various faces of the onlookers. One of them was the innkeeper's wife herself, frozen in the act of drying mugs behind the bar. While she had almost been in tears of pity, showing Belle to her room on that first night, now her face was unreadable. Belle realised, with another little shock of guilt at her part in the play, that nobody had any way of being certain that she was the same woman who had arrived in a crumpled bridal gown, a month ago.

Quiet conversation resumed in the bar once Belle was at the first turn of the stairs, and she wondered if they would dare to speculate aloud about Rumpelstiltskin or the cloaked woman beside him. Likely not, she thought, but they would surely wonder. Had his bedraggled young bride not lasted him the month? Had he a new girl to warm his bed tonight, the fruits of some wicked deal far away? Was she a beauty, beneath the cloak and hood?

Rumpelstiltskin unlocked the door to admit first Belle, who hurried out of the way and grasped the nearest bedpost for support, and then the innkeeper who actually trembled as, placing the two baskets ever so gently on the two fireside chairs, he found his path to the exit blocked. Rumpelstiltskin stood more than a head shorter than he, even in his heeled boots, and lacked the man's muscular bulk, yet his watchful stillness loomed and threatened as no amount of physical prowess could. Even Belle was slightly alarmed, watching the scene.

"My Lord," the innkeeper said, with a nervous smile. "Is all to your liking?"

Glancing around, his expression stony, Rumpelstiltskin gave a curt nod.

"Indeed. We will not be disturbed after our meal. If my Lady's sleep is disturbed I will have something to say about it." He stepped to his right and, waving carelessly towards the door, allowed the innkeeper to flee.

"You must be terribly bad for his business," Belle said, when the man was out of earshot. "And his heart."

"That's why I retain the room and pay him for it in gold," Rumpelstiltskin said, calmly, and closed the door, inserting the key into the lock. "Those who serve me are recompensed for their trouble, you know that."

"I expect they'd rather you didn't enjoy frightening them so," she said, wearily, and Rumpelstiltskin flashed a grin that brought no warmth at all to his eyes. She looked away, and looked around at the room. It had seemed very much darker, the last time; all the heavy oak and dark fabric so very ominous to a frightened girl on her wedding night. This time, without a bathtub crowding the fireside and with the short curtains open to the fading day, it seemed far less confining.

Her trunk was at the foot of the bed and, tired and sore-headed as she was, Belle fancied that it had taken to following her around like a particularly devoted dog. She stifled a giggle with her hand over her mouth, and then fumbled with her cloak pins when Rumpelstiltskin gave her a questioning look. His glance had the slightest, just the very slightest hint of impatience to it.

"Will the trunk go anywhere I go?" she wondered, her fanciful amusement forgotten at this rare hint of harshness from him. "Or only where you take me?"

"I brought it," Rumpelstiltskin said, dropping his own cloak over the back of the chair nearest the door, without looking. "Spells that cause objects to follow someone unbidden can be amusing. For the onlooker," he added, with a touch of relish. "No. Imagine that I have infinitely large pockets." He patted his sides, hands slapping against the tooled brown leather beneath the mantle of scales, where there were no pockets of any kind. He had not so much as a pouch at his belt, in fact, but Belle thought that she understood, a little. She had wondered if he used some such trick with the coach and horses, when first they came to the inn.

Finding the trick to her new cloak clasp, at last, Belle shrugged out of the heavy garment with some relief. Only once she held it in her hands could she admire the simple beauty of the cloak; the near invisible stitching of the silk lining to the velvet, the cut of the cloth and the tiny flecks of black towards the roots of the grey fur. Beautiful as it was, Belle felt much better without the weight of it on her shoulders. The room was quite pleasantly warm, for all that it had sat empty, so she was comfortable in the flimsy sleeves beneath. She stretched and wriggled happily, then joined her husband beside the fire, hoping to thank him for his care of her during the journey.

To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin evaded her attempt to catch him by the arm. He made a show of being gallant, stepping out of the way to allow her to warm herself or choose a seat, but Belle saw his hunted expression and knew better; he had quite deliberately shaken her off. Lips pursed, she moved her baskets from the seats, placing them far enough from the fire that her food would not spoil, and then lowered herself into the same chair that she had used the morning after their wedding. That he did not share her excitement at returning to the inn, Belle had already gathered during the journey. It concerned her that his memories of their wedding night should be so sour as to alter his behaviour now. Her own recollections had softened with a little time, with discovery and fondness; she had hoped that his had grown kinder, as well.

What could she say? Nothing, she decided, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips to soothe the headache that had followed her from the carriage. She was too tired, too out of sorts to think clearly, and would only say the wrong thing because she did not know what troubled him. Not exactly, but he had spoken little, in her bed that night, and the few words that returned to her as she sat there were of how _tiresome_ he found the business of taking his woefully uninformed wife. It did not sit easily with Belle that their wedding night might have been a worse trial for the bridegroom than for the bride.

Rumpelstiltskin prowled around the small room, restless and silent, until the innkeeper knocked to bring their meal. Then he met the man at the door and accepted the tray with a 'thank you' that, somehow, he managed to make sound horribly menacing, even to Belle's ears. The innkeeper babbled some meaningless courtesy and all but ran back down the stairs. Belle did not turn in the chair, but closed her eyes and sighed. What had seemed like a promise of conspiracy and adventure, when Rumpelstiltskin winked and covered her face back at the carriage, seemed unpleasant to her now. 

The tray that Rumpelstiltskin placed on the table to the left of her chair filled the room with the aroma of roast chicken. A glance showed her a small roasted bird, a dish of buttery fried potatoes and another of mashed root vegetables. She was glad that it was a simple meal, after the sumptuous breakfast, but she was not hungry; she feared she might be ill if she tried to force down a meal. Well, her husband _had_ warned her that there would be a cost for speeding the journey; she could not complain if, now, she lacked the stomach to so much as pour herself a cup of water.

Closing her eyes again, meaning to rest for a few moments before facing up to the tray, Belle yawned. Before she knew what was happening, she had fallen fast asleep in the chair.

It could not have been long before she awakened, her neck protesting from having rested at an awkward angle against the chair back, but her head throbbing rather less than before. Blinking, muddled, Belle stirred sufficiently to look around her and saw Rumpelstiltskin sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, his right shoulder nearest her. He had been watching her sleep, she thought - she could tell because, now, he was making such a show of _not_ watching her that it was nearly comical. He had removed his heavy leather coat and jerkin and looked far more approachable in just a silken shirt of dark gold. Approachable, but no less unhappy.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said, sheepishly. "I'm sorry. The meal will be cold." She could see that he had not touched it while she slept. He had not so much as poured a glass of wine for himself.

"No matter," said Rumpelstiltskin, eyes downcast. He had the white cord in his left hand, wrapped a few times around his fingers with the loose ends pinched between thumb and forefinger. "I saved it for you. Eat, treasure."

"None for you?" Belle, twisting in the seat rather than trust her legs, filled a plate for herself and found that the food was still perfectly hot. The chicken steamed when she tore off a large strip of the breast meat. Her mouth watered a little, at that, and the more definite pangs of hunger and weakness overruled her lingering malaise.

"None for me," he agreed, and adjusted his position slightly so that he could watch the flames while Belle took her meal. The curtains over the small window were closed, now, and the half of the room containing the bed was in darkness. It gave the fireside a cosy intimacy, but Rumpelstiltskin looked all alone there, seated at her feet.

Her own discomforts forgotten in the face of his unhappiness, Belle ate as much as she could and then, carefully returning her plate to the tray beside her, inched to the edge of her seat and leaned over, gripping Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder. His unhappiness cut her like knives.

"Tell me what's wrong?"

Rumpelstiltskin tried to smile, glancing over his shoulder, but it was a futile effort. His face would not go along with such a falsehood and Belle, remembering how easily he wore his terrible masks for the Queen and for the innkeeper, was glad of it. He moved to kneel at her feet, staring fixedly at her knees, and Belle heard him swallow, hard, as she watched him for an answer.

"Regret," he said, finally, as though he had won an inner struggle and now hastened to get the words out. "That I misused you so. Here."

It was on the tip of Belle's tongue to scoff, to swat him, to tell him not to be so silly, or even to lower herself to the floor beside him and kiss him until they both felt better, but his quiet distress was more deserving of her respect. This was not something to be dismissed or joked aside; he meant what he said, and it pained him to say it. Leaning forward, she fussed ineffectually with his curls.

"I don't feel misused," she said, when he added nothing further. She began to understand why he liked to play with her hair, as she twirled a lock of his around her fingers. It was soothing, private, but didn't provoke her passions the way a kiss or an embrace might. "I didn't that night, either."

Belle didn't know that it was a half-truth until she heard herself say it. For the main business of their wedding night, no, she had not been misused. What more could she have asked than that he be gentle with her, and go out of his way to spare her pain? She had not even needed to ask; he had done both of his own accord. But afterwards, when he fled the room and did not return, how she had wept with fright and shame! How she had fretted, in the days that followed, not understanding what she could have done wrong when her entire understanding of a wife's duty in the bedroom was that she should lie there, compliant and uncomplaining while her husband did what was necessary to get children!

No. That had been a misunderstanding, nothing more. A terrible one, and far more at her husband's expense then her own, for sheer curiosity had enabled her to find a sort of excitement in it, before she knew there could be pleasure too. Rumpelstiltskin had been certain that no woman could welcome his presence in her bed, and therefore certain that his behaviour on their wedding night had been a kindness. He thought it a kindness to leave her alone, and to promise to do as much in future.

"You wished to be courted," he said, his voice a nervous, breathless wheedle. He still stared at her knees, as though they provided a distraction. "Pleasured. I thought..." Unable to say it aloud, he sagged.

"Honestly?" Belle tried to lift his chin, but still he kept his eyes lowered. "That night, I wished to have it over and done with, and go to sleep." She buried her left hand in his curls, and watched him turn his head to meet the touch, face crumpled with unguarded pain and gratitude. His lip trembled, causing Belle's heart to race - surely he wouldn't weep? Not for this? To her relief, he mastered himself and took a slow, steadying breath instead.

"Well," Rumpelstiltskin said, weakly, gazing up at her as though he hardly dared to, "I suppose I obliged you in that, at least?"

"You did." Relieved that he had finally met her gaze, Belle reached for his right hand and, when she had captured it, leaned back into the chair with his hand held tightly in her lap. "And now I know why I was so tired when we arrived. I thought it was the strain. I could hardly think."

"You must be weary now." Springing to his feet with a sudden, startling energy, Rumpelstiltskin offered his hands. "A little slower, tomorrow, yes?"

"I suppose so," Belle sighed. Even drowsing for most of the way in his lap, she knew that she would sleep again quite easily now that her head had stopped hurting. "I should be on my feet when we get there."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, lingering with her cheek against his for a long moment before going to her trunk to bring out a nightgown. She chose the blue, the cooler of the two silk gowns, remembering that the room had been rather stuffy and the bedclothes heavy. Accustomed to the easy luxury of her rooms at the castle, Belle caught herself looking down on the oak four-poster as inferior, and shook her head in annoyance. This was a good inn, and this no doubt the best of its rooms, and embellished with Rumpelstiltskin's magic, at that. She had allowed her husband to spoil her in ways that went far beyond the taking of her innocence, and hated to think that she had allowed it to make her prideful.

Turning to face Rumpelstiltskin, the nightdress held up in front of her, Belle imagined how shocked she would have been, on her wedding night, to learn that she would ever be teasing and tempting her husband, or so fearless in his company. She could never have imagined the way he looked at her, now, with that uneasy blend of hope, fear, warmth and desire. A little more hope each day, but always the fear. Was it possible that he still expected her, at any moment, to withdraw her affection and break her promises?

"I'm ready to change," she said, growing a little shy when he came to her. She could remember exactly how it had felt when he unlaced her wedding gown, and the memory returned to her vividly now. And not only for her. Rumpelstiltskin took the nightdress from her hands and dropped it carelessly onto the bed, then took her by the elbows and drew her against him. Belle had expected a kiss, but instead found herself embraced, her face tucked against his silk-clad shoulder. His fingertip trailed down her spine and then up again, causing Belle to catch a sharp breath to ease the sensation of remembered terror.

"You've nothing for me to untie, mistress," he said, his voice a soft growl and his lips stirring her hair. "Pity."

Belle squeezed him, her arms around his waist. She had already longed too often to embrace him fully while they stood as they did now, and always his elegant collars were in the way. This time, Belle could bury her face against him as she had wished to do, and smiled there, content. Despite his comment, Rumpelstiltskin seemed in no more hurry than she to proceed; Belle felt a few soft kisses in her hair, and his arms holding her securely.

"Are you glad you've a wife?" It was easier to ask, her face hidden from view. "Or do you regret that as well?"

"Not that. Never that." His arms tightened, his voice cracking, and Belle pressed a kiss against his collar, rubbing his back as soothingly as she could. She felt ashamed of her need to drag such confessions from reluctant lips, but to hear them soothed her very heart. Rumpelstiltskin sighed, a long, trembling breath, and moved one hand to the back of her neck. Skin against skin gave her a delicious shiver of anticipation. "Suppose that your husband had secrets," he said, and Belle could hear and _feel_ his dread. "Terrible secrets, old secrets that never made allowance for a perfect new wife?"

Biting her lip, Belle thought hard before she answered. She didn't _want_ to be asked that. Back came that irrational resentment of a world that must, inevitably, come between them. Of course he had secrets. Of course she had known it - that there was more to his reticence than the fear that she might not welcome a strange creature to her bed. When he returned in a black mood from his business outside the castle, she had known it. When he lay injured in her lap, she had known it.

Firmly, because he resisted her, Belle pushed him to arm's length and looked up into his eyes. He could not hold her gaze, and bowed his head a little.

"My husband is still my husband," she said. It was the one truth that she felt she could trust without hesitation, now. Here, in this room, with awkwardness and elbows, reluctance and kindness, shame and determination, they had sealed that bargain. "I always hoped for a mysterious stranger," she said, sharing a small secret of her own. While Lotte had dreamed of a handsome prince, Belle had longed for a husband of more substance. She could not blame the world for providing what she had wished for. "What did you hope for?"

Rumpelstiltskin's lips moved in a silent struggle, his hands beneath her elbows curling like claws.

"Acceptance," he managed, and it was as though the word tried to choke him on the way out. He hung his head lower, clearing his throat, and let her go. "I shall leave you a while," he said, and Belle was set to protest when she followed his minuscule gesture with her eyes, and saw the chamberpot beside the bed. Oh, goodness, she hadn't even thought of it! She'd been so anxious that he not leave her alone again that she'd given no thought to her blushes. "Would you like a bath?"

Belle would have been content to go straight to bed, but nodded and gave him another kiss on the cheek. As she did so, his magic enveloped her and left her breathless, standing before him in her underthings. A sly little smile softened his worried features, and Belle laughed unsteadily, looking down at herself. She had not had the opportunity, before, to see all that lay beneath her beautiful gown. Everything beneath the grey chemise was the purest bleached white, save for the occasional thin ribbon of pale blue that fastened something. To her surprise, there was a corset, so flexible and padded that she had not been able to distinguish it from the stiff panel at the front of the gown. It cinched in the chemise from her waist to her bosoms, which were gently cupped from below to ensure that they peeked above the velvet neckline, tantalisingly covered by the gauzy grey silk.

" _One_ secret that interests me," she said, watching Rumpelstiltskin's gaze rake longingly over her breasts and descend to the ribbons of the corset beneath, "is where my husband learned how to make ladies' underthings. Or even how they ought to look." Resisting the urge to hunch herself forward at the shoulders, to conceal herself, Belle planted her hands firmly on her hips. The bottom of the chemise was loose, forming a pretty frill beneath the corset, and it tickled her hands. The petticoat was extremely soft, yet rather stiff - it was what gave shape to the velvet skirts of her gown. It was very difficult to appear stern, in her underwear.

"You'd be surprised," he said faintly, transfixed, "by some of the situations into which I'm summoned. And I know your... shape." He half reached for her, fingers flexing at the level of her ribs, and then sighed, mastering himself. "I will do better, next time," he declared and, finding a shred of his cocky humour, swept a bow before he left her. "Lock the door, little wife," he warned, singsong, before he closed it behind him. 

Thankful that, for once, it was her husband who was thinking of practical matters, Belle hurried to turn the key. Turning, leaning back against the door just as she had on her wedding night, she saw the bathtub once again steaming on the rug before the fireplace. This time, the surface of the water had been scattered with deep red rose petals.

Belle chose not to hurry in her preparations. She spread her nightdress over one of the fireside chairs to warm, left her underthings draped with great care over the other, and then sank into the hot water with a little sigh of satisfaction, resting her head back against the rim of the tub.

She thought on Rumpelstiltskin's words, as she idly splashed the water around herself. She felt that she ought to be indignant at confirmation of his secrets, but she was not. The trust she craved from him was of a different kind and, having encountered the Queen and the murderous man in the village, and having seen her husband's brutal injuries, Belle was not at all sure that she was _ready_ to know the secrets of his work. Certainly she had no desire to understand the source of his power, or the secret that could enslave him - she had _begged_ him not to tell her that. Indignation might insist upon the truth, but wisdom was stronger. She had been Rumpelstiltskin's wife for only a month. Before he could entrust her with his secrets, she had to be able to trust herself.

With great care, Belle began to feel her upswept hair for the combs that held it in place. She found pins, also, and drew them out one by one, placing them on the seat of the chair to her left. The tiara had sat snugly while her hair was pulled up, but she could pluck it out easily once the combs were out. She lay in the water, staring at the simple loveliness of the gold while her free hand sorted through her fallen tresses, plucking out stray pins. Rumpelstiltskin had used rather more of them than Elena had, in achieving the same style, and Belle noticed that, unlike her own polished copper pins that shone brightly and needed to be well-concealed, these had been dulled somehow so that they all but matched her hair. Her husband was a clever, thoughtful craftsman.

What would he have been, she wondered, if born into a life of privilege rather than poverty and fruitless war? A skilled spinner could make a good living, once he or she could afford to buy the very best wool, but the glimpses Rumpelstiltskin had allowed her of his past spoke of a bitter struggle for survival. Priests who emptied larders and lords who dragged children away to war... what might Rumpelstiltskin have become, had he not needed the blackest of magic to save his son?

To _fail_ to save his son. Rubbing her thumbs over the smooth gold, Belle sighed. How great were his regrets about _that_ , if he fretted so for her sake?

Belle had almost dozed off in the water, half hypnotised by the changing colours of firelight on smooth gold, when the door opened. Gasping, she dropped the tiara and groped for a towel, unable to see past the chairs. She was _sure_ that she had locked the door!

"Rumpelstiltskin?" she yelped, drawing her knees tightly to her chest and hoping that her hair covered her.

"Of course, treasure," he replied, and his amusement carried clearly in his voice alone. Belle heard the key turn in the lock once more.

"I locked the door!" A crimson blush had begun around her ears and now flooded both up to the roots of her hair and down to her collarbone. "I know I did!"

"But you married a sorcerer," Rumpelstiltskin pointed out, reasonably, and he was smiling wickedly as he stepped into view behind one of the chairs. "Only one lock can keep me out, and that's the one to your chambers at home."

"Oh," Belle gulped, and caught her breath. She had felt so helpless, hearing that door open while she sat naked in a tub of water! Now she felt silly, for who else could have let himself in while the door was locked, and the key in the keyhole on the inside? Only her husband, who had certainly seen her naked, even if he didn't usually leer at her like that. "You might have knocked."

"I might," he agreed, pleasantly. "Bathing with your trinkets, I see." Guiltily, one hand keeping the towel at her shoulder, Belle fished out the tiara from beside her feet and gave it a little shake. "But that's why I like gold," he went on, coming around the chairs and perching himself at the edge of the one housing her clothes. "It doesn't rust, tarnish or spoil. It's soft. Almost warm." His voice was low, his words slow and his gaze warm with wanting. Belle tried to be cross with him for intruding, but it wouldn't work. At least she had not been trying to use the chamberpot, at the time!

"I think it's lustful," she said, mustering her dignity, "to spy on a lady in her bath."

"I can't see a thing," he said, spreading his hands with a look of hurt innocence. "That towel is in the way."

"You're impossible," Belle protested, but it was a protest without conviction. "Have you been frightening everyone, downstairs?"

"A drink or two," Rumpelstiltskin said, vaguely, lowering himself to his knees beside the tub and taking the tiara from her hands. "A pipe. Listening to everything that nobody said." Belle had proof of both the drink and the pipe when he leaned in to kiss her. He had tasted exactly the same on their wedding night, the liquor fruitier and a little sweeter than whatever he kept in his little flask, combined with the heady wood smoke and dried herbs of his pipe smoke. "And then I missed my wife, so I came back," he said, small voiced, his lips tickling hers. "They'll imagine I've come to do unspeakable things to you."

"Have you?" Belle covered herself with her hands, when he tugged away the small towel, but it was only a reflex. How could she mind him seeing her through the water when he had seen her with no barrier at all? Breathing deeply, determined, she uncurled herself and lay back in the tub, watching Rumpelstiltskin's expression lift with glee.

"Unspeakable, yes," he breathed, and shuffled nearer to the head of the bath, leaving his left arm trailing in the water on his way. Belle gasped when it found her, fingertips against her outer thigh, and Rumpelstiltskin caught the gasp in his mouth, kissing her hard. Startled, excited, Belle reached up to capture his neck and draw him closer yet. He was straining himself into the most awkward position, she found, but his strength was equal to it. He slid his right arm beneath her in the water, soaking his other sleeve, and drew the fingers of his left hand between her legs.

Having grown accustomed to their gentle preamble, Belle cried out in surprise and this, too, was caught and smothered in a hungry kiss. It felt strange, in the water. His fingers did not slip easily against her tender places, but he was gentle, having claimed her thus; he parted her folds and burrowed with two fingers; he rubbed with the flat of his palm; he combed his fingertips through her curls, and then just his fingernails, which tickled and made her giggle. It probably was unspeakable, in that she would die of blushes if she began to try, but it was glorious as well, wanton and clearly satisfying her husband's inclination to mischief.

"You'll be soaked," she protested, but laughing. He was already soaked to the top of his arms, with a damp patch at the collar of his shirt where her hand had found purchase. "Let me get out before I wrinkle."

Belle took note of his mild disappointment, as he released her and, standing, helped her to do the same, pulling her against him so that most of the rest of his shirt became soaked through as well. They kissed, her arms around him eagerly, with the fire warming her back and Rumpelstiltskin warming her front. It was very pleasant indeed, and Belle only shivered a little when she felt the water vanish from around her shins, and found herself standing on something soft. Fur, she thought, wriggling her toes into it when Rumpelstiltskin kept her from looking down. His kisses were full of need, and while fatigue muted her own, his touches had aroused her interest enough that she was easily persuaded. The new sensation of being both wet and bare against his clothing added a disproportionate sense of wickedness, and Rumpelstiltskin all but moaned aloud when Belle, trusting his hold on her to keep from falling backwards into the fire, hooked one shin behind his and rubbed it against his leather boot.

He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then swept her up in his arms and, kneeling easily, laid her before the fire. Turning her head, Belle saw that she lay upon his cloak. She reached for him eagerly as he lay with her, but Rumpelstiltskin had other kisses in mind and applied himself to her breasts, kissing and suckling with greedy sounds. When Belle drew up the knee nearest the fire, he responded without hesitation, fingers finding her and spreading the slight moisture that he found just inside her. Belle would have expected water to be more accommodating, but her own fluids were far better; at once she felt the tiny sting of building delight, deep in her loins. She lifted her head, once, to watch Rumpelstiltskin at her left breast, kissing it everywhere, nudging it with his nose and chin and, sucking her firm nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his clever tongue.

The pleasure from that was always faint, tantalising - too much to ignore, yet too little to excite her to abandon. While he rubbed her as well, though, each pull and nip at her breast added a tiny spark to what built inside her, and her impatient body clenched around his inadequate fingers, making her moan.

Raising his head, his expression glassy and his lips parted, Rumpelstiltskin breathed hard.

"Be inside me," Belle begged, and a moment later was startled at herself for not blushing in the slightest about making such a demand. "Please. I want you in me."

With a lopsided smile, Rumpelstiltskin reached down to his belt, fumbling with his breeches while Belle pulled impatiently at his shirt buttons until he came untucked and she had access to bare skin beneath. She would have preferred him bare, between her legs, but expediency seemed more important, and she liked the way he trembled as he struggled with his clothing. Still trembling for her, after a whole month of being wed. Now, as then, Rumpelstiltskin turned his head and kissed her palm in tender gratitude, when she cupped his cheek.

He need not be so careful with her, now. Belle cried out when he entered her in one, forceful thrust, but their bodies knew one another; she was only startled, and excited by his haste.

"Do you like to be gentle?" He had gone still, hands braced against the ground beside her arms, eyes closed as he attempted to muster some self-control. Belle loved how the curls framed and softened his features; how his eyelids twitched and fluttered with the effort; how he trembled for her. "Do you want to do it harder? I think I'd like that." She touched his lips, his chin, his chest, her hands wanting to be everywhere on him at once as he began to move, face contorted as he quickly built up to more of those forceful, jarring thrusts. Belle arched her back, pursuing the new sensation - near enough to hurt that it would have terrified her, on their wedding night, but in truth far nearer to the relief she sought. She could not be still, while he took her thus; feet and hands wandered, clutched, drove, pulled, demanded a rhythm that would bring her satisfaction. She dug her fingernails into the back of his shoulders when satisfaction came, shaking her whole body beneath him, and shaking loose the little cries that made her feel wanton, so wanton for delighting in the duties of marriage.

He might have driven her to climax after climax, had his own not come so soon, but he cried out, softly, and buried himself deep in her, losing the strength in his arms and slumping over her, spent and panting. Belle wrapped herself around him, arms and legs, silk and leather and skin, and resisted the urge to shout her triumph and her joy at the very top of her lungs. That really _would_ frighten the people below. But Rumpelstiltskin was hers, utterly hers, and wanted her as his own, and Belle knew that love was a kind of madness as she pressed kiss after kiss to every part of him that she could reach, unable to be still, while he trembled, half insensible. She had read it often, that love was madness, but now she knew.

Now she _knew_.


	45. Homeward

Were it not for Belle's longing to see her father again she might have begged her husband for some magic that would let them remain just as they were at the inn, shut away and lost in one another's affections. Rumpelstiltskin slept the night beside her, quite naked, and while Belle slept well enough, something woke her every hour or two during the night, just enough to be sure that he had not left her side. Face buried in the pillows and dead to the world, Rumpelstiltskin barely moved at all.

Up before him, and even daring to use the chamberpot while he slept so soundly, Belle put on her nightgown and poured a cup of water. She even opened the little curtain to let in the weak morning sun. So unusual was it for Rumpelstiltskin to sleep on while she moved about, Belle crept around to the far side of the bed and leaned against the bedpost to watch him. As ever, he did not seem at peace while he slept - hands curled tightly into the pillow and shoulders too rigid. She longed to soothe him but knew that she would only wake him instead, so she watched. To her quiet dismay, she had left marks on him with her nails in her passion last night - four cruel scratches at the back of his shoulders that looked an ugly black against his dull skin. She herself wore the bruises above her hip bones where he had grasped and coaxed her but a few nights ago, but he had not broken her _skin_ in his eagerness.

The ferocity of her desire frightened her terribly, and she hurried back to the fireside, as though not trusting herself to keep her hands away from him while he slept. It was not as if she could do him any terrible harm, not when he could heal himself from that ghastly curse, but it seemed contrary to her tender feelings for him to go and leave scratches.

Cold chicken and potato made a wonderful breakfast and she was extremely hungry. Belle filled herself up, curled in the chair by the fire, and it was only as she was pouring a fresh cup of water to end her meal that she heard the bedclothes stir. Overcome with mischief, she left her cup and crept back to the bed, determined to catch a rare glimpse of her husband naked in unforgiving daylight. She planted herself cross-legged atop the bedclothes and began to pull them away from his shoulders, watching his muscles move as he fidgeted towards waking. She almost had the sheet down to his backside before he opened his eyes with a snort and whipped around to face her, unwittingly dragging away the sheet with his feet as he did so.

"Belle," he said, after a long moment, the fight going out of his limbs as understanding dawned. He looked unhappy as her curious gaze drank in the sight of him, but did not try to cover himself. She was relieved to find that she had left no marks on his chest or hips, where she distinctly remembered grasping for all she was worth.

"I hope you weren't expecting anyone else," she laughed, and pushed him back down to the pillows for a kiss. Rumpelstiltskin humoured her a while, but caught her hand when she tried to reach lower to encourage more enthusiasm.

"We've a long journey," he chided, bringing the hand to his lips and kissing it. "Time for that later." He was right, but Belle wished that he wasn't. Beneath the startling passion of last night they had found a new peace, a new ease with one another, and she found herself rather afraid that they would leave it behind them in this little room. Seeing her expression, Rumpelstiltskin settled her more securely above him and watched her eyes. "Or have you changed your mind? We can return home." As before, he sounded almost hopeful that she would decide to abandon this visit.

"No!" Belle said, quickly. The mere suggestion felt like a betrayal of her Papa, her home, her childhood - everything! "No."

So they were away before it was really light, with the sun still a low, reddish glow behind fast-moving black clouds. Belle found a feather pillow and woollen blanket awaiting her in the carriage and felt her eyes mist a little at Rumpelstiltskin's thoughtfulness. He had left her to arrange her own hair as well, when outfitting her in her magical dress, and Belle had simply caught it back from her face with the two combs. If she wished to lie down during the journey she need not worry about crushing an elaborate style, and it hardly mattered since she left the inn with her hood once again concealing her face from view.

Unable to shake the feeling that she had left something important behind, there at the inn - something far more so, this time, than her maidenhood, which she had not missed at all - Belle moved to sit beside her husband, who indulged her with a small smile and allowed her to take him by the hand. There had been very few words exchanged since the previous evening. Not for the first time, Belle lamented how much easier it was to express herself with kisses and caresses than to speak her heart to Rumpelstiltskin.

"Why did you make it so that you can't get past the lock on my door?" she asked him, finally choosing a question from the many that interested her.

"In case it's needed," he said, frowning as though it should have been obvious to her. "You never lock it?"

"Not for long." Belle tried to recall how often she had done so and the reasons why. There had never been any pressing reason; she had only changed her stockings or her cloth, or some other momentary task that she would prefer to keep private. "I trust you," she added, her voice quavering a little, for it was so difficult to confess such things face to face. "Sometimes it's nice to be private, but that's all. An ordinary lock would do." She remembered him sneaking in on her bath and smirked, elbowing him lightly. "Or you could knock."

"I could," he said, but rather faintly this time. "You shouldn't trust me so much, treasure. Not me." He was almost pleading, and Belle didn't understand. His cheek twitched, his fingers beginning to play with her gold ring, spinning it on her finger. "Don't ever forget what I am."

Disappointed, Belle looked down at their hands. He was so delicate in handling her ring, moving it gently between thumb and forefinger. He had been equally careful beside the fire last night when, having recovered his wits and kissed her until she whimpered, he once again looked for ways to please her with his mouth, and made her come until she had to beg him to stop. And now, so quiet and proper beside her, he asked that she trust him _less?_

"When I know what you are," she promised, choosing her words with tremendous care, "I'll try not to forget it."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin caught her behind the neck and drew her to him for a soft kiss. Belle would gladly pass the time in _that_ way, for only exhaustion had put an end to their adventures of the previous evening. Her ache for him - the deepest ache that was more of heart than body - had not been sated by that fierce coupling. As much pleasure as he had given her, afterwards, he had not sought any more for himself and kept Belle far too distracted to realise it. Now, again not realising it until it was done, she had turned a sweet kiss of approval into something more, and Rumpelstiltskin's breathing had already quickened.

This was hardly the place!

"You tempt an old monster," he said, lips close to hers and eyes wide. "I'm game if you are, but perhaps you ought to rest?" As Belle swallowed and put another inch or two between their faces, he gave her a horribly knowing smile. "We don't want your father thinking I kept you up all night."

Belle returned to the opposite seat, red-faced and wondering how married daughters ever looked their fathers in the eye again, after the wedding night.

"Please don't tease him," she said, unhappily. "Not about that. It's too important to me. Our... marriage," she finished, clumsily, because what she could _do_ with abandon she still lacked the words to speak of with clarity. "Please don't pretend awful things to hurt him."

"Oh, things are quite awful enough from where he's standing," Rumpelstiltskin said, tartly. "I don't need to encourage him."

"I won't lie to him," Belle insisted, caution succumbing to a daughter's easy love. "Not Papa."

"Of course not." Rumpelstiltskin had no desire to discuss the matter, she could see. His impatience manifested itself as a brittleness in his tone, the slightest narrowing of his eyes and an increase in the fidgeting of his fingers. "Must I remind _you_ to keep my secrets, little wife?"

"...no." Chastened, Belle lowered her eyes. Still she knew little enough about him, this husband of hers, but that he understood a father's love and a father's fears, _that_ she should never forget.

Already remorseful about the scratches, Belle now felt guilty for distrusting him as well. The journey ahead seemed agonisingly long, in their prickly silence. She made herself as comfortable as she could, taking off her cloak and folding it with care beside her, then wedging the plump pillow between herself and the lefthand wall to allow her to lean her elbow there in comfort.

Reading was a little less trying, today. She managed almost a chapter of a new book before her eyes began to ache, but the words did not grip her today as they usually would. Her favourite pastime had fallen quickly by the wayside since her wedding, even in a castle bursting with unexplored books, and Belle grieved a little for that. She had loved the written word like a dear friend, as companion and shelter and teacher, and Rumpelstiltskin had supplanted it in all those things. That seemed unfair, given that he'd also provided her with the opportunity to enjoy more books than she had imagined could even exist.

Belle watched her husband while he was distracted with a particularly complex pattern of his cat's cradle. It was so difficult to remember how he had seemed to her upon their first meeting. Every memory of his cruel indifference had been overlaid with a dozen more of his courtesy, his sorrow, his tenderness, his loneliness, his desire. She knew that he did not steal away babes or souls, that his heart beat in his chest, that he revered a husband's duty and worshipped a woman simply because she was his wife, that he mourned a son lost long ago and that he moaned most quietly when she gave him the greatest pleasure. It all changed the shape of him, the space occupied by _Rumpelstiltskin_ in her thoughts and heart, and Belle knew that she was utterly alone in this more sympathetic perception of the man. Alone even in that - in _perceiving_ Rumpelstiltskin as a man at all.

At home, all anyone knew was that their 'princess' had given herself to a monster.

Sickened, tearful, Belle turned on the seat so that her back was to the pillow and her slippered feet upon the upholstery, knees drawn up. She dragged the blanket into her lap and hugged one edge of it to her chest, suddenly wishing that she had kept them at the inn after all. She had left Odstone without making her promised visit to Wren. She was taking her husband somewhere where he would not be welcome. She would disappoint her father with how much she had changed in so little time.

Pressing her forehead to the seat back, lest Rumpelstiltskin see her watery eyes and think her petty for minding a little scolding, Belle concentrated on keeping her breaths quiet and even. Chastened as she was by his words, she did not resent them. All these fears had been inside her, all this unhappy scrutiny of her own conduct. Beside him and all but in seclusion, it had been so very easy to push them away. Even when his business took him away or when they quarrelled, she had been able to have her little cry or burst of indignation and then push it away, sweep it all away like the years of dust and grime in the castle.

Almost home, she could no longer put off her dread of going back, of being seen. Worst of all, most absurd of all, was the treacherous notion that Papa would reach out to embrace her and see her eyes, and see in that instant that she was no longer his child. She was Rumpelstiltskin's wife, wedded and bedded as the kitchen matrons said, and Papa would _know_.

It was probably for the best that Belle slept a while, before the rioting butterflies in her stomach could give birth to full-fledged hysterics. She no more wanted to disappoint her husband than she did her father and refused to cry, but she carried black fears into her dreams and wept there, inconsolably alone inside an empty castle made of mist and dust. She hated it there.

It was even less to her liking when, waking, Belle had to beg Rumpelstiltskin to stop the carriage at once to allow her to retch by the roadside, desperately trying to preserve her skirts and slippers from the upheaval of her over-travelled innards.

A sort of despair overcame her then, as her husband appeared soundlessly by her shoulder and offered one of his apparently endless supply of silk handkerchiefs. The sun was far past noon and much about the landscape was familiar to her. In the far distance she thought that she even recognised the swell of the mountains, lower and far more weathered than the ones where Rumpelstiltskin centred his web.

"No more magic," Rumpelstiltskin said, gathering her firmly against his side and returning her to the carriage when she swayed on her feet. "I will send word ahead to your father."

"No, please," Belle croaked, fumbling in her basket for the flask of water. Rumpelstiltskin had left the door open; out of the daylight and with a little fresh air in her lungs she already felt much better. "I'm sorry, please don't."

Perched beside her, Rumpelstiltskin looked at her with the same wary incomprehension as when she scrubbed a floor or presented him with a meal. Head swimming until the few careful sips of water made peace with her stomach, Belle supposed that if he never had to trouble with a chamberpot, or even opening a door for himself, then he was probably unused to the various other inconveniences of a mortal existence, including an upset stomach.

"No need for sorry, treasure," he protested, voice high and wavering with his uncertainty. Belle almost giggled; he looked as if he expected her to sprout an extra head or begin to fly. "You'll grow used to it, and quickly, but there's no hurry."

"I will?" Belle rested against the seat back, looking past him through the open door. The view was quite lovely, not so dark with trees and heavy cloud as yesterday's landscapes, and the air was much warmer than the lands they had left behind. It was already spring, here. Yes, they were nearly home.

"I give you my word on it," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Let's find an inn tonight. One more day won't hurt?"

"No," Belle said, although with some reluctance. She saw his frustration; he did not understand why she would choose discomfort. She smiled, tiredly, and hooked her fingers into the neck of his jerkin, her every muscle feeling like water. "I wish to get it over and done with," she said, gently persuasive. "And then go to sleep."

Studying her eyes for a long moment, Rumpelstiltskin finally acquiesced with the slightest of bows.

"An early night suits my tastes, mistress," he said, playing up his bashfulness to earn another smile from her. "As you wish."

Although she did not understand how his magic speeded their journey without the world outside becoming a dizzying blur, Belle nevertheless had the sense that they had slowed somewhat. She found herself content to push the curtain back behind its little hook and gaze out at the gradually darkening day. For some reason she felt better if she kept the distant mountains in view, and propped herself inelegantly against her pillow with her elbow on the tiny sill, blessedly unthinking as the view rolled by.

Before it was fully twilight, Belle recognised the land by sight and her heart quickened with excitement, while the nervous flutter in her stomach resumed. She sat back from the window at last and was ashamed to realise that she had forgotten all about Rumpelstiltskin for the past hour or more. He could be so very still, when he chose to, and not even the awesome weight of his magic betrayed him then. He seemed smaller.

"You're still green," he said, absently, and gestured to his own face. "They'll think I dyed you to match."

Spluttering in the effort of not sniggering, wide-eyed, Belle had to hide her mouth behind her hand and look away. She recalled Papa telling her once, not very long after her mother died, that laughter and love could not be pulled apart. She had not understood, not then when his sorrow crushed him until his steps shuffled across the stones; not when their love was grief and neither of them laughed at all. Belle barely remembered her mother's laughter and thought that she had not heard it often, but Papa's laugh was deep and generous. Perhaps he would understand, if he saw that Rumpelstiltskin made her laugh so effortlessly.

"Nervous?" he asked, stretching out his legs and propping his feet beside her on the seat, crossed at the ankles. The question was a little trap, Belle could tell. He would tease her if he could, if she provided the weapons, and it was a quiet revelation to her that perhaps he did so because _he_ was nervous and could not contain it.

"A bit," she said, even though it was quickly becoming an understatement as they neared home. "Less than I was earlier."

"Another hour," Rumpelstiltskin said. He made a quiet sound of approval when Belle moved to sit beside him, and caught her close with his arm about her waist. It was for her own assurance that she sought his touch, but Belle felt him relax somewhat as well when she curled in and reached across him, her head comfortable on his shoulder thanks to the cloak. "All will be well," he offered, after a little while, and Belle nodded. "Fathers don't forget," he said, some while later. "I can promise you that."

Closing her eyes in case she once more betrayed herself with tears, Belle tried desperately to think of a distraction. The discomfort of the journey had quelled her usual inclination to be talkative to the point of annoyance and it was a struggle to find something to say.

"I meant to apologise," she managed, finally, "for the scratches."

"Hmm?" Rumpelstiltskin craned to look at the top of her head, then gave up and kissed her there instead before relaxing once more into the upholstery.

"Your back," Belle explained, now embarrassed by the realisation that he was so tremendously strong, so immune to harm, that he might simply not have _noticed_ her feeble imprints. "I scratched you, when we were..."

"Fucking?" She heard his malicious relish, and responded automatically with a blow to the stomach. Since it was with her left hand, her lesser hand, the blow lacked any power and only made him laugh.

"That's a horrid word," she complained, trying not to smirk, but decided that a rosy blush was acceptable if it stopped her looking green before they arrived at her father's door. "Making love," she said, feigning a confidence that she absolutely did not possess and a dignity that she currently did not feel. "Spooning."

" _Spooning?_ " he echoed, appalled.

"Yes," Belle laughed, shoulders shaking. "While we were spooning."

"Celibacy sounds suddenly enticing," he sniffed, but she could tell that he was only better at hiding his laughter than she was.

"Well," she said, more at ease after her moment of mirth, "I'm sorry for scratching you. Why don't you heal it?"

"Why would I do that?" This time, she could not tell if he was teasing or not. "Why should I not wear the proof of your desire," he went on, right hand creeping playfully towards her chest, "and wear it proudly?" Belle shivered as he trailed his fingers over the swell of her breasts, disturbing the flimsy covering of silk above the velvet. "Earned with your pleasure, mistress," he breathed, pushing one finger delicately between her bosoms. His skin felt cool, rough, and Belle swallowed hard. "Proof that you come when I mount you and that still you want more when I'm spent?" Rumpelstiltskin's lips were in her hair, now, his fingertip circling her left nipple through too many layers of clothing, and Belle's lips were parted to accommodate her suddenly shallow breaths. "Why would I want to heal that?"

At once he was still, merely holding her against his side again, and Belle felt cold perspiration break across her back, her brow, her palms. His voice was going to be the death of her!

"Oh," was the only word she could produce, and she forced her stiff limbs to unwind again, trying to compose herself. Her heartbeat slowly began to return to normal, but her body had already betrayed her; she ached faintly for the want of him, and with the impossible love of him too. For a moment she felt almost as weak and dizzy as in her sickness, but was quickly flooded with the warmth of belonging instead. Rumpelstiltskin wore the scratches like a token of her affection, and if they hurt him at all then each little hurt was a reminder of their pleasure together - of her acceptance. He even _spoke_ of them passionately. Wonderful. Wonderful!

Belle drowsed on his shoulder for a while, until he gave her a little shake and said her name. Bleary-eyed but feeling otherwise better than she had since midday, Belle sat up and stretched out her arms, battling a yawn.

"Almost there," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. "Shall we make you look the part once more?"

"Oh." Belle looked down, guiltily. She could feel that her hair had defeated the righthand comb, which sagged heavily, and her skirts were crumpled. As much as she wished to look like her father's daughter when stepping down from the carriage, she must not forget that she was Rumpelstiltskin's wife. He did not demand this perfection of her - she had insisted upon it herself, and with good reason. Her Papa might be hoping to see a daughter, unchanged, but the world must see Rumpelstiltskin's treasure beside him. "I'm not still green, am I?"

"Only pale," he assured her, holding her hands to steady her as she returned herself to the opposite seat. "Which I imagine is expected."

"Only until you make me _blush_ in front of everyone," she retorted, but her attempt to laugh only resulted in a tight-throated cough. "I should look like Rumpelstiltskin's wife," she said, patting the folded cloak beside her. She had time enough to take her deep breath and shut her eyes very tightly before his magic enveloped her; it really _did_ help. When they were settled in, she would argue for dresses that laced at the front or the sides, she decided, but in this situation it was undeniably useful to have a husband capable of making her pristine with a wave of his hand. She wondered, catching her breath as the magic faded, if Queen Regina lounged in her carriage and then used magic to make it seem that she had travelled without creasing her gown.

"There," Rumpelstiltskin said, his smile no more convincing than her laughter. "The lily is gilded."

"I thought I was a rose?" Belle leaned over and squeezed his hand. A thin sense of excitement had begun to weave around her nervous anticipation, straining her voice yet further but freeing her smile. "Thank you."

Rumpelstiltskin gave one of those careless gestures of his, indicating that it was nothing, but Belle could feel him looking at her in her finery while she returned to the window and looked out eagerly onto familiar fields. She could not make out the mountains on the near horizon, now, but she recognised the King's Road and the tenant farms that straggled along it. Were she to step from the coach this moment, she would be but half an hour's brisk walk from the castle.

She was about to let the curtain fall when the sound of hoofbeats stilled her, curious. A moment later, the rider plunged past them at a reckless gallop, giving her a glimpse of grey horse and dark-clad rider.

"A messenger?" she wondered, aloud, and peered out for any sign of further activity. At times the stretch of road they now occupied was bogged down with carts at cross purposes, with goods flowing in an out of their prosperous little market. Hasty riders had been a feature of the war, and even messengers seldom rode at a breakneck gallop without full daylight. It worried her, just as she had begun to adjust her mind to the reality of greeting her father and her friends. Belle looked to Rumpelstiltskin, but he had gone back to playing with her satin cord and did not notice.

Nothing further happened, after several minutes of alert gazing, and Belle was once more about to let the curtain fall back and collect her thoughts when she saw the light of campfires and tents clustering towards the town. Pure terror drove every other tangled feeling from her heart, and she looked again to Rumpelstiltskin, unable to catch her breath to ask a question. He had driven away the ogres, cleansed the land, ended the war. There should not be a camp here!

This time, seeing her expression and frowning, Rumpelstiltskin joined her in peering out. His night vision was far better than her own and Belle saw him scan the distance with keen interest, eyes narrowing slightly.

When he looked down at the space between them, Belle realised that she was clutching at his wrist with all the sudden strength of her terror.

"Hush," he said, realising what she must be thinking and closing the curtain on the rows of tents and cooking fires. "It's not a battlefield, treasure. It's King George's court."

"You're sure," Belle whispered, choking on it. "You're sure?"

"Not one ogre on your lands, treasure. Not one. I don't break my deals, you know that."

"I didn't..." But Belle stopped the protest and looked away. She _had_ thought so, and couldn't deny it. "Why is the King here?"

"A good question," Rumpelstiltskin said, using one hand to free his other from her grasp and sitting back. His brows were drawn together and his lips a thin line; he did not meet her gaze again until the carriage slowed at the city gates.

Pinning back the curtain again to see what brought them to a jerking halt a few moments later, Belle saw a riot of activity. She had expected building to be in progress, of course, but it was after dark. The streets were full of activity, people hurrying about burdened with crates and boxes, others up ladders stringing bunting. There were even people sweeping the streets. As far ahead as she could see without actually pressing her nose to the glass, Belle could see the bright yellow torchlight of the castle's main doors, the portcullis repaired and raised and the huge doors thrown right open. Figures were emerging, and she recognised her Papa, and Lotte beside him. Belle's heart was in her throat.

"What in the world is going on?" she breathed, unable to be silent in her uncertainty. Rumpelstiltskin sat forward briskly and threw open the door as they drew level with the small greeting party, silhouetted against the light.

"At a guess," he said, with brittle brightness, "I'd say I'm finally going to get my party!"


	46. Things Change

Lifting Belle down from the coach, Rumpelstiltskin set her on the ground just as her father arrived to greet them. This time there was no conspiratorial wink, just his hands steadying her until she nodded her thanks and looked past his shoulder.

"Belle." Sir Maurice looked every bit as unsure as Belle felt, trying to conceal a deep wariness behind warmth and courtesy. "Welcome," he said, tearing his eyes from Belle's face to nod to Rumpelstiltskin, who gave a short, relaxed half-bow of acknowledgment. "Y-you must be tired from your journey," he said, offering Belle his hands. She could hardly bear his anxious scrutiny, and grasped his hands firmly, smiling at him.

"Papa. I've missed you," she said, and the inadequacy of the statement left her feeling almost a liar. She had missed him the way she would miss a part of herself, and she did not find him again in this nervous greeting. "I am tired," she admitted, her own study of his face showing her new lines and hollowed cheeks. He looked unwell. "Nothing much tires my husband."

"Of course," her Papa said, and directed another careful nod towards Rumpelstiltskin, whose silence was beginning to unnerve Belle - or, perhaps, it was the expectation of what he might eventually _say_ that unnerved her. "Lotte, have you lost your tongue?" her father asked, forcing a smile. It was a feeble jest, delivered over his shoulder to the waiting girl. Belle brushed gently past her father, meaning to embrace Lotte, but Lotte's frantic curtsey put paid to her attempt.

"My Lady," she gasped, wide eyed and doing her very best not to keep staring at Rumpelstiltskin. She ended up staring at the hem of Belle's skirts, instead. Belle touched her shoulder, timidly, and let her be.

"Have you luggage?" Sir Maurice asked, gesturing to the coach. He had noticed the unmoving coachman and Belle could see him trying to puzzle it out. Why a coachman but no footmen? Why did the man not descend from the box to help his master and mistress step down? Why was the dark figure on the box so impossibly _still?_

"It will be seen to," Rumpelstiltskin answered, quietly, regaining Sir Maurice's full attention at once. "Everyone seems quite busy, here."

"Ah... yes," Maurice agreed, and Belle wondered if he was more unnerved that Rumpelstiltskin addressed him, or taken aback that he spoke without malice or discourtesy. "The King honours us with his presence."

"And that of his entire court," Rumpelstiltskin observed. "But my Lady needs to rest at once. The journey was trying for her."

"Of course." Relief at having found this common ground making him almost jovial, Belle's father led the way towards the castle doors. Rumpelstiltskin placed a hand at the small of Belle's back, not looking at her but watching Lotte, who shook where she stood and followed a careful distance behind them as they went inside. "I'd planned to offer you each your choice of rooms, of course," Maurice said, half over his shoulder as he led the way. If the streets were a hive of activity then the castle was in chaos, but nobody blocked their way once they realised Rumpelstiltskin was among them. "But the King--"

"My Lady's room will suit us," Rumpelstiltskin said, shortly, and Belle saw her father almost miss a step, his face contorting until he controlled himself. Rumpelstiltskin's hand tightened at her waist, and Belle glanced at his face, anxiously. His expression revealed nothing, even to her. "Our needs are simple."

"Yes, Papa," Belle said, quickly. She had not expected to be quartered away from her husband, for that was an extravagance offered only to the most highly ranked guests and... her heart sank... and perhaps by fathers who hoped, by such hopeless subterfuge, to spare their daughter the attentions of Rumpelstiltskin for a few days. _Oh, Papa..._ "Surely I haven't become a guest here?"

"Of course not, my girl," her father said, stopping at the foot of the staircase that led to her room. His expression had become glassy, but his voice was steady once more. "You know best."

"Yes, Papa," Belle said, gently. She longed to embrace him, but in the uproar of servants and courtiers, she could not. Not as a woman and a wife - she had left that girlhood freedom behind her when she departed with Rumpelstiltskin. Another weight added itself to the grief in her heart, a grief made up of no one thing, but too many such tiny things. "Thank you," she said, and began to climb the stairs before she was tempted to hug her father anyway, to cling to him like the carefree little girl she had once been, and never let go again.

"Go with your mistress, Lotte," Sir Maurice said, impatiently, and Belle glanced back, past Rumpelstiltskin who had followed her in silence, to see Lotte frozen at the foot of the stairs, her eyes wide with the realisation that if she followed them, she would find herself shut in with Rumpelstiltskin.

"It looks as though you need all the hands you can find, Papa," Belle said, finding the strength and resolve from somewhere to see to the problems of another. Now was not the time to force Lotte to confront her fears; she would only be silly, and Belle knew enough of her husband to know that he would not tolerate Lotte's foolishness for long. "Please, I can see to myself. His Majesty must come first!"

"Oh, well done," Rumpelstiltskin breathed in her ear, as they turned out of her father's view. His voice was a syrupy blend of admiration and malice. "Very diplomatic. I thought she was going to drip on your lovely new dress."

"She's terrified of you!" Belle hissed, ashamed of herself for being more pleased by his praise than annoyed by his naked contempt for Lotte. "They all are!"

"Yet everyone else does their duty, preparing for the King," he said, as they reached her door. It still bore the marks of fruitless sword strokes from a month ago. "I wonder what he wants?"

Glad to hear him close the door behind them, Belle sagged. Her trunk was back in the spot it had always occupied, a short way from the door. Her two baskets were upon the bed. Smiling tiredly, trying to be happy instead of melancholy at the familiar scent and quietness of her old rooms, Belle turned to face her husband.

"I thought it would be a quiet visit," she said, finding a little shrewdness in her exhaustion, and watching Rumpelstiltskin with her head tilted. "Private. Did you know the court would be here?"

"Of course not," he said, frowning, and Belle believed him. He was probably quite a good liar, she thought, but he seldom had the need. Who could challenge him, so why lie? "I doubt His Majesty knows that I'm here, either," he added, brightening and rubbing his hands together, briskly. "This could be amusing."

Her husband found his amusements in the oddest places.

"Help me?" Belle had been pulling ineffectually at the cloak pin. Although she guessed that it must have a magical resilience, to be made of pure gold and not bend with the weight of so much cloth, she was afraid of breaking the beautiful thing. She dropped her hands to her sides as Rumpelstiltskin obliged, unpinning her deftly.

"Amusing for you, maybe," Belle said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "My father is very worried, and not only about the King."

"I wasn't about to let him banish me to the stables, little wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, his tone a gentle warning but his eyes warm for her. He slipped his hands beneath her cloak and held her waist. "He can't think I haven't had you, after a month."

"I don't know _what_ he thinks," Belle said, sadly. "I used to." She shut her eyes and accepted his soft kiss. It was not the particular affection that she longed for at that moment, but it was welcome nonetheless. "Besides, you had no intention of _having_ me," she said, trying to sound stern as they parted. "Did you? Not even on our wedding night. Maybe Papa knows you better than you think, _Rumpelstiltskin_."

Lips twisting and yet failing to produce anything that looked like a smile, Rumpelstiltskin averted his gaze and let her go.

"Our contract--"

"You weren't going to, even for that."

"Not against your will. That was all." Looking as though she had left a bad taste in his mouth, Rumpelstiltskin wandered to the window at the far end of her long room. He gave a wide berth to the mirrored dressing table opposite one side of her canopied bed, passing into the adjoining space where the room widened to provide a fireplace, with room for a writing desk and two couches. Belle had never looked twice at her room, or thought it strange, but Rumpelstiltskin seemed too big for it, somehow - he seemed cramped here. "My error was in presuming to know your will," drifted back to her, as he reached the window and peered out.

Belle went to leave her cloak on the bed, but caught her reflection in the mirror. What had once been so commonplace a thing that she missed it now unsettled her badly enough that she draped the cloak over the mirror, instead. She would turn it to face the wall, later, or have Lotte take it away; she had been well warned about the dangers of a looking glass.

"Your error," she said, standing behind her husband and circling his waist with her arms, "was in believing that _no_ woman could want you." His hands covered hers, at his belly, and he stroked her ring with two fingertips. "I don't suppose a father wants to think that his daughter desires _anyone_ ," she added, and sighed, resting her cheek between his shoulders, in the fur of his cloak.

"No," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, but he was not paying her great attention. Whatever he could see out in the darkness held his interest. "Does the King come here often?"

"No." She could see little outside the window, for her room was well lit, but Rumpelstiltskin seemed able to see a great deal. "The court used to come here during the summer progress," she remembered, thoughtfully. "When my mother was alive, and the King's wife too. The late Queen was her first cousin."

"Ah yes." Turning abruptly, Rumpelstiltskin studied her face in the better light. "Still peaked, my dear," he complained, touching her cheek. "Do you want your maid?"

"No." Belle felt disloyal, but she did not want Lotte's company or questions at the moment. Between her fear of Rumpelstiltskin and her romantic fascination with the workings of the court, she would be of little help, and Belle was _tired_. "I'd like to see Papa, but he must be so busy."

"A private reunion," Rumpelstiltskin said, and nodded. "I don't imagine he'll turn you away, my dear."

Belle felt helpless, set apart from both her father, who was wary of her husband, and from her husband who was fascinated by the situation with the King. It would mean trouble, Belle simply _knew_ it, and she did not know what to do about it. She was no longer the mistress of this castle. She was but a guest unless her father called upon her to be otherwise.

"What will you do here?" she wondered. She had never thought of returning without him, but nor had she given any thought to the difficult position in which she had now placed him. If he followed his nature he would upset his wife by alarming her people; if he respected his wife's wishes he risked his reputation. "Prowl about and frighten everybody the way you do in Odstone?"

"There's always business for me at a royal court," he replied, with some relish. "King George is an old acquaintance. I've not seen his little boy in years, what was his name?"

"James..." Belle said, narrowing her eyes as she tried to divine his motive for asking. "Prince James. He's not a little boy, any more."

"Oh, yes!" Snapping his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin grinned. He had not forgotten the young man's name for one instant, she was sure. "They say he sleeps in his armour. Shall I find out while you seek your father?"

Laughing, mainly because she was too exhausted to control herself, Belle touched his chest before going.

"If you do," she said, unable to help picturing the scene, "be sure and tell me so I can tell Lotte. She thinks he's the finest man in the world."

"Tread with care, Belle," Rumpelstiltskin called as she let herself out. "Things change."

Belle was horribly afraid that he was right, as she emerged into the main passageway. What was going on all about her was too near to chaos, something that would never have been allowed while the staff of the castle answered first to her. When Sir Gaston first arrived with his wedding party, and with the soldiers promised in return for her hand in marriage, Belle had seen them billeted and fed before nightfall, even though they had arrived one day earlier than had been agreed. It wasn't difficult to manage the resources of a castle, and this frantic activity suggested to her that there was no longer a single hand at the helm.

She found herself noticed, as was only to be expected, but the hastily averted glances and tight-lipped nods of respect were not the greetings she was used to. There were two guards outside the Council chamber, creaking in the full armour of the Duke's men. They were professional soldiers, and probably not usually expected to guard doorways. They, too, tried to pretend that they had not seen her.

"Is my father here?" she asked of them, and the fair-haired man on the right puffed out his chest before answering her in a snap of military earnestness.

"He is, my Lady."

"Please tell him that I wish to speak with him." Belle had not spent the past month overcoming her fear of the Spinner to be intimidated by an overlarge man in a tin suit, and spoke with an authority that she did not, in truth, possess. "At once," she added, although it took the last of her resolve. These were Gaston's men, and there were sure to have been repercussions from the broken engagement.

"Yes, my Lady," the guard decided, after a glance at his colleague. The other man, no doubt relieved that Belle had not chosen to address _him_ , stared woodenly ahead at the busy passageway, and did not move when the fair-haired one slipped into the Council chambers and quietly closed the door behind him.

In the past, Belle had found the soldiers quite funny, imagining that they tried to be as much like the little wooden doll soldiers in a boy's play fort as they could manage. They were proud, many of them knights in their own right, and when they went out to fight ogres they returned again, covered in blood that was not, by and large, their own. That had changed her opinion of them rather, and of Gaston too. Pompous and polished they might be, but those men had made the difference for the best part of two weeks, giving the tenant farmers and the inhabitants of outlying villages time to retreat within city walls, their crops and livestock with them.

While she waited for an answer, Belle could _feel_ people looking at her. Like the soldiers, she stared fixedly ahead and pretended not to notice. The fire-blackened oak of the great doors had been replaced, and Belle studied its texture, its fresher hue, its differences from the old and the familiar. Anything but turn around and see familiar faces staring at her with the kind of fear she met in Odstone.

Stepping back quickly when one of the double doors opened, Belle was thankful to see her father's smile of greeting. The Council room was not busy or crowded, but Belle could see others in the brief moments before the guard closed the door and resumed his position. She recognised the heavy gold chain of the King's Chamberlain and the long face of Gaston, in those moments.

"Belle," her father said, almost reaching for her with his arm before remembering himself. "Come, girl."

Grateful, Belle followed him through narrowing passages to his private office, which sat directly below his bedchamber and directly above the strong room. Papa had always joked that it put him at the heart of the castle, when he took his seat at the table there. It was a place of law, of documents, of arguments and settlements and, rarely, a place where a girl might find her busy father working and persuade him to a few moments of conversation. The very smell of the room, parchment and cedar, eased Belle's frayed nerves.

They faced one another wordlessly, with the door shut behind them. Sir Maurice sought in her eyes for the child who'd left a month ago, while Belle sought in his for the acceptance she feared left behind. It would have been impossible to say which of them broke first, or who shed the first tear, but then it didn't matter because Belle was being crushed against his great chest and rocked like a little girl while she wept.

"I hardly knew you under so much finery," Papa laughed, eyes damp as he set her at arm's length and drank in the sight of her. Tearstained and sheepish, Belle perhaps looked rather less the grand lady than she had done before their embrace. "And so pale, petal."

"The journey," Belle said, thickly. She had been shaken by her own storm of tears, and now by the extent of her relief at his unconditional welcome. "I'll be all right in the morning."

Nodding, his face falling, Sir Maurice retreated to lean against the table that served him, most often, as a desk.

"Of course you will," he said, and sounded as though he were reassuring himself. "Of course you will."

"What's happening?" Belle asked, suddenly afraid to let the conversation approach more personal topics. "Papa, why is the King here?"

"To celebrate our part in the victory," her father said, his big face looking drawn. Belle could see that she had not been the only one in want of a few meals, and thought with a pang of how often she had chivvied him to eat, or taken him a plate herself if he was too busy. Who would look after him, now? "That's the reason given."

"And the real one?" Belle went and leaned beside him, finding herself as eager as ever to shoulder his troubles with him.

"To mark the victory as his own, I expect," Maurice said, grimly. "If there are medals handed out, my girl, they should all go to you. The King can plant his field of fancy tents on every acre of our land, and parade the Royal Guard from here to the ocean, but it won't make the victory his."

"Papa," she chided. "You speak of the King."

"Yes, I do. The King who's suddenly winning an unwinnable war, because of my Belle taking these lands back. The ogres are driven so far back now, they say it's only a matter of days. All because of you."

"Because of Rumpelstiltskin, Papa." Belle wondered where her husband was now. She would not have wagered a bent brass pin that he'd still be up in her room, peering out of her window at the bustling town. She folded her hands in front of her, and tried to think of what to say. There was far too much that she could not say - that would be indecent or disloyal. "It was a small price that I paid, Papa. I promise."

Beside her, Sir Maurice bowed his head.

"We hoped he'd tire of you," he said, awkwardly. "Send you back."

"Papa!"

"Maybe the King can make himself useful, while he's here," her father went on, sinking into tones of bitterness that Belle had only ever heard before beside her mother's grave. "It's been argued that this marriage was unlawful," he said. "There might be a way we can free you without--"

"Papa!" Scrambling away from the table, brushing down her skirts and facing him squarely, Belle made no effort to moderate her reaction. "I won't hear of it!"

Once more, Sir Maurice gazed into her eyes, seeking something. This time, he did not find it and looked away.

"You're tired," he said, straightening, and Belle realised that she was being dismissed. "We'll talk more tomorrow, all right?" Clapping a hand on her shoulder, patting gently, he ushered her towards the door. "Lotte will bring you something to eat," he added, trying to sound jovial and failing. He was too tired, too heartsore. "All be better in the morning."

"Good night, Papa," Belle said, restraining her concerns and, rising on tiptoe, pulling at his robe until he stooped to accept a kiss on the cheek. She thought that he lingered a moment longer than usual before rising, and saw that his eyes were misty again as he saw her off at the door.

Belle would have offered her services to smooth the chaotic preparations, but he had thrown her so! Her marriage, unlawful? A way to free her? Was he so desperate to secure her return that he would try to twist a solemn oath?

He'd hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would send her back, in disgrace?

Heartsore herself, Belle tried not to shrink from those she passed on the way back to her own small staircase, and escape. Had she not spent her tears in that clinging reunion, she might have cried now, for she had imagined herself returning to the home she remembered before the war, with all mended. She had pinned her hopes on it, on long walks and talks with Papa, on seeing smiling, familiar faces. She realised, now, that it had been an impossible hope - a childish hope. The world did not stand still.

Two of the candles nearest her bed were guttering and the fire had burned too low. That made Belle angry at herself, a deep and irrationally violent anger that expressed itself in her clumsiness at the candle box and with the almost-painful spill of hot wax across the back of her left hand as she fumbled with the candelabra. She was more careful with the fire, adding two logs and a small handful of kindling beneath, then prodding things gently with the poker until it caught.

Once, Lotte would never have been far enough away for long enough to allow her fire to burn out. Belle had always done things if she saw that they were needful, whether the candles or the fire or mending a dress, but Lotte had been her servant. Before leaving, Belle had considered her a friend above all, a childhood companion grown older beside her. Only now, after a month away and with her self-imposed battle between housework and Rumpelstiltskin's magic, did she truly understand how idle her life had been when it came to the small, essential tasks. Only now did she understand why Lotte must take such pride in the care of her belongings, her hair, her privacy; those had been Lotte's purpose in life, her employment and, yes, her pride and joy.

She had so often thought of Lotte's ways as foolish or small minded; so often bitten back a scolding when she fussed, and never once considered _why_ the girl did such things, or that it was expected of her. The care of her mistress was, to Lotte, every bit the same as Belle's duty to make a good wife; it was her place, it was her very life. Of course she should be proud that she was good at it.

Had Belle married Sir Gaston, Lotte would have accompanied her to her new home as a matter of course. That had been _her_ future, and she had giggled and enthused about a grand palace, the availability of eligible young men she had not known ever since they were toddlers, and the fine clothes that Belle would wear there. Belle's wedding to Rumpelstiltskin had cut Lotte adrift from a future that she hoped for with all her heart - one that could only have been surpassed had Prince James leaned down from his horse and swept her across his saddle one day, declaring his true love and devotion.

Perhaps _any_ match that took Belle away without her would have seemed monstrous and terrible, to Lotte.

So Belle left her belongings alone; her baskets on the bed, even though the nibbled cheese had begun to smell rather, and her clothing in the trunk. She would have preferred to see to it herself, but those things were Lotte's to do, if she ever dared to set foot in the room. Belle had thought that she was being wise and considerate, sending her maid away to help with the preparations for the King, but had Lotte seen only the friend who had abandoned her, sending her away once more?

With the fire gaining strength, Belle took her current book from the basket and retreated to the couches. Rumpelstiltskin was most likely out exploring the possibilities of a travelling court, and Belle tried not to think too much about what that might involve. He spoke of King George and Prince James with no more reverence than he spoke of Queen Regina or the Princess Snow, and of _all_ of them with the alarming gleam of anticipation in his eyes. If he planned mischief, Belle hoped that it would not involve her father, who looked worn and older than she remembered, and certainly needed nothing to further darken his opinion of her new husband.

Belle had composed herself before Lotte crept into the room, bearing a tray. She was able to rise, to peek around the bend from her sitting area and smile at the other girl, who had more or less mastered her trembling, if only because she was more afraid of dropping the tray than she was of Rumpelstiltskin.

"He's not here, Lotte," Belle assured her, warmly. "Come and sit with me?"

"He can go invisible, my Lady," Lotte said, glancing around as she brought the tray to the small table before the couches. "He did before."

Not having thought of that, Belle could not issue an instant denial. Rumpelstiltskin _had_ appeared as if from nowhere, by the very window to her right. He had been listening to her conversation with her maids, that terrible day, and she supposed that Lotte must be right; Rumpelstiltskin must be able to make himself unseen, when he wished to. Was _that_ how he crept up behind her, to startle her so?

"He's not here now," Belle promised, having listened with other senses and detected no hint of his telling magic. "Come and sit down, and tell me how you've been?"

"Me, my Lady?" Lotte did sit, on the other couch, and her dark eyes watched Belle with terrible apprehension. "It's you we've been so worried about, all these weeks!"

"Oh." Belle looked over the tray, while she tried to think of how to reply. The meal was stew with a porridge of grains, and Lotte had brought two dishes. She smiled, faintly. "He won't eat that," she said, gesturing to the second meal. "Are you hungry?"

"...yes," Lotte admitted, small voiced, and both were shy as they reached for their share. They had eaten together often, for much of their lives, yet this felt strange and new. "Doesn't he eat?" she asked, glancing around as if she feared being caught with the demon's meal.

"He can," Belle said, dipping her spoon but with half an eye on Lotte. "He does. Only when he can be bothered, I think. How has my father been?"

That seemed a topic upon which they could agree to be at ease, and Belle ate while she listened to Lotte first speak, in uncertain, halting statements, and then find something approaching her usual gusto for chatter, filling the silence between mouthfuls. More than anything, Belle gained the impression that her Papa had been _busy_ , and agreed with Lotte's opinion that this was a good thing.

Repairs to the castle and the town walls had been made at a frantic pace, more as a matter of local pride than necessity, for returning soldiers - surviving soldiers - meant many able hands. The markets had resumed, weekly, albeit on a smaller scale, and the first carts had come from the sea a week ago, the news having spread that their land was free of all strife. Belle smiled, hearing all that, a little of her own shame brushed aside by the old, quiet pride in her people.

Very much to her own surprise, she emptied the generously-filled bowl. Her upset on the road had not lingered enough to diminish her appetite, and she had only the mildest of headaches, tonight. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin was right, and that she would quickly get used to the magic that enabled her to cross great distances in a short time. How marvellous would it be if he could simply carry her with him when he vanished, to reappear in a different realm, or across the sea? Would he take her?

"Lady Belle?" Lotte was leaning forward over her bowl, watching her with concern.

"I'm sorry, Lotte," she said, putting her own dish on the tray. "I have a headache."

"I'll bring you the bark pills," Lotte said at once, abandoning her meal and rising. Belle drew breath to stop her, but then remembered her earlier revelation. There was no harm in Lotte scurrying off to the cold room for some milk and medicine, and her head _did_ ache, so she thanked the girl and watched her go, taking the tray with her.

Before Lotte returned, Belle took the two silver gilt cups from her basket, and the unopened bottle of mead. She had made no use of the wedding gift, as yet, and although she had thought to share it with her father, she chose now to share it with Lotte instead. She would adore the beautiful cups, and the tale of the gift baskets in the snow, and the mead would be a taste of the wedding feast that Belle had never had.

Leaving the cups and bottle on the table, Belle went to close the curtains and add another log to the fire. As she straightened, she squeaked as Rumpelstiltskin grasped her hips and leered over her shoulder.

"You're going to frighten me to death one of these times!" she protested, but his welcome closeness made it difficult to mind too much that he crept up on her. His hands were so cold that she could feel it through her clothes, and even his lips were chilled when he pressed a kiss beneath her left ear.

"You're made of sterner stuff, I think," he said, and drew her around to face him. He seemed a great deal more at ease than he had before. Belle wondered, without entirely wanting to know, what he had found to amuse him out there in the dark. "Your Papa is well?"

"He..." Belle had managed to put their conversation from her mind, while she sat with Lotte. It returned to her, now, and clouded her face with a frown. "He has a great deal on his mind," she said, trying to move away. Rumpelstiltskin took her by the elbows and kissed her, greedily.

The sound of Lotte dropping a tray broke them apart, just a few breaths later, and Belle stared down the long room at her maid, whose back was plastered to the open door. Hands that had, until a moment ago, been holding a silver tray with a cup of milk and a jar of headache cure, were now plastered over her mouth in horror.

Rumpelstiltskin's hands flexed at his sides, and he took a half step towards the scene before Belle caught and squeezed his hand.

"Leave it, Lotte," she said, dreading more than anything that the girl would burst into tears in Rumpelstiltskin's presence. "Thank you. I shan't need you again tonight."

"Or ever, I should think," her husband muttered, as Lotte's boots clattered down the stairs in clumsy haste. "Does she think I'm going to bite off your head?"

"Yes, probably." Belle went to pick the unbroken jar of medicine out of the pool of milk that was, mercifully, confined mostly to the tray. This she slid out of the way with her foot, before closing the door. "Or hers. Or turn us all into rats. Please be patient with her."

Rumpelstiltskin had seated himself at the open side of her bed, and begun testing it with insolent little bounces.

"As you desire, my treasure," he said, lazily, and caught lightly at her skirts as Belle brushed past him in the narrow space between bed and dresser. "Come to bed."

"Just a moment." Belle put the jar beside the mead bottle and uncorked both. It perhaps wasn't wise to swallow the medicine with strong drink, but at that particular moment she felt in great need of both.

"What ails you?" Rumpelstiltskin sounded more himself, as he watched her swallow the bitter little balls of herbs. No, she thought, sternly, he only sounded kinder, more attentive. That prickly, prancing, sharp-tongued creature was Rumpelstiltskin, every bit as much.

"My head, from the road. It's nothing," Belle promised.

Poor Lotte, she thought, as she returned to her husband and spread her arms in a silent plea to be let out of her gown. She held her breath as the magic enveloped her, and supposed that at least the girl hadn't walked in to see _that_. 

This time, Rumpelstiltskin left her standing in the blue nightgown while he, she noted, wore a black one that she had not seen before. It was perfectly plain, with the exception of three black buttons at the neck, and fell to just below his knees.

Yes, it was _very_ fortunate that Lotte had not witnessed that transformation.

Wordlessly, Belle lowered herself onto his lap and draped her arms about his neck. She knew that she ought to wash, clean her teeth, and do something with the smelly cheese in its basket. More than anything, Belle knew that she should _sleep_ , to be fresh and clear headed for tomorrow, but Rumpelstiltskin's arms and a moment of blessed stillness there were all she wanted.

For the moment, they were all she wanted in the world.


	47. Stranger in the Looking Glass

Beneath her father's roof, it felt sinful to go to bed with her own husband.

Belle had imagined that it might - had even secretly enjoyed the naughty thoughts that arose when she thought about it - but while Rumpelstiltskin unpinned her hair, she felt ashamed. Would she feel the same if it were Gaston beside her, now? Belle watched her husband's face, his expression soft with pleasure as he drew out pins and combs, then the tiara. He hurried her to do nothing that ought to shock a father; he had not even kissed her, since she sat on his lap and clung to him until the world felt solid again, but perhaps it would shock a father more that his daughter looked to Rumpelstiltskin for such comforts, and found them.

"There, now," Rumpelstiltskin said, emptying his handful of copper and gold into her travel basket. Shy, Belle nodded her thanks and watched him move the baskets to the top of her trunk, near the door. Nothing now prevented her from getting into her old bed, but she hesitated, turning back the sheets. "You first," she said, standing aside, and pointed to mean that Rumpelstiltskin should occupy the left side of the bed which sat flush with the wall.

"Scared that I'll run away?" he asked, sounding delighted with the notion, and Belle shook her head at him, turning aside to avoid his attempt to embrace her.

"I don't want to crawl over you if I have to use the pot," she said, exasperated that he had made her explain. "I will, if you like, but if you watch me or make nasty jokes, I'll make you sleep outside my door."

"Ooh," he said, mimicking a shiver of dread, and dived for the far side of the bed before Belle could deliver the pinch she felt like giving him. As Belle followed, wondering why the bed felt less familiar than she had expected it to, his magic snuffed out every candle in the room.

Her bed was far smaller than the one she had at Rumpelstiltskin's castle, the mattress set deep into a box of wood and lower to the ground. The featherbed atop it went some way to making a lumpy mattress bearable, and while it was large enough to accommodate two, it could only do so comfortably if they nestled together. Belle realised, while they arranged their limbs and pillows to be comfortable, that most husbands and wives probably slept thus every night, and would not need to mount an expedition to the other side of a vast bed to find company.

They settled with Rumpelstiltskin behind her, his knees tucked behind hers and his arm beneath her pillow. His left hand wandered, but idly, seeking nothing more from her than permission to touch. As always, he soon devoted his attention to her hair, playing with the ends that hung across her throat, and Belle's last, drowsy thought was that she should have furnished him with a hair ribbon to enjoy while she slept, because he was not drowsy in the least.

It was strange, to have grown so used to the silence of her husband's barren, echoing castle that the small sounds with which she had grown up should startle her awake, now.

Belle's heart raced for a few moments, until she remembered where she was, and why she was cradled in strong arms. Her sleep had been deep enough to drown in, as though all her weariness, worry and discomfort during the journey had piled in and weighed her down until she gave her body the rest it craved.

"Is it late?" She knew that Rumpelstiltskin was awake. He had answered her little gasp of waking with a kiss to the back of her neck, lips against skin, and tightened his arms about her.

"So late it's early," he crooned, voice as soft as a lullaby, and Belle felt his fingertips at her thighs, dragging silk against her flesh, tickling. She bit her lip, shut her eyes and tried to think of nothing but him while his fingers visited between her legs, nimble with their new skill at finding her joy. It came for her quickly, selfishly, while she held her body frozen and forced herself to make no sound at all. "Delicious," her husband murmured, his lips stirring the hair behind her ear. "Sleep, treasure."

"While you guard me?" Her words were a sleepy slur, the sound of a whimsical smile, but she knew the truth of it as sleep carried her away once again. Rumpelstiltskin, who protested about keeping her awake if required to stay beside her each night, had coiled himself around her like a dragon on its hoard of gold, in this place that was not his own. He would not move before morning.

~+~

The sounds of morning were less familiar to her, and her awakening less startling in the warm, morning light. The curtains that covered her small windows were of thin enough cloth that the light came through, coloured by the red fabric and giving the room a cosiness that Belle had always loved. She blinked up at the canopy of her bed for a while, too comfortable to move, but succumbing to a smirk as, seeing her awake, Rumpelstiltskin crawled beneath the bedclothes and tugged at the ribbon that tied her nightgown.

He had waited all night, Belle supposed, wriggling her shoulders into the pillow as he began to kiss her breasts, and she felt so much better after a full night's rest. In no hurry to change position, even to welcome her lover, Belle settled for burying her fingers in his hair and encouraging his hidden kisses, closing her eyes again. It couldn't be sinful, could it, to love with her husband, even here?

"Were you awake the whole night?" Thirsty, rough with sleep, she sounded far more sultry than she had meant to. Her nipple slipped from Rumpelstiltskin's greedy mouth for a moment, and a muffled 'yes' drifted up from beneath the blankets.

 _Guarding me_ , she thought, her other hand finding its way to the back of his shoulders to rub him in encouragement. He sought between her legs with his hand, shivering when he found her wet from her pleasures of the night, and settling between her knees the moment she raised them, finally emerging from his cave of blankets to face her, flushed and wide eyed.

"Hurry," Belle whispered, the urge to secrecy giving her an entirely new kind of excitement, and Rumpelstiltskin made a thin, drawn out sound in his throat that put her in mind of the twittering of a bird, and licked his lips before he kissed her. She could feel him pulling at himself beneath the bedclothes, hurrying to be hard for her, and almost choked on her own moan when she realised that, when his hand paused to rub her wet places for a moment, he was taking her wetness back and applying it to his cock. He shocked her, with each new and wonderful thing he shocked her, but the rightness of it would not be denied. The rightness of how he fit her, when he finally nudged his way to entering her, more interested in her kisses than in satisfying his desires.

Not that they shouldn't hurry, she thought, dizzy with the sudden rush of being full of him. Guests should not lie abed, whatever the rights and wrongs of a daughter being bedded beneath her father's roof.

As much as she had wanted him to be forceful, at the inn, Belle craved his tenderness now. He was easily guided - where to kiss, how fast to thrust, how hard, and Belle had begun to know what pleased her the most, or the soonest. This time, she kept him from hiding his face beside hers, burying it in the pillow or tucking his cheek against hers. In the soft, familiar light of home, she wanted to see her husband, see him taking her, and see that precious moment when his self-control faltered in the onslaught of his climax.

"Open your eyes?" she pleaded, dry mouthed, and Rumpelstiltskin did so, gulping and looking hunted until he saw her eyes, and the adoration that she knew must be there. "Oh," she whispered, her limbs too restless to obey her as the waves began to break in her; she stiffened, she shook, she clutched and twisted while he somehow knew how to heighten her pleasure by pausing, then thrusting it deep and letting her body grasp and grasp around his solid length. "Oh, yes," Belle moaned, feeling it begin again before it had even stopped and feeling him surrender too, trying to kiss her while they shared their helpless moans. "Oh, gods," she gasped, half angry that her eyes had been closed and that she'd once more missed the sight of him, lost, and half elated. "I didn't know _that_ could happen."

Rumpelstiltskin's answer was a feeble grunt, his forehead resting against hers and his eyes tight shut. As he began to shrink out of her, he began to shiver, and Belle wrapped herself around him as tightly as she could, and wished for the words to tell him what was in her heart, at such a moment as this.

A brief knock at the door startled them from their happy communion, Belle's hand flying to her mouth to stifle a shriek as she heard someone come in. _Lotte_ , she thought, suddenly frantic, but her feeble push at Rumpelstiltskin failed to move him. Eyes narrowing, he raised himself on his arms and directed a sharp look and a terrible smile down the length of the room to the door.

"Lotte," he said, his voice a honeyed barb, and Belle heard the rattle of crockery on a tray. She was too mortified to move, even if Rumpelstiltskin would permit it; he was _between her legs_ , and even if the backboard of the bed obscured the intruder's view somewhat, from that distance, even _Lotte_ couldn't fail to recognise what their positions meant. "Put down the tray, on the floor," Rumpelstiltskin said, so quietly that his voice should not have carried as far as the door, but Belle knew that it would. "If you drop it, if you scream, I will flay the skin from your bones and use it to make my boots," he concluded, with such a terrible matter-of-factness that Belle was frozen in horror, her hands clutching at the front of his nightgown. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes," Lotte said, in a dull, trembling voice.

"Get off me!" Belle hissed, striking him in the chest with the heel of her hand, and Rumpelstiltskin looked down at her, still smiling.

He released her at once, dropping to her side and giggling madly as Belle dragged herself from the bed and hurried up the room to Lotte's side. Her maid, much to her surprise, had done exactly as Rumpelstiltskin had commanded. The tray of breakfast things was on the floor beside the tray of spilled milk, and Lotte stood frozen but silent beside the open door, staring at the bed.

There was now nothing to be seen of Belle's husband, but his eerie, unkind laughter continued from behind the concealing wooden panel at the head of her bed.

"Lotte," Belle said, reaching a protective arm around the girl. "Oh, Lotte, what were you _thinking?_ "

"They said," Lotte said, with a strange slowness, still transfixed by the bed and the laughter of its hidden occupant, "that I should be good and loud on the stairs, my Lady. And to knock before I came in."

"Oh, Lotte." Thoroughly shaken, Belle guided her out on to the tiny landing outside her bedroom. "Go to the kitchen and wait for me."

"Yes, my Lady."

Her footsteps as dull as her voice, Lotte went. Belle's heart was in her throat, her fear and outrage horribly at odds with the bliss and contentment she had known but a moment ago, and she had no words for her husband. Not now. Not until she could be certain that she would not scream at him at the top of her lungs, and use obscenities enough to raise the rafters!

Snatching the topmost dress and clean underthings from her trunk, Belle scrambled into them, aware of Rumpelstiltskin's eyes on her. At least he had stopped laughing, laughing at his own cleverness and at his own cruelty. She kept her back to the bed, her breathing ragged in her fury, and when she stumbled, hopping on one leg to straighten her left stocking, she almost _wished_ that he would laugh or tease her, so that the dam might break and her outrage might find release.

Instead, pulling her plain old cloak over herself to hide her careless lacing, Belle relieved some of her tension by slamming the bedroom door behind her as she hurried down to the kitchens.

A different kind of activity had replaced the chaos of the previous evening. Belle saw little of it, in her haste to see to Lotte, but fewer of the Chamberlain's staff were scurrying about and carrying things, and nobody spoke in raised voices in the public areas. Down in the kitchens was another matter, but there the noise was productive; cooks instructing scullions, porters moving the enormous pans that would be needed to cater for a banquet, and a bubbling, busy chatter beneath it all while every pair of hands worked.

Belle felt less a stranger here than she had done above stairs. The head cook smiled at her, his arms covered in flour, and Aya stepped up, her arms full of strung onions, and curtseyed before directing her to the scullery when she asked after Lotte.

She had expected to find the girl in hysterics - had expected that another syrup of poppy would be needed, and that someone would need to be diverted from their important work to fetch one, but Lotte sat quietly on a stool by the passage to the laundry room, scrubbing red-skinned potatoes free of dirt.

"Lotte." Belle looked around before closing the scullery door to offer them privacy. Nobody seemed in immediate need of the room, since Lotte was doing the work of a kitchen maid, up to her elbows in cold, muddy water. "Lotte," she said, again, and her maid looked up, stricken, brush and potato splashing from her hands into the bucket at her feet. She was silent, though, and no tears welled up in her eyes as she rose, hesitantly, to face her mistress.

Taken aback, Belle held her tongue a moment, and was further taken aback when Lotte spoke first.

"I didn't scream," she said, almost defiantly. "I didn't drop it."

"No," Belle agreed. She had prepared herself to find Lotte in floods of useless tears, to offer comfort and - gods knew how - try to explain a little to the girl about husband and wife. "You did very well," she added, because her shame was back. Sometimes, she thought so little of Lotte, yet they had played together, come to womanhood together and shared its trials and fears. Talked for long winter nights about the men they would marry, the children they would bear, and how different things might have been had they been born sons instead of daughters. "He's my husband, Lotte. We... You must wait outside until you're called, all right?"

For a moment, Lotte's eyes widened with fright and her hands gripped Belle's too tightly, but it was only for a moment and, again, Belle was surprised at her. She had thought to have to coax Lotte back, to offer her empty assurances about Rumpelstiltskin, even to plead with her, but Lotte simply bit her lip and bowed her head, nodding.

"He was... doing it," she said, and this fearfulness was of a different kind - shy and lacking the words. Belle recognised it all too well.

"Husbands and wives do," she said, gently. "You knew that. That's why you must knock, now, and wait."

Her cheeks scarlet, Lotte nodded again, her gaze now fixed on their joined hands.

"They said he might not," she said, miserably. "That he might let you be and send you home."

 _And they were right,_ Belle thought, not certain whether her pang of grief was for Rumpelstiltskin or for the people she had left behind, afraid for her.

"Well," she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. Trying to sound like a mistress and not an uncertain girl. "Now you know. And it's private, Lotte. Not for gossip, not with anyone, do you understand?"

Nodding, Lotte dropped her hands to her sides.

"Your breakfast," she said, shyly. "I've these to do."

"Peeling potatoes for the King," Belle said, with pitiful false cheer. "And for Prince James, I suppose."

Lotte brightened considerably, at that, and Belle almost cried with relief. Too many things had changed, so thank goodness _some_ things had stayed the same.

Belle returned to her room, slowly, again finding that she attracted less attention, dressed as she was and with her hair tumbling loose. Seeing Lotte had calmed her protective outrage rather, but hot embarrassment remained to be dealt with, and Belle wondered who, exactly, had given Lotte her instructions on how to approach the door this morning. It might have been innocent or it might have been done to tease, but no-one other than Belle knew that Rumpelstiltskin would not simply curse the girl to ashes where she stood for such an intrusion.

Her morning had begun so sweetly, and now she was churning with anger and worry, and why? Because someone had played a joke on Lotte for her innocence? Because Rumpelstiltskin liked to be feared and feared to be liked? How _stupid!_

Well, Belle was going to have her breakfast and get herself decently dressed. A bath seemed out of the question, with everyone so busy, and she certainly wasn't going to call on her husband's magical favours before she found it in herself to forgive him for his behaviour.

Inside her door, the tray of spilled milk had gone, as had the fresh one with their breakfast. Belle removed her cloak and left it on the neatly made bed, seeing that Rumpelstiltskin had set out the breakfast things on her little table. He stood at the window, clothed in his leathers and a grey woollen scarf that had been so heavily felted that it resembled giant spines.

He did not turn, but moved his head ever so slightly so that he could see her without doing so.

"Now I know why you had such trouble with weeping maids," Belle said, coldly, and sat down to her breakfast.

" _Is_ she weeping?" he asked, lightly. He had not forbidden Lotte that, Belle remembered, yet Lotte had not wept.

"No."

"It's not a difficult thing," Rumpelstiltskin went on, hands tightening in their knot behind him, "to take the measure of someone. To see their weakness, to speak to it."

"To offer it a deal?" Belle snapped, and oh, gods, but she hadn't meant to. "What was mine?"

Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders stiffened. He brought his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists. He was silent while Belle drank from her cup of lukewarm mint tea. It tasted like home.

"Your father will have tasked her with finding out if you are still a maiden," Rumpelstiltskin said, after a while. "Now she knows, and will tell him that she dare not spy on us again lest I do worse than turn her into a rather flimsy pair of boots."

"Spy on us?" Belle stared at him. "She brought breakfast, at breakfast time! She expected to see to my clothes, my hair, my room, just as she always has!"

"Your weakness, my dear, is that trusting nature." Spreading his hands at his sides, Rumpelstiltskin finally turned, his face an unreadable mask framed by perfect, oiled curls. He seemed so like the very first time that she had seen him, there by the window, that it brought her heart into her mouth. "You trusted fate, the very world itself, not to saddle you with a monster, when you came with me."

"I would have gone with you had I known for _certain_ that you were a monster," Belle answered, as frightened of her own anger as she had ever been of his coldness, his power. "It's not weakness to hope for the best, to have an open heart, an open mind!"

"Just as you say," her husband said, brightly, and with a tiny bow that constituted pure mockery. "Just as you say."

As he passed her, his boots heavy on the wooden floor, Belle felt the touch of his magic - it trailed behind him, flying and fluttering like a tattered cloak in a gale, playing out his childish anger in a world beyond her knowing.

 _Magic is best appeased,_ the saying went. Had she angered him so very much that magic escaped him, or did he extend that whip-crack of power as a sign of his displeasure, just as he might send a glare or a harsh word?

Breakfast was a struggle, with her body tight and quivering with infuriation. Belle forced herself to sit and eat, washing down malted bread with gulps of tea. His words replayed in her mind, again and again, fuelling her annoyance; it was like a sudden sickness, symptoms quite beyond her control, and she despised the feeling. If love was madness, then so was this!

With her husband and his magic gone off in a temper, and her maid peeling potatoes for a king, Belle took her neatest dress from the trunk and carefully shook it out, smoothing the skirts until they looked less travelled. This time she dressed herself with care, in spite of her trembling fingers, and spent some minutes brushing out her hair, counting to herself as she went, just as Lotte would. Then, in part through defiance and in part through necessity, Belle moved her heavy velvet cloak from the dressing mirror, and sat down to do her hair.

For a moment, she regretted the small betrayal of her husband, and then she remembered her hot humiliation, trapped beneath him while, their loving all forgotten in his dark glee, he taunted her maid.

Well, she thought, let Queen Regina look all she liked at a girl pinning back her hair, just as a thousand thousand girls must do every morning. Not even a witch could make mischief of that.

It felt so odd, watching herself, that her anger was subsumed by a nervous melancholy while she sat there. It had only been a month, just one month spent without a looking glass, but Belle felt that she was looking at a stranger, busy with the priceless golden hair combs. The stranger's face was slimmer than the one Belle remembered so well, her cheekbones too prominent to suit her particular flavour of beauty, and her skin looked dull.

Even Rumpelstiltskin, so happily oblivious to her lack of grooming and finery, had noticed that his bride was in need of a few good meals for the sake of her health.

Belle put on the necklace of gold, rather hesitantly. Like her bracelet, which she also wore, it clipped closed at one side and made an almost seamless band, a tiny catch the secret to opening it again. Where her bracelet had a small chain, to save the bracelet if the catch were knocked, the band at her throat did not. She had been afraid that it would look too ostentatious beside such a plain dress, or be lost unless her hair was swept up, but Rumpelstiltskin had chosen well; just as its naked value lent itself to an outfit fit for a queen, its simplicity lent itself to her well-made, plain old dress.

Her chest hurt with a sudden, breathless pang, remembering how timidly he had offered her the jewels, and what little colour had been in her cheeks drained away at the memory of their quarrel.

A slim drawer beneath her dressing table held a small selection of cosmetics, neat in their jars because she had so seldom used them. Belle applied a hint of rouge to her rather dry lips and pinched her cheeks until they warmed with a little blood, then rose and turned the oval looking glass to face the wall. Let a watching witch look all she liked at worn wooden panels!

Leaving the door to her room open so that poor Lotte would not fear to enter, Belle descended to the busy hallways once again. The hectic activity had lessened still further, she was pleased to see, and when she reached the Council chamber she found it open and, other than the servants who were moving furniture into place to accommodate the King, deserted.

It had always intrigued Belle, when she was small, that the King and Queen brought their furniture when they travelled. Out in the field of bright tents, Belle knew that there would be beds, dressers, tables, chairs, carpets - as many of the comforts of home as could be loaded onto a train of wagons. And a throne or two, she thought, seeing a young maid hesitate in front of the low dais on which a tall, velvet-upholstered seat had been raised for the occasion and, flustered, drop a curtsey to it before flicking it with her feather duster at a careful arm's reach. A man in the tan and white colours of the King's Chamberlain shooed her away, but he was smiling.

Rumpelstiltskin might have teased her about her baskets of food and amusements for their journey, but _this_ was how true royalty travelled - like an army on campaign, complete with advance parties, scouts and spies. The court arrived nowhere unprepared.

Since asking someone if they had seen Rumpelstiltskin promised to be counterproductive, Belle opted to leave him to his black mood and hope that he didn't cause more trouble out of spite. Thinking of him brought a scowl to her features and quickened her breathing anew.

Oh, she would forgive him, she knew - Lotte was unharmed, after all, and it was in Belle's nature to be tolerant - but for the moment she was finding a peculiar satisfaction in being furious with her husband. It frightened her, yet it made her feel that she was unstoppable; it made her feel nearly immune to the hurtfulness of the wary looks she received from people who, but a month ago, would have smiled and stopped what they were doing to speak to her.

Having hoped to find her father in his office, Belle was disappointed to realise that he was too busy to see her. She could hear men arguing, behind the closed door, and recognised both her father's voice and Gaston's.

Gaston. Belle made a face, suddenly guilty for not having thought of him sooner, and hurried away from the door before she had reason to feel guilty about eavesdropping, as well. She made her way outside, longing for the fresh sea air and the warmth of the sun, and began an aimless tour of the town's outer streets to see how well the repairs to the walls had progressed. In her thoughts, Sir Gaston had never been here upon her return. It was true that she had never cared for him, and had thought of him very little since Rumpelstiltskin took her away, except to imagine how very different her new life might have been. But their engagement had been a political alliance, the difference in their rank allowed for by the sheer strategic value of the lands that Belle would one day inherit, should her father never remarry.

In her heart of hearts, Belle had always hoped that he would remarry, and that there would be sons. It felt like no betrayal of her mother to hope so, for who could wish loneliness upon a good man? Knowing, as she did now, the comforts offered by a good marriage - the sense of belonging, and the private pleasures - she hoped more than ever that her father would marry again. A good woman, a sensible woman who, whether or not she bore him sons, would stand beside him and help him remember how to laugh now that Belle had flown the nest.

No, Sir Gaston had not sought to marry Belle, not for her accomplishments, her title or her beauty. Sir Gaston's father, the Duke, had sought to bring control of a sea road and a deepwater harbour within the family lands, and if the price of that was sending his son to fight an unwinnable battle for those lands, he had considered it a price worth paying. Belle, herself, had never mattered at all, although her dowry of silver and pearls had appealed to a son with many years to wait before inheriting his father's riches.

All the same, Gaston had fought bravely, inspiring his own men and the conscripts to do the same. Belle wished, now, that she had been more openly appreciative of his victories - that she had been a little less aloof with him and that she had spared him more than an afterthought when agreeing to go with Rumpelstiltskin. She knew that she had been ungrateful for the opportunities promised by their match - all those opportunities that Lotte had swooned over and appreciated in a way Belle never could. Wealth, title, status and a place at court; the certainty that her sons would have the same. And, yes, a handsome husband and fine clothes, and horses and jewels - all the things that put stars of envious wonder in Lotte's eyes, but made Belle think longingly of a book and a quiet place to sit and read it, all by herself.

When her tour brought her back to the main gates, Belle stopped to gaze out at the King's encampment. It had seemed ominous in twilight but was quite beautiful now, with pennants fluttering in the breeze and brightly dressed people busy at their work.

Aimless, half thinking that she might go to visit Mistress Elena, Belle turned back towards the castle and saw Lotte hurrying out, her face anxious as she searched the busy scene.

"Lotte!" Belle went to meet her, relieved beyond measure to see someone who she could at least talk to, and let Lotte lead her back towards the open gates. There were still no tears, Belle noted, and no sign that there had been any. Lotte looked determined, and so serious that Belle hardly knew her. "Why the hurry?" she laughed, gently disentangling her arm once they were inside.

"I'm to bring you to your father, my Lady," Lotte said, and even the words were hurried. "Please, at once. The King will be here soon."

Oh, yes, the King. Although he had probably arrived at the encampment last evening, he would make his formal arrival only once the castle was fit to receive him, and in daylight so that the entire town could cheer as he rode through the gates. The absurdity of the thought cheered Belle somewhat, but a glance at Lotte's face kept her from mentioning it. Rumpelstiltskin's harsh words seemed to have found a sullen strength in Lotte that Belle would never have given her credit for, and she had no idea what to make of it, yet.

This time, the door to her father's office stood open and only quiet conversation could be heard as they approached. Belle turned to thank Lotte for delivering her, but Lotte ushered her inside quickly and closed the door behind her.

Belle glanced quickly at the other figures in the room, bewildered at such a summons. She had imagined that her father wished to see her alone, but Arnos the head Councilman was there, and a cowled cleric, his head bent over a scroll, and Gaston, who stood to one side, his arms folded and his brows knit. Only Arnos and her father met Belle's gaze.

"Sirs," she said, warily, and approached her father. He gestured for her to sit, forcing a smile for her as he took his own seat on the other side of the table. "Papa?"

"Belle," he said, mopping his brow. "Nobody has forgotten what you did here," he began, and the other men added their grave nods of support for the remark, "but the fact is, you were promised to Sir Gaston. It's the opinion of the Council, and of the College of Clerics, that your marriage to Ru--" at this, the hooded cleric made a sharp slashing gesture, and Belle's father stopped himself, exhaling in frustration. "That your marriage was unlawful."

"That's nonsense," Belle said, and felt as though she had been struck. Had she not told him that she would not hear of this? "Papa!"

"We have petitioned the King," Gaston said, moving to stand at her father's shoulder. "And he will decide the matter."

Aghast, Belle rose to her feet and stared at her father.

"Papa, no!"

"It's no shame on you, Belle," he said, walking around the table and taking her by the hands. "No stain on you at all. You acted in good faith. We all did." Trying to smile, her father squeezed her fingers gently. "They say that he honours every deal to the letter, that he holds a contract above anything. We can _free_ you, Belle. We can _try_."

"I don't _want_ to be freed!" Her vehemence startling even her, Belle tried to contain herself, but the day had been too much. Too much! "I suppose I'm given to Gaston, next? Used goods at a knockdown price!"

"Belle!" Shocked at her, Sir Maurice swallowed thickly and looked past her to the cleric.

"Treat her kindly, Sir Maurice," came the voice from beneath the black cowl. "She is bewitched."

A quiet fear began to overcome Belle's hot-headed outrage. Her temper would not serve her in this, no matter how fiercely she burned with the urge to lash out at stupidity and unfairness. She could wait for Rumpelstiltskin to put an end to the matter, as he surely would the moment he knew of it, but what could _his_ temper mean for her father, her home?

"Papa," she began again, cooling her tone and pleading for reason. "Why are you doing this? Rumpelstiltskin dealt with us fairly, in good faith, just as you said. He saved us all and I paid his price freely. I won't betray him, no matter what the King says."

"The petition is made," her father said, releasing her and turning away, looking sick. "My Belle would at least let us try," he said, almost to himself.

"My father," Belle said, "taught me to keep my word."

"Some things are bigger than all of us," Gaston said, gravely. Belle gave him a hard look, then looked to Arnos, who spread his hands mutely, and to the seated cleric who looked as if he was lost in prayer.

Helpless, and horribly alone, Belle tried one last mute appeal to her father, but he would not look at her.

"Then I'll try to protect you, and our people, if I can," she said, grasping the edge of the table to support herself as the terror rose, and with it the tears that she was too angry to shed, "when my husband finds out what you've done."


	48. The Command of Kings

_"Why,_ Papa?" Belle said, when her father had slumped into his chair and the other grave-faced men had filed out of the room. She had not dared to let go of the table in case her knees failed her. "If I break my word, what makes you think my husband won't simply return the ogres to our doors?"

"Nobody's saying you should break your word," Sir Maurice said, trying to sound calm when he was fearful. Did he believe the cleric's words, that she was bewitched? "I know that you never would, not if it meant your life, or worse. I broke a prior contract when I offered him your hand. The man respects only contracts, the letter of an oath. He may accept a compromise, let you go if this is proven. We must _try_ , Belle!"

"Not for my sake," she said, lifting her chin. "You can't think that the _Duke_ does this for my sake?"

"I needed his _help_ , Belle! To free you from that beast!"

"My _husband_ ," she said, with a vehemence born of something that was not anger, "has a _name_. Rumpelstiltskin! Do you bow to the College of Clerics now, Papa? Do you encourage their superstitions, pray to their silent gods? Are you afraid of a _name_ , when you're the bravest man I know?"

"He comes when he's called," Maurice said, quietly. Bitterly. "That's no superstition."

"And what do you suppose he does to those who break faith with him?" she asked, all but ready to scream at him for being so blind. "Who try to take what's his?" Tears stung her eyes, then, and she had to look away before her father saw them. "He _honours_ me, Papa, more than I ever knew a husband could, but I don't know if it's enough. Not if you anger him."

"Honours you?" Rubbing sweat from his brow, her father looked pained. He looked ill, and Belle longed to comfort him in spite of all. Torn between his child and his duty, what would any man do but struggle? But torn between father and husband, what could _she_ do?

"I hoped that you'd be happy for me," Belle tried, and tried to let her hope flourish again, and make her voice less shrill. "You wanted me to be happy when I married, and I _am_."

"Oh, petal. I wish I could be sure of that." She barely heard the words, behind her father's cupped hands, and still another fear piled on to burden her heart; that he would weep for her, for this shameful mess. But he did not weep, and looked up, dry eyed, when the distant fanfare signalled the arrival of King George. Slowly, Sir Maurice got to his feet and straightened his robes and sword belt. "Gaston was right, my girl," he said, striding to the door and holding it open, ushering her out. "This is bigger than we are."

All were hurrying towards the outer doors, either to line the passageway or to join the crowd beyond the drawbridge. The King's party were already at the outer gates, a wonderful sight on their pale horses. King George rode beside his son, Prince James, and the small procession moved slowly, greeting the cheering crowds.

Among the crowds, Belle noted as she stood beside her father and tried to find her husband's face, the heavy men of the King's Guard moved, smiling and unobtrusive, and armed to the teeth. Was Rumpelstiltskin even here? Had their quarrel driven him further away, to smoke his pipe and lick his wounds? Surely not, when he had watched over her sleep? Why did he not guard her now, when even her father would not speak for her?

As always, Belle's father strode forward to take the reins of the King's horse while he dismounted. It was a courtesy that had never been explained to her, save that the King praised her father's horsemanship in battle at every opportunity for sharing old tales. Neither were young men, now, and their years of valour were behind them, but they greeted one another with the peculiar warmth of old soldiers, clasping arms and slapping one another's backs, and booming in loud voices to sing the praises of the other.

Behind them, almost unnoticed, the Prince jumped from his own horse and stood watching them with a placid half smile, until he noticed Belle. Then his brows knit slightly, as if with curiosity, and he offered the smallest of bows.

Lotte would have swooned, Belle thought, lowering her inquisitive gaze and waiting to be presented by her father. _Where_ was Rumpelstiltskin? She longed for him, yet dared not try whispering his name in summons in case he _came_. He had destroyed a man for laying hands on her, he had offered her the world. What would he do to the men who would come between them with such brazen trickery?

Belle was presented, and Gaston, and the King smiled hugely, but it was all a show. She knew about showmanship from her husband; the flourishes, the falsehoods. When the King caught her eye as she rose at his command, he pierced her with his unsmiling blue gaze as he said, "Our champion, the Lady Belle."

Reddening, Belle looked at the toes of her slippers.

"Your Majesty."

"Come, then," King George commanded, with a final gesture of benign approval towards the cheering, "to the business of victory."

Sir Maurice took Belle's arm as they fell into step behind the King, the Prince and Sir Gaston. Clerks and courtiers walked with them, a respectful train behind King George all the way to the Council Chamber, which now dripped with tapestries and the royal colours.

Many matters would be attended to here over the coming days, Belle knew. Matters of law, of politics, of military planning and strategy. There would be the more subtle movements of the courtiers, those links in the chain of favour and fealty that bound a kingdom together. In public, their brave stand against the ogres was to be lauded. In this room, the King would see to it that no-one mistook a victory against the ogres for the power to unseat a monarch.

"Where is he?" Sir Maurice asked, leaning close to whisper to her. "Your--"

"Husband?" Belle felt the scorn that soured her voice; felt it curdle in her like a poison. She wanted to be sick. "I don't know. Maybe I would, if I were bewitched."

"This cannot be done behind his back."

"For all our sakes, it ought to be," Belle answered, obediently standing where her father directed her, at the end of a row of benches, facing and to the right of the dais. He stood beside her, to her left, and Gaston behind, and Belle wondered if the nameless cleric would slide in at her right, boxing her in in case she tried to bolt from the King's presence. What did it matter that she was here, when so many men had decided what must be done? King George had a certain rough chivalry towards women of any station - was known for it, and for his strong alliance with the late Queen - but a woman's opinions were not heard in public, let alone on matters of law. Belle would be spoken for, and about, and expected to remain silent while the matter was decided, even if they did not suspect her of being bewitched!

All rustling and finding of stations stopped when, breaking from an apparently casual discussion with the Prince, King George mounted the dais. At his nod, the doors were swung shut and barred behind the assembly, who then bowed until the King had taken his throne, offering his permission to rise with a gracious flick of his hand.

Beside the dais, Prince James stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his shoulders back and his chin lifted. When Gaston stood thus, Belle thought him a peacock and a fool, though she knew well enough that he had true skill with the weapon. When James did likewise, he simply looked like a man ready to kill anyone or anything that should threaten the King's person.

King George sat still and surveyed the room for some moments, taking stock of the faces before him. He wore no smile, now, and his eyes were as hard as steel.

"I came here to commend my loyal subjects on their courage, their resilience and their resourcefulness in the face of overwhelming odds," he said, his gaze falling last upon Sir Maurice, and Belle beside him. "I came to celebrate a brave young woman for her noble sacrifice, and for reminding us all that quick thinking and selfless action may serve us, when cold steel and military might have failed."

Taking her hand, Belle's father bowed his head.

"Instead," King George went on, his gaze moving from face to face, "I am barely arrived before I receive a petition from these same, loyal subjects. Do you know what your King is asked to do?" He paused, as though expecting some response, and Belle felt her father flinch beside her; heard Gaston shift his weight behind her. "Your King is asked to render that sacrifice worthless," George barked, and Belle was not the only one present to start in her seat at the sudden raising of his voice. "To rule on a minor matter of law, and in doing so, defy _Rumpelstiltskin_ himself. Sir Gaston!"

"Sire!" Gaston had leapt to his feet behind Belle, almost before the King had finished shouting his name.

"Has Duke Hubert taken leave of his _senses_?!"

"Sire..."

"And your father's seal is also on this petition, Lady Belle. Rise."

Tugging her hand from her father's as he rose, Belle stood also. George's anger had startled her, as it had startled everyone, but perhaps for a different reason.

"A deal with the Spinner, Lady Belle, to turn the tide of this war. You succeed where armies have failed, and now this?"

"I had no part in it, nor was I consulted," Belle said, quietly. "I am Rumpelstiltskin's wife in every way that ought to matter and I _will_ not break my word or endanger our people." Her clear voice carried well in the silent room and she knew that every eye was upon her. Every eye but that of the King and Prince James, she noted, but if this was her opportunity to speak then she would not squander it. "I ask for nothing but to be allowed to leave with my husband before he finds out what these men have tried to do here."

"Oh, don't mind me, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin spoke from behind her, right back at the doors, where the King and the Prince had been looking while she spoke. Belle spun around, quite forgetting that one never turned one's back on a prince, but Rumpelstiltskin was already striding up the aisle between the rows of hastily assembled seating and past the big table of clerks and documents. All eyes were upon him, save that of the four clerics who averted their faces as Rumpelstiltskin passed. "Do let's hear what good King George has to say. We can't go having you half married, now can we? What would people think?" Meeting her gaze for the barest of moments, Rumpelstiltskin winked.

Caught between her relief at his arrival and her fear that his prowling stride and chirpy manner boded ill for her father, Belle resorted to a pleading look, but Rumpelstiltskin was facing the King.

"Your Majesty," he said, with a grotesquely insincere bow. Beside the dais, Prince James took a slight step towards him, but George stopped him with a sharp gesture. "Ah," Rumpelstiltskin said, looking the Prince up and down as though he had only just noticed him there. "The son and heir. The heir without a spare."

"You _want_ me to proceed with this... affair?" For a moment, the King had looked as Belle had never seen or imagined him - he had looked fearful, as Rumpelstiltskin gazed upon his son. "Is she your wife or isn't she?"

"In every particular," Rumpelstiltskin said, emphasising each syllable. Belle flushed at the startled whispering that rose up around the hall, but she revelled in it, too. Yes, yes she was his wife, and just let them try to deny her now! "But I'll not have it claimed otherwise, her honour and her virtue questioned. I'll have this settled, your Majesty, and you can thank your lucky stars that my deal was with the Lady Belle herself, or you'd be looking at ogres around now. Rather unhappy ones, given where I left them."

"Indeed," the King said, with a dark look at Gaston and Sir Maurice. "And our gratitude to the Lady Belle knows no bounds. Very well, then. Be seated."

Gaston, Maurice and Belle resumed their seats, but Rumpelstiltskin remained where he was, standing to the left of the low dais and regarding King George with an expression of mild interest.

"I'll stand," he declared, and George composed himself with a barely-visible effort before holding out his hand towards a rank of clerks at the great table.

"The petition!"

A scroll was brought, hurriedly, by a small man who squeezed himself nervously between Rumpelstiltskin and the dais in order to give the document to the King. Rumpelstiltskin watched him squeeze back in the other direction, smiling placidly at him until he stumbled over his own feet.

Belle looked at her father, who was flushed and sweating, and quickly looked away before he could catch her eye. Would he ever forgive her?

"Sir Gaston's father claims that the Lady Belle was promised to be Gaston's wife some years ago, and pledged at a betrothal ceremony last year. Is this true, Sir Maurice?"

Rising again, drawing himself up to his full height with an effort, Belle's father gave a small bow. The King himself had given them permission to marry - he already knew the truth of it.

"It is, sire."

"And His Grace contends that you were, therefore, not in a position to offer the hand of your daughter to this man." With a glance at Rumpelstiltskin, who did not move, George sat back. "Clearly, you did so. You allowed your daughter to depart with her husband, one month ago. Yet your name and seal are on this document requesting that I declare this marriage invalid, Sir Maurice. Explain."

"Sire." Belle had never heard her father speak, in public, with anything less than commanding strength and gentle certainty. His strained and wobbling voice, now, brought tears to her eyes. "My only concern is for my daughter."

"But mine is not!" To quiet gasps, Gaston stood and pushed his way to the central aisle. He appeared to remember himself, having become the central figure on this uneasy stage, and lowered himself to one knee, head bowed. He was unafraid, Belle noticed, and wondered if he even knew the stories about Rumpelstiltskin. "Sire," he said, gruffly, "I beg leave to speak the truth of this matter."

King George watched the kneeling figure, grey head tilted in icy contemplation. Even Rumpelstiltskin had, stepping slightly aside to accommodate the King's view, turned to look at Gaston.

"Stand up, Sir Gaston," the King said, slowly, "and tell us the truth of this matter. Do."

Like Rumpelstiltskin, King George had no need to raise his voice or hurl explicit threats to chill the blood. His power spoke for itself and where the veiled threat failed, the King's Guard could easily follow, led by the Prince. Yet with Gaston, at least, that power was tethered. The Duke, Hubert, Gaston's father, was the most wealthy man in the land. He could muster the most men. His brothers, sisters and daughters were embedded into every noble family Belle could name, and where he did not hold direct authority he yet held the power to command. King George was a strong King, but his resources were overstretched. Without the Duke at his right hand, his strength would crumble. Without the Duke's support, he might face the prospect of civil war.

Belle could see how much it galled him, all the same, to allow Gaston to speak out of turn. Gaston rose, and looked past Rumpelstiltskin to the King.

"The Lady Belle was promised to me by her father, by solemn oath. He had no right to give her to another. Sir Maurice has no sons, and these lands will fall to the husband of his daughter, in due time. Do we trade peace with the ogres now for a land in thrall to Rumpelstiltskin in the future? The betrothal must stand, for the sake of the kingdom!"

Rumpelstiltskin looked intrigued, and rubbed his chin, watching Gaston without blinking. Belle tried to watch the King as well, but could not watch both now that her husband had moved slightly. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears and, beside her, her father breathing heavily.

"He has a point," Rumpelstiltskin said, solicitously, into the echoing silence. "I wouldn't want to rule me, either. Tricky."

"What do you _want_ , imp?" George demanded, rising and obliging everyone in the room to stand as well. Belle felt that she was balancing on air, and could not decide if what she felt was elation or terror. "Have you tired of the girl? Do you wish to annul this marriage?"

"Certainly not," Rumpelstiltskin said, spinning to face the King and, for all that he had to crane his neck to meet the larger man's gaze, up there on the dais, seeming to Belle to be the one with authority here. "But if this marriage is unlawful then she is but a whore, bought and paid for," he said, icily. "And the next person who whispers that my wife is a whore is _going to die_." At this, Rumpelstiltskin spared a dark glance towards the group of clerics, who might have been alarmed, had they deigned to look at him. "I suggest that you remove the temptation, _sire_."

 _My husband,_ Belle thought, gripping her father's arm for support as the room tried to spin about her. She had forgotten how to breathe. _My husband commands kings._

For a few moments, George cast his gaze about the room. He lingered the longest on Belle herself, this time, and caught her eye before she had time to look away.

"As to the matter of the marriage," he said, his eyes going momentarily to Rumpelstiltskin before returning to Belle and her father, "I remind you that the argument is moot if the girl is no longer a virgin. The royal consent to the union of Sir Gaston and the Lady Belle was conditional upon her purity, as is our law, and I gather that, in good faith and believing herself lawfully wed, she has permitted the marriage to be consummated?" The King's gazed pinned her, sternly but without malice. He would no more tolerate an untruth than Rumpelstiltskin, when he gave her such a look, but Belle had no more reason to utter one.

Scarlet faced and sweating, but swimming with relief that made her almost as dizzy as her dread, Belle said, "I have."

Rumpelstiltskin grinned.

"Then the marriage stands," George said, waving Gaston to be seated before he could protest. "As to the other matter," he said, glancing at his son before returning to the throne and arranging himself into a regal pose there, "that of inheritance, I ask Rumpelstiltskin to relinquish all future claim to his wife's land and titles."

"No," Rumpelstiltskin said, cheerfully. He was enjoying this! Belle was appalled, offended, but filled with such a guilty depth of admiration for her husband's irreverence that she wanted to laugh out loud. "Perhaps Sir Maurice ought to get himself some sons," he added, as though proposing a perfectly reasonable compromise. Belle's gasp was shared, and not only by her father. "Or disinherit his daughter, of course, but why should he? We've established, have we not, that she is blameless?"

At her side, Belle's father leaned forward in his chair, hands braced against his knees, and closed his eyes. Timidly, she placed her hand over his, and found it clammy.

"Blameless she may be, sire," came a dry voice from the back of the hall, "but she is surely bewitched, and her husband a creature of the dark times." All eyes found the small group of dark-robed clerics, and Belle recognised the voice as that of the man who had sat beside her, before her father. "Witchcraft can never again be allowed to rule our fair lands." From beneath the hood, Belle could see a thin smile on a shadowed face. "That is also our law."

"I am not bewitched!" Belle snapped, and turned apologetic eyes to the King. "Forgive me, sire, but this slander has been repeated to my father, and I don't know how many others. It isn't true! I speak for myself, and I will relinquish _my_ claim to these lands if it will put an end to this!"

George hesitated, looking from the clerics to Rumpelstiltskin, to Belle, who held his gaze fervently, and then finally back to Rumpelstiltskin, who shrugged.

"I do not speak for my wife," he said, simply.

"So be it," King George said, valiantly concealing his relief. "We must already thank the Lady Belle for her swift and selfless action when the ogres had overrun us," he said, once again watching Belle. "She is to be congratulated for her fortitude and, given what I know of her husband, her considerable patience. She has bought us the foundations of peace, gentlemen, and without a stain on her honour."

The King was forced to pause when, clapping his hands in childish glee, Rumpelstiltskin twirled on the spot. Belle closed her eyes with the effort of composing herself. She wasn't certain whether, if she lost control, she would laugh or weep.

"I trust that you will honour us with your presence at tonight's banquet, Lady Belle?" he said, causing her to snatch her eyes open.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she managed, almost steadily.

"Very good," the King said, and looked askance at Rumpelstiltskin. "Is the matter settled to _your_ satisfaction, sir?"

"Oh yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, steepling his hands and then turning them outwards, spreading his arms as he made a playful little bow. "Very much so. And I do _love_ a party."

"Sire," Sir Maurice said, his voice a croak. He was barely heard above the muttering that greeted Rumpelstiltskin's insolence. "I beg you. My daughter..."

"Papa..." Belle saw his ashen face, the pouring sweat, the blue tinge to his lips, and stood up quickly. "Please, sire, my father is ill. May he rest?"

"I insist on it," George answered, rising and turning again to the rank of clerks, making a gesture towards the door. "My physician will attend him at once. We will resume here tomorrow, at the ninth bell." The clerk was already hurrying towards the doors. The guards lifted the bar and then, at a signal from Prince James, strode forward to aid Belle's father and take him from the room.

Conversation had erupted everywhere, no longer confined to discreet whispers as the King strode out of the room without glancing back. Belle tried to follow her father, but Rumpelstiltskin took her arm, slowing her steps to match his own. Those around them kept a wary distance as they walked towards the doors, watchful, but Rumpelstiltskin likewise watched the black hooded men in the right-hand corner, who spoke together with quiet urgency.

"They've told Papa that you have me bewitched," Belle said, miserably. "I think he believes it. Whatever I say, he..."

"His heart fails him," Rumpelstiltskin said, "and his head is clouded. Does he follow these priests of yours?"

"No, not at all," Belle said, aghast. "His heart?"

"There are herbs," Rumpelstiltskin said, vaguely. "The King's Physician is no butcher of a barber-surgeon, your father will be all right."

"Can't you help him?" Belle clutched at his arm as the rest of the assembled filed out around them.

"With magic, for a price," Rumpelstiltskin said, studying her eyes. "Or with the same herbs, only for your sake. But then they'll think him bewitched as well, and what'll happen then? I must go nowhere near your father, treasure, if you love him."

Belle swallowed, looking back one last time at the group of priests. They had no true authority, not in any of the lands, but where their innocuous faith took hold then so did their superstitions, the fear of evil controlling the minds of men, and with it the supposed proofs and signs of dark magic.

She wondered what they would see, if they gazed upon Rumpelstiltskin. She wondered if they knew - if that was why they turned their faces away with such fearless finality.

"Lotte's family follows them," she said, all the taut emotion of the last hour or so draining away to leave her painfully empty. How she wished to put her head upon Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder and pretend there was nothing else that mattered in the world but him. "Many do, my mother did." Belle led the way to her staircase, not knowing where else to go. Rumpelstiltskin was right - neither one of them could attend her father, now, without it being suspected that he was under the spell of the Dark One. "Gaston's father does, but I don't think Gaston does." She snorted. "I don't think he has the imagination to believe in anything he can't see and touch."

"I thought your little maid was afraid that I'd eat her alive," Rumpelstiltskin said, thoughtfully, as they climbed the stairs to her room. "So she's afraid it's her soul I'm after, eh?"

"You were horrid to her," Belle said, over her shoulder, but all the sharpness of her anger was gone.

"Didn't go running to your father or the muttering priests with tales of your debauchery with demons, though, did she?" he asked, smugly, and Belle pursed her lips. "Nor drown us all in snot, and all without a lick of magic. Horrid _works_ , mistress," he added, leaning over her shoulder as she hesitated outside her door. "Fear is power."

"Why is the King afraid?" Belle drifted down her room, past the bed, and dropped to the nearest of the couches. She felt that she might wake from a dream, back in her great bed at Rumpelstiltskin's castle, and find that none of this had been real. "He was afraid when you spoke of his son."

Rumpelstiltskin was burning with energy, with that terrible glee, but she could see that he wrestled it for her sake. He paced before her, to and fro past the little window, each sharp change of direction making his coat swirl.

"Even Kings call my name when they are in need," he said, lightly. "Desperately in need of a son and heir, in this case. The boy even resembles the late Queen, doesn't he?"

"He's..."

Rumpelstiltskin held up a warning finger as he passed her.

"A deal never to be spoken of," he said, "though our union permits me to share all with you. It's a secret," he added, facing her and bending at the waist to whisper the words, loudly. "Ssh."

"Always _sons_ ," Belle said, shaking her head. Of course she would keep his confidence, and what was it to her if the King's son was a foundling, or a changeling, or some other thing that she could not imagine? "If my father had sons, I would never have been of interest to Gaston's family. Or anyone's," she added, watching her husband straighten, looking mildly affronted by her lack of enthusiasm for his intrigue. "I can't inherit in my own right, but my husband could. I chose who I would marry, and so they say that I must be bewitched," she went on, her voice cracking with tears, with the frustrated rage of the terrible morning. "My Papa tried to rescue me, the priests to save my soul, the Duke to secure my lands and the King to appease you," she said, trembling all over. "No-one asked me what _I_ wanted. No-one ever allowed me to decide my own fate, except you." The tears spilled, and with it the ragged, unstoppable sobs that she had bitten back and choked down all morning. "Only you!" she howled, and Rumpelstiltskin sat beside her, reaching nervously around her shoulders as though he feared that to offer comfort would only lead to further sobbing.

Belle's tears were a furious, brief unleashing, bitter and painful. If fear was power then her hot tears could have drowned her husband, who patted and hushed and even pleaded a little in his efforts to soothe her, wide-eyed with worry. When the dreadful tension went out of her body, when she could draw a breath without producing a howl of anguish, Belle let Rumpelstiltskin pull her close and buried her face in his shoulder, into the felted scarf that smelled like salt and sheep.

"He didn't ask me if I was happy," she whispered, wretchedly. "He didn't even ask me what I wanted, and I'd hoped he could be happy for me. I wish we'd never come."

"Fathers can be fools," Rumpelstiltskin said, stroking her hair from her crown to the middle of her back in long, slow sweeps. "To fear for your child... it's a terrible thing. It can, perhaps, be forgiven?"

Nodding, Belle dragged herself upright and half sobbed, half laughed when he proffered a fresh handkerchief. This one was black. It must be a terrible thing indeed, she thought, to fear for a child. Rumpelstiltskin had called upon the blackest magic to try to save his Baelfire, but still he turned that very fear upon King George, and so casually. So coldly reminding him of the dark deal that brought him Prince James. Would the King toss and turn in his bed tonight, the fear consuming him as it had her own Papa?

"So," she sniffed, mopping her face, determined to be strong, "he's not a prince at all, by blood?"

"Not by blood. He seems to manage in every other respect. A fine sword arm, a noble heart, the courage of a lion."

"And handsome," Belle laughed, wetly, thinking of how Lotte swooned over him. Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, too carelessly, and Belle took his hand. Hers was damp and trembling; his was cool and strong. "So are you, you know."

He gave her a skeptical look, then looked at their joined hands, brows knitting.

"Perhaps you need to lie down until you feel better," he jested, weakly, but Belle squeezed his hand.

"I wouldn't make fun of you," she said, softly. "My husband is handsome enough for his wife, which is as much as any man should be." That was a nonsense, but he had recoiled so from her declaration, and she had meant it so sincerely. She would have him believe it. There was no _odder_ looking man in all the realms, probably, with his green-grey skin and his shimmer of gold, and his large eyes that never blinked often enough, but he was appealing to her gaze, and hers was the only gaze that mattered, since she was his wife.

"You weren't tempted, for a moment?" he asked, hesitantly. "To seek your freedom?"

"No," Belle said, disappointed that he had wondered, but grateful that he had asked, having done so. "Not for a moment." She bent forward, trying to catch his eye, until she could bend no further and he could turn his head no further in the effort of avoiding her. They were both smiling and trying not to. "You're happy that I didn't," she said, straightening and elbowing him. "Admit it."

"I'm not unhappy," Rumpelstiltskin confided, looking bashfully at his knees. He squirmed when Belle kissed his cheek, but turned his head to find her mouth with his. The kiss soothed Belle more than caresses or words had, and her inner turmoil began to separate into thoughts, ideas, suspicions and resentments, no single one of them too large for her to face. Not when she had her husband beside her. "At least we're going to get our party," he offered, in a blatant effort to cheer her up, and Belle nodded, getting to her feet and briskly brushing herself off while she took a deep, calming breath.

"Yes," she said, steadily, and turned to face him, chin raised with what she hoped was an expression of noble resolve rather than merely an unladylike stubbornness. "I think I'm going to need a new dress."


	49. Signs and Proofs

Lotte brought word with Belle's lunch tray that Sir Maurice was much recovered, and that he would not hear of failing to attend upon the King that evening.

Belle's relief was muted by the knowledge that her father would try to attend upon the King no matter _how_ unwell he might be. Despite his assurances about King George's physician, Rumpelstiltskin had, humouring her fretfulness, left some time ago to fetch the herbs that he had mentioned, and Belle felt much better for that. Her husband might not be known for his healing skills, but she would trust his knowledge over that of any man alive.

Even when assured of Rumpelstiltskin's absence, Lotte hesitated at the threshold of Belle's room until Belle, herself, went and opened the door to let her in.

"There's a lock on my door, at home," she told Lotte, ruefully, as she followed her maid to the couches and watched her set a tray of soup and bread on the small table. This time, she had brought only one portion. "Not that there's anyone who might walk in."

"I should think there isn't," Lotte said, with a sharpness that was rare for her. "If you've not even a maid to see to your hair and your things."

"I don't mind that," Belle said, far too quickly. "But I miss the company. I've missed you, Lotte," she said, small voiced with the gross inadequacy of it.

"And a hundred meals, by the looks of you," Lotte complained, flustered, and Belle realised how rarely she had confessed her affection for the girl. "Eat up while it's hot."

Like most of the meals that she had ever taken in her own room, this one was warm rather than hot - it was a long and winding route from the kitchens to her door. She said nothing, however, and ate the soup while Lotte went to her trunk and began to bring out her things, laying them out on the bed. Rumpelstiltskin's absence eased the girl's nerves somewhat, and his earlier threat, perversely, seemed to have replaced abject terror with a sullen resentment towards him, but Lotte worked without her usual bright chatter, and Belle found that she missed it.

"Where's the other dress, my Lady?" was the first question to break the strained silence, and Belle left the crust of her bread and went to stand by the bed, watching Lotte spread out an old petticoat and smooth the creases. "The one you wore last night?" Lotte pointed to the plum coloured cloak, draped across the back of the bed.

"It's... magical," Belle said, her heart sinking with the expectation that Lotte would go into a panic at the news. "He conjures it. I don't know where he puts things, when they're not needed."

Biting her lip, Lotte fussed with the frills of the petticoat for longer than was called for.

"Everyone said he'd enchanted you," she said, suddenly, just as Belle began to turn away with a sad little sigh. She grasped the bed post, nodding. If everyone thought her enchanted, had everyone also thought her a whore? Belle was too numbed from the shocks of the morning to feel more than a pang of dismay at the notion.

"No," she said, pushing a pair of heeled shoes out of her way and sitting down, heavily, at the end of the bed. "Just my dress."

"It's a nice dress," Lotte said, and Belle realised that her old friend was as desperate to bridge the silence as she. "And the necklace."

"Yes." Belle fingered the gold at her throat. "You can ask me," she offered, not caring if she sounded more like a timid little girl than a dignified and self-assured married lady. "Anything you want to."

Lower lip still caught between her teeth, Lotte returned to the trunk for another roll of clothing, but when she brought it back to the bed, she sat down on the much fussed-over petticoat with the new bundle in her lap, and they both faced the dresser in their uneasy wait for words.

"They say his reflection burns him," Lotte said, indicating the reversed looking glass. "Is that why...?"

"No," Belle said, although perhaps it was true, in its way. Rumpelstiltskin found himself more hideous than did anyone else. The loathing was burned into him, so deeply. "A witch said that I should call for her with a mirror," she said, picking her way around the truth with care, "and I didn't like her at all, so I cover it in case she can see me."

"A witch!" Horrified, Lotte looked directly at her for the first time, and Belle could see that it was the lively horror of a good gossip rather than the bone-chilling terror previously induced by Rumpelstiltskin. She smiled, faintly.

"I _think_ she was a witch," Belle admitted, for it might be too unkind a word for a queen with a little magic to her name. "I don't like the idea of anyone watching me through a mirror, even if they're not one."

"Think of what you'd see, if you could look out of mirrors at people," Lotte breathed.

Remembering how thrilled she had been to watch her father, that morning when Rumpelstiltskin had given her the use of the magic mirror, Belle coloured slightly. It was true. Supposing her Papa had been at his bath, or dressing? It would have been awful!

"And I've met a woman who's more than eighty years old," Belle said, looking for anything that she might say about her new life that would interest rather than frighten people. "She's not a witch, but she cackles like the ones in the stories do, and she calls me 'duckling'. I don't know why." Lotte giggled, putting her hand to her mouth. "She knows all about herbs and she gave me a book of recipes that must be almost as old as she is."

"Your Papa says it's cold in Rumpelstiltskin's land," Lotte said. "We'd have sent your clothes, like you asked, but then you said you'd come. It's all still packed away for you."

"It is cold," Belle agreed. "Colder than here, in the winter. I need all my warm woolly things, and my cloaks, and all my smalls because I'm hopeless at the laundry. We'll take them back with us."

"Laundry?" Lotte looked shocked. "You have to--"

"I like to," Belle said, quickly. "There's no need, but I like doing things. Being busy. Learning new things. And there's a library, Lotte - such a huge library, with more books than I think I could read in a lifetime!"

Slowly unrolling the skirt that she held, Lotte frowned in thought. Books had never interested her terribly; Lotte preferred to hear stories, both the old ones and ones simply made up on a dark evening.

"You told the King you wanted to go back?"

"Yes." Belle swallowed the renewed lump in her throat. "And even if I didn't want to, it would still be my duty. It was so wrong of my father to do this. I never thought he could do anything so... so _dishonourable!_ Rumpelstiltskin _helped_ us, all of us. I've told Papa that I'm not unhappy, but he doesn't hear me."

"He's sort of... faded," Lotte said, fumbling for the words as she went. "Your papa. Kept saying he should've done something, not let him take you. His heart's broken, that's what it is."

"And for nothing," Belle snapped, wrapping her arms around herself. "For lies, wicked lies from those ignorant priests! I've been safe and well and not bewitched at all. I'm _here_ and it's as though my father can't see me. Perhaps they've bewitched _him_ ," she added, with vicious resentment, and then remembered herself. Lotte had always seemed respectful of the clerics, while not sharing her father's fervent belief in all that they taught. Perhaps it was only a small group who had spoken against the marriage, who had encouraged her father and the Duke in this?

"They said you must be bewitched, or forced to write what you did." Lotte sounded sorry, and it was Belle who was sorry - for being blind, for being _gone_ ; for being so wrapped up in her new life that she had not written twice every day to reassure her father.

"They were wrong. If I hadn't been so homesick, this past month would've been the happiest of my whole life," Belle said. "Being married is _wonderful_ , Lotte. It's like a whole new world, like an adventure. And now I'm home, and still homesick."

Unused to such an outburst from her mistress, Lotte swallowed, nervously. Belle felt nervous, herself, for she was not used to such anger, or to doubting others. She wanted to speak of other things, of the town and her friends and even of Lotte's silly infatuation with Prince James, but how could they gossip like old friends when, suddenly, it was as if they barely knew one another?

"It must hurt a lot," Lotte blurted, just as Belle was ready to give up and go away to hide her tears behind a book. "When he does it."

"What?" For a long moment, Belle stared at her through the mist of unshed tears, uncomprehending.

Lotte had gone bright red. She had the complexion for it, freckles and reddish fair hair; a blush made her look as though she might begin to steam from the ears.

"When I was coming up the stairs, this morning," she said, with what Belle recognised as the old, protective defiance with which Lotte had guarded her private things, "I thought you were having nightmares, you made such noises. He was hurting you!"

Choking on her embarrassment, her blush trying to rival Lotte's, Belle stared straight ahead of her and tried to catch her breath.

"He wasn't," she managed, hoarsely. She knew that she struggled to be silent, with him, but to be heard on the _stairs?_ "It... it isn't like that." How could she even begin to explain, when she was barely beginning to understand it herself? Lotte truly would think her enchanted, if she tried to speak of the consuming joy of lying with her husband, or the way she lost herself in him. "It's... difficult to be quiet," she managed, with a semblance of dignity. "While you do it. It would only hurt if your husband was a brute," she added, with feeling.

"Mama says it always hurts, at least at first," Lotte protested, and Belle sighed.

"Perhaps it's different when he knows what he's doing, then," she conceded, ever grateful that, however ignorant she had been on her wedding night, it had not been ignorance multiplied by that of her husband! "But it needn't. Not with care. I'm sure of that."

"Oh," Lotte said, as though Belle had offered her some tremendous revelation. Her blush had faded to a pinkness about her cheekbones. "So you'll be a mama soon," she said, following her inquisitiveness to its logical conclusion and sounding more sure of herself. "Will you?" She gestured to Belle's midriff, and Belle put a hand there, feeling hunted.

"I don't know about soon," she said, quickly, and stood up. Of course, everyone would be thinking _that_ about her, as well. She trembled to imagine what Gaston's family had proposed to do with Rumpelstiltskin's bastard, had they succeeded in clawing Belle back from him after a month of sharing his bed, a whore. "Not yet, anyway," she said, and busied herself putting away her clothing in the cupboards, while Lotte returned to unpacking her trunk.

"Will they be like him?" Lotte gave each of Belle's shoes a critical inspection before bringing them to the cupboard.

"Our children?" Belle reminded herself that loyalty to her husband must come first. Sometimes, where there were secrets, lies could not be avoided. She would try, regardless. "I don't know. I don't think they'd have magic. I think a person has to learn that for themselves."

"Do you know any?" Lotte sounded almost hopeful.

"No," Belle said, firmly. "I don't want to." And that was true, she wanted no part of magic, but... "I did learn how to make a medicine, though," she said, thoughtfully. "I think one of the ingredients was a bit magical."

"A magic potion!"

Belle hid a smile, as pleased as she was bemused by Lotte's enthusiasm for unnecessary drama. It was nice to find that someone here was _interested_ , at least, in the details of her new life, and in her new accomplishments, even if the interest was couched in a deep suspicion about Rumpelstiltskin.

"That isn't the adventure, though," she said, returning to the couch and allowing Lotte to do as she thought best with the rest of her belongings. "Finding out who my husband is, and how to be his wife and still be me. That's the adventure."

Lotte didn't understand, she could see, but that was all right. Belle hoped that Lotte would one day find a husband and learn for herself.

"What will you wear to the banquet?" Lotte had fetched Belle's basket, the one with her hairbrush and needlework and books, and picked up the golden jewels from the top, one by one, as if afraid that they would shatter if she touched them. Belle let her look, knowing that she would love the beautiful things. "Will you wear these?"

"I expect so," she said. "And a new dress, a magical one," she added, remembering her husband's childlike grin at the prospect of once more outfitting her to stand beside him. This time, they would stand before a king. "But you must do my hair, and bring me lots of hot water for a good wash as soon as you can," she added, seeing the disappointment in Lotte's round face. The girl smiled, shyly, and began setting out the pieces of copper and gold on the dressing table, each one with fingertip care. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" she asked, softly.

"You need a bodyguard to wear all this gold," Lotte giggled, only a little nervously, and Belle smiled, taking off her necklace so that Lotte could hold it, too.

"I have one," she said, and watched Lotte's surprise turn to understanding. Perhaps it wasn't the happiest understanding, but Lotte returned her smile.

It was a start.

~+~

Having Lotte wash her hair was a luxury that Belle had truly missed, during her weeks away. When she had finished, Lotte fussed and complained as Belle had known she would, combing through the wet locks and trimming the very ends to make her neat once more.

While she worked, Lotte spoke of small things; the rebuilding, the livestock returning to her parents' small village, and the birth of Leorna's daughter, who was sickly but expected to live. Belle felt a horrible shock of guilt, at that, not having remembered to so much as ask after her old companion.

Rumpelstiltskin returned while Belle sat in her nightgown, trying not to complain as Lotte powdered her from brow to bosom and then painted her eyes and lips with a steady hand.

"What are you doing?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, from the doorway. Belle caught the little brush that fell from Lotte's fingers in her alarm, and turned on her dressing stool to smile at her husband. It felt strange, with the rouge on her lips; her face felt caked and heavy, but Lotte assured her that she looked like a princess. "I see," he said, taking stock of the situation and, if Belle wasn't very much mistaken, hiding his dismay. "I'll return later, then." And he left, in such undignified haste that Lotte suppressed a chuckle, in spite of her nerves.

"What do I look like, Lotte?" Belle demanded, as sternly as she was able, for Rumpelstiltskin's flight in the face of the feminine had amused her also, and she had not Lotte's wariness of him to moderate it.

"Half done, my Lady," Lotte answered, and pulled her back into position to continue braiding and weaving her hair. It was all that Belle could do to keep herself from turning the mirror around. "He won't know you before I've finished."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Belle said, but it was beginning to get dark outside. There might not be time to undo whatever it was that Lotte had done to make her beautiful. "He likes me as I am."

"It's the _King_ ," Lotte stressed, as though Belle needed any reminding, and tugged and pinned at the back of Belle's head until she was satisfied. The tiara had been woven into the style some time ago, and Belle could feel it riding higher than before.

To Belle's surprise, Lotte had at no point suggested that she peek in the mirror. Her story about the witch and the looking glass had taken root, it seemed, and Belle was glad of it. By the time Lotte lit the candles and departed, Belle had begun to get used to the heaviness of the powder on her skin, but not to the strange tingle on her lips where the rouge was painted thickly rather than merely dabbed to enhance her colour.

Festivities were already beginning, beyond the castle. The whole town would celebrate, tonight, and while the King might claim that they celebrated Belle's feat of courage and quick thinking, she knew in her heart of hearts that what most people would truly celebrate was being alive.

Among the nobles, officials and courtiers who would gather in the castle tonight, the celebration would be of a different nature. Belle was almost grateful to be hidden behind such a mask, if she was to face her father again tonight. Her anger at how she had been treated paled into insignificance beside the fear that he might not forgive her. Her position had been an impossible one, her only choices to betray her husband or her father. It had been the _right_ choice, but that was little comfort.

She closed the curtains as the torches were lit outside, wishing that she could join the revelry in the town square rather than attend the banquet. Once, such occasions had excited her, but the prospect of them had always been more enjoyable than the reality, and she had never before been the object of any great attention, and certainly never the cause of whispers.

Whore. The word cut her for its unfairness. The King himself had declared her virtuous, but would that matter? Would she walk among them to the whispers that she was Rumpelstiltskin's whore, rather than the girl who had wed him to save her people? It was too cruel, and cruelty was too new to Belle.

Bewitched. How could she ever disprove _that_? Rumpelstiltskin might have bewitched her to desire him, to obey him, to speak as he would have her speak, but he had not. He held their contract inviolate, and it had meaning only because she had chosen it herself - to marry him, to bed him, to open her arms to him and invite him to share her hopes of a true marriage. He needed no _whore_ , no enchanted and biddable thing in his bed!

No. Only the tender patience of a woman who was true to him had tempted Rumpelstiltskin to sample the delights of marriage. As every new act was a revelation to Belle, so her willing appreciation remained a revelation to him; he all but _breathed_ it when they were together, and while the whispers of strangers could never sully that, they made her angry. And for angering Rumpelstiltskin so, they were fools.

"Belle?"

She had been so lost in her thoughts that Rumpelstiltskin had returned without her noticing. He stood at the door and called her name rather than play his usual trick of startling her from behind. After such a day, Belle was grateful for that. Wordlessly, she offered her hand and waited for him to join her beside the fire. He studied her transformation with that same, hunted look that she had seen earlier.

"You don't like it?"

"Uh..." Rumpelstiltskin released her, stepping away nervously, his hands all aflutter. "Your maid has skill."

"Yes."

"And... it will... wash off?" He sounded apologetic, gesturing to his own face with both hands, but barely so. Belle laughed, a true laugh that came from belly and heart, and saw him break into a relieved smile.

"Of course it will." Belle watched him take a leather pouch from the turnup of a sleeve. He displayed it in his palm for a moment before tossing it onto the bed.

"One pinch in water when your father struggles to breathe, or his chest tightens," Rumpelstiltskin said. "More would be dangerous."

"I understand," Belle said, breathless herself with relief and gratitude. "I hope you're right, about the physician."

"I'm certain of it," Rumpelstiltskin assured her. He seemed to be getting used to her appearance, though he sought out her eyes every few moments, as though anxious to find the familiar beneath the paint and powder. "But it will do no harm to leave more than he needs."

"Thank you." Belle longed to express her gratitude with a kiss - her gratitude and so much more - but Lotte had warned her not to touch the paint on her lips or her eyes, lest she smudge it. A kiss was probably out of the question, as well. "Have you a dress to match Lotte's handiwork?" she asked, and then wondered just how absurd she looked, with her face and hair all dressed up above a shapeless nightgown. "How should Rumpelstiltskin's wife look, tonight?"

"Why," he said, with one of the coy smiles that she so loved, "matchless, of course."

Several moments later, when she had opened her eyes and caught her breath again, Belle found herself forced to agree with him. Not only had he attired her in a wide-skirted gown of dark greys over a brocade under-dress of cream and gold, but Rumpelstiltskin himself wore nothing like she had ever seen him wear before. He now wore a brocade coat with a high collar, the cloth showing rather more gold and less cream than the touches in her own dress, which would have resembled mourning without them. His knee-breeches were of a darker buff over white silk stockings, his square-heeled shoes a pale tan leather with a buckle of gold, and the whole outfit was crowned with cuffs and a cravat of lavish, white lace. Belle barely stopped herself from putting her hands to her face in her shock and delight.

"Oh," she laughed, almost outraged on behalf of the court - but only almost. This day, they had sat in judgement of her husband, her marriage and her very place in the world. Tonight, they would see that she was Rumpelstiltskin's, and that he was matchless in everything. Reaching behind her, while Rumpelstiltskin strode to her dressing table and back to fetch her jewels, Belle found that this gown was without any fastening, like the other. Without any of her hair in the way, without a cloak, everyone would be able to see that it was so. Tomorrow, or the next day, she really was going to have to ask him to make a concession there, with gowns that she could lace up for herself. Tonight, she would let everyone look and wonder at how it had been done. "You look wonderful," she said, her voice still betraying her almost-outrage, her amusement at it. "Like a prince."

"Good," Rumpelstiltskin said, and hid a smile while he fastened first her bracelet and then, reaching behind her and careful not to disturb the powder on her skin, placed the collar of gold around her throat. "Tonight, I will be envied," he said, voice lowering to that which he used only in her arms, or when he wished to be. Belle shivered, for all that the dress covered her quite modestly in swathes of charcoal satin and heavy brocade. He had only to speak that way to her to turn her flesh to goosebumps.

Belle's first steps were hesitant, for she had grown used to soft slippers and found herself wearing slim heeled shoes, black and sturdy, the leather polished to a gloss. They were hidden beneath the layered skirt, which had been boned much like her wedding gown. The outfit lacked the comfort of the other, but she could still catch her breath, and, besides, she doubted that Rumpelstiltskin was particularly comfortable in his own attire.

"My Lady," he said, reaching the door and opening it for her with a gallant, teasing bow. Finding her feet, feeling giddy with the foolery of it, Belle returned a slow and deep curtsey.

"Sir." As she rose, catching his eye, Belle saw the sparkle there - the flame of hope, desire and tenderness that she knew was mirrored in her own.

She might have spoken words of love to him, then, but it was not the time. Music had begun, below, and as much as she relished the prospect of upstaging the royal court, Belle had no wish to go a step further by making a late entrance, after the King.

They attracted stares and even whispers as they made their way to the erstwhile Council chamber, which now stood with its doors wide open and had been filled with tables and benches. The room's great table was set for the King, of course, and stood now at the far end of the room, while the rest of the assembled would take their places at either side of the lower tables, ranged towards the door. A space had been left in the centre of the room to allow for entertainments and for the passage of servants. For every one of the castle's staff, Belle could see a member of the King's household as well, and she was pleased to see that a busy efficiency had replaced the near-panic of the previous evening.

Walking beside her husband into the room that was half-filled with guests, but also thronging with busy servants, Belle could almost feel the change in the air as people gasped. That she and Rumpelstiltskin were overdressed for the occasion, she had already known, but Belle gathered from the nearest whispers that, other considerations aside, they made a striking couple.

At the very least, they had made a striking entrance.

"My Lady," said Lowland, the castle steward. "Sir. The King commands your presence at his table, beside your father."

"Very good," Rumpelstiltskin mused, and placed a hand at the small of Belle's back as they crossed the room to take their places. In her mind, Belle had not thought this far - that she might be seated beside her father, who would, of course, sit beside the King, as his host.

Relatively few wives, sisters and daughters had accompanied the court during these dangerous times. Belle grew uncomfortably aware that she was, by far, the youngest woman present for the festivities. Certainly she was the only lady dressed as though for a royal ball, and for a while she felt foolish, caught up in Rumpelstiltskin's showmanship once more. But then she would turn her head to her left, and see how he watched her with such pleasure, and the fierce pride that had seen her through the morning would return to lift her heart. Seated at the head table, the startling effect of their finery was somewhat diminished in the eyes of the room, and they attracted far less notice from the people who filed in to the hall after they were seated.

King George, himself, was not known for his showy entrances. He did not wait around corners for rooms to fill with waiting figures - he merely arrived, and if his herald failed to be ready with his brief fanfare then so be it. On this occasion, the fanfare managed to precede the royal party by several seconds, allowing time for everyone to rise. Although he did so with marked insouciance, Rumpelstiltskin did take to his feet beside Belle, and take her hand, discreetly, hidden in the folds of her wide skirts.

She thought that she should not be nervous, not now. Rumpelstiltskin had shown her - shown everyone - that he needed not even the threat of magic to defend what was his. As her father followed the Prince into the room, Belle saw how pale he was, how grave, and realised that she was clutching her husband's hand for dear life. Her heart was pounding as if to escape her chest by the time her father took his place to her right, but when she dared to turn her head to look at him, Belle found that her father had done likewise, and that he watched her only with concern. If he was not angry with her for defying him, perhaps there was hope of mending the rift?

So caught up was she in the relief and hope of the observation that, had Rumpelstiltskin not given a gentle tug, Belle would have been left standing when the others sat.

Glancing again at her father, Belle caught the King's eye and received a cool nod of acknowledgement before the man turned to speak to his son. For the first time, Belle truly thought about what Rumpelstiltskin had told her. The Prince, James, had no more royal blood than her Papa. Did he know? There could be no doubting the King's love and pride in the young man, but in a deal not to be spoken of, could he speak the truth even to the one most concerned with it?

It was a dark thing, to know such a secret, and while a darker part of her revelled in the intrigue, and her whole being thrilled at being taken into her husband's confidence, Belle wished, on the whole, that she did not know it. It made James no less the Prince, but she herself felt cruel in the knowing of it.

Once the King had struck up a conversation, the minstrels resumed their pleasingly monotonous entertainment and conversation began to fill the room as the food arrived. Surrendering the welcome anchor of Rumpelstiltskin's hand in hers, Belle turned to her father.

"Papa?" Sir Maurice gave her the ghost of a smile, and while it did not reach his eyes, neither were they hard and cold as she had feared they might be. "Are you feeling better?"

"Fit as a flea," he boasted, but without the cheer that would have convinced her of such a lie, once. "His Majesty's doctor gave me this," he said, fumbling a small leather bag from his belt and showing it to her. "He swears it's no magic, but it must be. Just one pinch and I'm fit as a flea." His smile was sickly, and Belle felt a trickle of cautious relief as she understood that her Papa was as afraid as she was of a rift that could never be mended. She would not be the one to widen that rift, no matter how he had wounded her with his lack of trust. She placed her hand over his, on the table, and curled her small fingers against his big ones until he found her a more convincing smile.

"Please don't worry for me," she begged, leaning closer so that she might not be overheard. "Please don't listen to lies."

"You ask him for the moon, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, and they both turned to look at him. He was watching the busy room, one hand resting beside his untouched cup of wine. "To ask a father not to worry is to ask the sun not to shine."

Maurice's fingers tightened around Belle's, and she heard the careful effort with which he replied.

"That's right," he said, addressing Belle. "You'll... know soon enough, I expect, my girl," he managed, a moment later, and released her with a strained smile, watching the room as Rumpelstiltskin did. "When you've one of your own."

It was a beginning, Belle supposed, if the two men who shared her heart could, even so cautiously, acknowledge one another through her.

On the other hand, it made conversation with either one of them extremely awkward, while she sat between them, so wordlessly contested. Belle filled her plate with a few of the dishes that she had missed the most, not only since leaving for Odstone but since the war led them to ration what they had in case of a prolonged siege. There was the sage bread, dipped in honey, and lamb so studded with garlic and rosemary that every mouthful of meat exploded with contrary tastes and textures. There were the brightly dyed eggs that she had always loved as a little girl, and the stodgy porridge of grains, garlic and sharp cheese that accompanied any dish of fowl in these parts.

For a while, the tastes of home eased the irrational homesickness that hurt her belly, while beside her, Rumpelstiltskin contented himself with the bread and honey. Sir Maurice had filled his plate, but ate very little, spending the meal, instead, in conversation with King George.

Rumpelstiltskin had no interest in conversation, but Belle did not mind that. The words that might be exchanged in company seemed ill suited to them, in any case; too forced, too careful and false. He was so still that nobody paid him the least attention, but he _watched_ everyone, incessantly, and Belle wondered what he sought in the half-hundred faces, and whether he watched with curiosity or suspicion. Did he seek out mischief, engineer his dark deals, or did he only need to be watchful for the opportunity?

She wondered how he had come to give a king a son. Would he tell her that much, if he felt that to share a secret with his wife was not to break a confidence? Had James been an orphan foundling, like Wren, saved for a life that he might never have had, or had Rumpelstiltskin taken him as payment in another, still darker deal? As thrilled as she had been at his intervention, at his breathtaking arrogance in seeing that her honour was restored and her choices honoured, she knew how else he might use that power. Remembering that helped her to understand what her father had done, and why her people were cold and unwelcoming when she had saved them. As much as she would have preferred to put it from her mind, Belle knew that she must hold the knowledge fast. When he came to take away your child, Rumpelstiltskin must, indeed, seem a monster.

When the meal was finished and only long trenchers of fruits and cheeses remained to help down the wine, King George stood up. He needed no announcing, no fanfare to quiet a room, and merely waited for silence, watching his subjects with a calm, paternal eye.

"Gentlemen," he said, when all eyes were upon him. "Our peace has been hard won and our war with the ogres costly. You know that I will ask much of you in the coming days, but I need no longer ask that you send your sons into battle. For this we thank our good and loyal friend, Sir Maurice, and the daughter who has inherited his courage and wisdom, the Lady Belle. We honour and celebrate her marriage to Rumpelstiltskin, and wish them joy." Belle realised that her mouth was open, as King George raised a cup to her. She shut it abruptly, hearing Rumpelstiltskin's high-pitched giggle beside her.

"We thank you, sire," her father managed, and raised his own cup to Belle and to Rumpelstiltskin, as everyone present did likewise before the King resumed his seat.

Belle watched Rumpelstiltskin, then, in part because she did not know where to look. Her husband's gaze darted from table to table, his expression unreadable as he sought dissent. Whether he found it or not, he turned to her as the room settled again, smiling faintly as he saw her anew. Then, leaning forward, he addressed the King.

"You do us too much honour, Your Majesty," he said, the smile lingering. "But I'm indebted to you for settling the matter justly, and sparing my wife further insult."

For a man who had had little choice in the matter, and for a King being addressed so insolently, George was gracious.

"Duke Hubert will not be so pleased," he said. "But it suits us to see that Sir Maurice's lands remain in less volatile hands, even at the cost of insulting His Grace."

"And his coffers," Rumpelstiltskin said, nodding. "I'd no idea that marriage could be so costly," he quipped, and then, before Belle could muster the presence of mind to stamp on his foot or dissuade him with a disapproving look, the insolence was gone of its own accord. "But you might look to King Midas, there, sire," he said, earning a raised eyebrow of enquiry from George. "I hear that he's been running through champions like there's no tomorrow, which there wasn't, for most of the brave fools. He needs a dragonslayer quite urgently. The reward he offers is, of course, solid gold."

"I see," the King said, not quite glancing at his son. "A risky enterprise."

"There's never great reward without great risk," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, disinterestedly, and then gave his attention to the new activity in the room - that of the handful of women converging in the empty square between the tables to begin a courtly dance. He smiled, broadly, and it was as though the King had been dismissed.

Belle saw her father's anger, but touched his hand and, having secured his attention, made the barest nod towards the King. George was also gazing at the scene before him, but unseeing. Rumpelstiltskin's proposition had interested him more than the blatant disrespect had angered him.

"Belle," her father said, concealing his relief well, though sweat had broken out across his brow. "Why don't you join the dance, petal?"

"Oh, yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, his eyes suddenly upon her with playful appreciation. "Will you dance, treasure?"

Flustered, for she would have preferred to remain beside him, Belle nodded. She made her respects to the King as she left his table, of course, but George remained engrossed with thoughts of dragons and rich reward, and did not notice her leaving.

Any dance more formal than the revelries at the fair had always seemed foolish, to Belle, but she knew her steps well enough and fell in with the processing women. All wives, she noted, and all of them the wives of serious men like her father, who served King George in positions of trust. Belle supposed that such men had sensible wives, and ones who preferred to travel by their husband's side than to be shielded from the lingering threats of the war. It stripped a certain liveliness from the court, it was true, but it also meant that the dances chosen were more sedate, and performed with a minimum of giggling gossip.

No-one spoke to her, in any case, though Belle was too aware of being watched from all directions. She would have liked to think that it was her startling attire that attracted such attention, but knew that it was her own notoriety. Rumpelstiltskin's wife, and proclaimed so by King George himself. She could imagine the whispers at the tables, now that the womenfolk had taken to the floor to dance while the men spoke of matters not fit for their ears.

Whenever the gentle procession of the dance allowed, Belle looked for her husband at the high table. He watched her with unabashed appreciation, sipping at his wine, and Belle found herself trying to straighten her back further and to be more graceful in the unfamiliar shoes.

At the third change of the music, Belle decided to return to her place, but found her path blocked by Prince James. He took her hand and bowed over it, not quite touching the back of her hand with his lips before straightening again and smiling at her.

"Gentlemen," he called, over the increasingly lively conversation all around them. "The blossoms of my father's court are lonely. Let's have a real dance."

Unable to refuse him, Belle placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be led to stand before the King. At her unhappy glance, Rumpelstiltskin gave her a mock pout of sympathy before sitting back, smiling. Behind Belle and James, men had hurried to escort the 'lonely blossoms' and the music was beginning.

Belle knew the dance, to her relief. It was one that called for concentration and poise as one wove in and out of a complex row of stationary and moving dancers. It was beautiful to watch and excruciating to dance, but she took comfort from the fact that Prince James's eyes were warm with unaffected laughter as they faced each other and made a slow bow.

"You impressed him very much," he said to her, low voiced, as they passed one another back to back, returning to face each other and join hands. "The King. He appreciates a woman who knows her own mind."

"So does my husband," Belle said, with chagrin. Why she felt compelled to remind the Prince that she was a wife, she could not say - there could be no question about it, now.

"Only one woman, I think," James laughed, with that same warmth, and as Belle looked at him askance, the motion of the dance drew them to opposite sides of the room.

When Belle managed another glance at the high table, Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were on something far behind her, out in the wide corridor. Collecting herself so that she did not forget her place in the dance, Belle wondered if the Prince had only meant to flatter her with his words. There had been no public display of affection between them, had there? Rumpelstiltskin armed himself with sharp-edged courtesy, when they were not alone. Yet... look how he had watched her, this evening. Having dressed her like a queen, he had spent so much of the time _undressing_ her again with his gaze that Belle already knew that they would be hasty and hungry in their loving, tonight. She desired him no less, but surely it didn't _show?_

No, surely not. She calmed herself, only to feel her stomach flip with a new anxiety as the dance brought her face to face with Gaston. For a moment, he seemed as dismayed as Belle felt, but the stately bow gave them a moment to control their features and collect their thoughts before partnering in the dance. She did her best to smile, only to find herself afraid that she appeared to be gloating. Oh dear! The King's position was already difficult, because of her. Gaston's father, Hubert, had wanted him to secure the inheritance of these lands by marrying her, and he had been thwarted not once, but twice.

As they passed back to back, Gaston said, "You bed _that_ and call it honour?"

Speechless, Belle stared at him open mouthed when she once again faced him. She could not answer - she would not - but his naked contempt appalled her. She would have allowed the dance to pull her away from him, and gladly, but as she turned he grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him, hissing in her ear in a gust of wine and spirits. "Demon's whore."

"How dare you?!" Belle tugged herself free, elbowing Gaston hard for good measure, and stumbled backwards into the other dancers. Women shrieked and men cried out as, vaulting the head table as smoothly as a mountain cat, Rumpelstiltskin appeared before Sir Gaston with inhuman speed and, seizing him by the throat, drove him inexorably to his knees.

"You're a mindless fool from a long line of mindless fools, boy, and I've known them all," Rumpelstiltskin snarled, his face twisted into something truly ugly by his rage. "Apologise to her if you want to live."

Twisting on his knees, his face going from red to blue, Gaston spluttered something, but Belle didn't hear it. Two men had pulled her back, out of the milling dancers, while a third loomed before her in the dark robes of a cleric. He raised his hand as if to strike her and she flinched, crying out as she struggled against the hands that held her, but instead of a blow there was... magic. He had thrown a large handful of pale, sparkling dust into her face and, while she coughed and tried to spit it out and blink it from her eyes, Belle felt the magic settle and smother her.

"Be free of it," the figure hissed.

She was released almost at once, her attackers taking to their heels while she doubled up and coughed, scrabbling at her face where the dust tickled and felt like hot sunshine on her skin. Eyes streaming from the dust, Belle could feel but not see as Rumpelstiltskin's magic unwound about her in the grip of this new power, leaving her naked and terrified, falling to her knees and curling up to shield herself from the onlookers.

Rumpelstiltskin's snarl was an animal sound, something born of nightmares and dark places, and he was on his knees before her at the same moment that someone dropped a heavy cloak across her back, following it with a strong arm across her shoulders. She could see the blade of a sword waving before her.

"Lady Belle!" The Prince, kind Prince James. Belle tried to thank him, but could only cough and reach pleadingly for her husband. Had he killed Gaston? Would he kill _everyone?_ She knew that she must speak to him, but no words would come - her terror and humiliation strangled them in her throat, and she sobbed. "Stop those men!" yelled the Prince. "Bring them alive!"

"Oh," Rumpelstiltskin growled, "we only need one, dearie."

Tears of shame had washed the dust from Belle's eyes and she could see well enough to reach for her husband, but he recoiled from her touch with a sharp hiss and stared at her as though he failed to recognise her. It was but a moment, and then his rage returned and, with a swift snap of his fingers, he unleashed magic upon the room. Belle heard screams, shouts, doors slamming in rapid succession. The stones of the castle seemed to tremble around her and then... then there was a dreadful stillness, save for the lingering sounds of human confusion and panic. "Prince James," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. "You'll find them at the portcullis." He made a demanding, flicking gesture with his hand and the Prince rose without comment, leaving Belle covered in his cloak and crouched before her husband, trembling. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes never left Belle, but he placed his hands on his knees and made no effort to touch her.

"Belle!" Her father's cloak was added to the defence of her modesty and, holding it across her chest and finding a childish comfort in the familiar scent of camphor, woodsmoke and horses in the fur, Belle let him help her to her feet. "What is this?" he demanded of Rumpelstiltskin, who had risen along with her, his movements all but mirroring hers, and now looked more revolted than he did enraged.

Behind him, Belle could see King George dragging Gaston to his feet by the collar, cuffing him hard across the head before he could straighten.

"Do not wash yourself," Rumpelstiltskin said, taking a step nearer to Belle. His voice was soft, careful, just as he had spoken to her on their wedding night when fear ruled their hearts. Why did he not take her in his arms? "You are not harmed. Do not wash yourself until I come, and keep these close by you." He indicated her makeshift coverings.

Nodding, trembling and aching for the comfort of his embrace, Belle allowed Aya and another of the kitchen girls to lead her away, carefully keeping her wrapped against the horrified stares of the silent crowd.

Just as they reached the turn in the passage that would take Belle to her room, Prince James returned, striding towards the Council chamber with a robed man slung over his shoulder like a sack, his expression hard. Behind him, and earning a shrill cry from Aya, two of his guard were dragging the remaining two clerics back to Rumpelstiltskin by their heels.

What was left of them.


	50. Protected

Lotte arrived in a breathless rush, very shortly after Belle had sent Aya away.

"My Lady! They said you'd been _cursed_!" Lotte wailed, hurrying to the fireside where Belle sat, as near to the warmth as she could be without scorching the borrowed cloaks in which she was wrapped. "Oh, my--" Lotte began, trying at once to take her father's cloak from her. Belle pulled it more tightly to her breast. She could have _struck_ Lotte, at the sight of tears drying on her cheeks. "All your clothes!" Lotte moaned, fetching Belle's nightgown from the foot of the bed in a clumsy rush, and Belle glared at the girl, and at her fresh tears.

"Leave it," she snapped, "and go back downstairs, and listen to what's said. To my husband, to Gaston, to the Prince and the King. Do you hear me, Lotte? Listen, and tell me all that's said and done."

"But--"

"Now!" Her cold and brittle rage finally finding vent in that single, shrill command, Belle snatched the nightdress from her.

Rumpelstiltskin had commanded her to wait for him; to neither wash herself nor discard the cloaks that had preserved her modesty, but if he had meant that she should not know what was being done on her behalf, Belle was not going to stand for it.

Her tears all dried up, in her shock, Lotte stared at her as though she were a stranger.

"M-my Lady," she pleaded, hurrying on as Belle drew breath to shout at her again, "the King's sent everyone out of the hall, and barred the doors, there's guards, I can't!"

"So," Belle said, her voice wobbling towards hysteria rather than the bitter sarcasm that she'd meant, "the men conspire to do what's best on my behalf, yet again. Do they imagine that we can't think for ourselves?" she demanded, but one glance at Lotte's fearful expression reminded her that neither rebellion nor rhetoric would find fertile ground, there. She looked away, into the gentle flames.

"I'm sure your papa'll speak for you," Lotte offered, fearfully, and Belle closed her eyes, wretched. She had made her old friend frightened to _speak_ to her - to _her!_ "My Lady," Lotte whined, "why's he locked us all in?"

"Locked?" Belle asked, weakly. It had happened so quickly; it had been little but a blur of shock, sensation and shame. She tried to think, to remember. "Rumpelstiltskin..." She remembered the snap of his fingers, the slamming of doors. Struggling to her feet, with her makeshift clothing clutched about her, Belle went to the window by her couches and pushed aside the little curtain. The outer shutters were closed and barred, and she simply knew that, if she tried to open them, she would fail. "He'll want to know who did this," she said, with a terrible certainty and a more terrible satisfaction. "And who helped them do it."

"And then what?" Lotte breathed, faintly.

"I don't know," Belle admitted tonelessly, focusing on her reflection in the small, square panes of glass that made up her window. Behind the shutter, in a lit room, it made quite a good mirror. "What would you do?"

Her hair was a mess, with all of Lotte's careful braiding and weaving come loose. Reaching up, Belle found no combs, no pins, no tiara. She could see, in the glass, that the bands of gold were missing from her wrist and throat. Tears threatened to come, at that, but then she lifted her left hand and saw that her ring, at least, was still there on the finger where Rumpelstiltskin had placed it, the morning after their wedding night. She had never taken it off, since then, and Belle knew that her heart would have cracked across had that been taken, as well. She closed her fist around it, around a handful of her father's fur-trimmed cloak, and then set her jaw, tugging the curtain closed and turning to face Lotte.

Once again, Lotte came to her and tried to take the cloaks away. Her plump hands shook as she reached for her mistress.

"Don't touch these," Belle said, quickly and too sharply. "He wants them untouched." Lotte recoiled as though she had been bitten, almost stumbling into the table in her haste to show obedience to Rumpelstiltskin's demands. "He won't hurt you," Belle said, tiredly. A small, hidden inner part of her still cowered, and wondered if her husband might not hurt the very _world_ for what had been done to her, tonight, but she did not think that he would strike at Lotte. Not for being silly and weak and _there_. "Bring me a ribbon," she said, and saw Lotte's relief at being allowed to _do_ something, however small.

Belle sat on the couch that faced the window, pulling her feet up beneath her father's cloak and, with care, freeing her arms.

"You... you've so many new ones," Lotte said, with a quavering effort at good cheer, and Belle realised that the girl feared even to say that much to her, lest she be scolded again. She wanted to feel guilty, for that, but she could not. "All colours. So many."

"I keep losing them," Belle told her, and could not even be disappointed at herself for the half truth. Lotte had brought her a blue and white chequerboard ribbon, one of the ones that had been given in the wedding baskets from the people of Odstone. Belle reached for the happy memory - for the gratitude, the humility, and the sensation of giving her husband that impulsive kiss on the cheek as they surveyed the baskets of goodwill. She could feel none of it.

She waved away the hairbrush that Lotte held. Rumpelstiltskin wanted the horrid dust left on her, didn't he? Most of it must have gone into her hair. She caught the sagging mass of loops and braids and bound them tightly with a single bow. The weight of the knot pulled at the roots, hurting, and Belle was glad of it. Glad to feel _something_ that wasn't a dull and formless loathing of the world and everything in it.

"Thank you, Lotte," she said, unable to look at her maid. "Leave me now. I'll see you in the morning."

"Oh, my Lady..."

"I'm quite all right." It was true, in a way. With her first cold rage spent in shouting at Lotte, with nothing to do but wait for Rumpelstiltskin to come to her, she had found a kind of inner quiet. It was sore in her breast, cavernous in her belly. "I'm sorry for shouting at you," she added, although she felt no sorrow, no guilt. The words would still comfort and mend, and she knew that she _would_ be sorry, later. "I want to be by myself, now."

"The... the Prince ordered a guard to stand at your door, my Lady," Lotte told her, each step she took towards the door a reluctant one. "I made him stand at the foot of the stairs, instead."

"That's good. Thank you, Lotte."

As soon as she was alone, Belle lay down on the couch, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. She felt that she should cry, that it would be the right thing, but tears wouldn't come. Only the memories came, muddled as they were; of Gaston pulling her one way and then the clerics the other; of coughing as the cloud of sparkling dust burst in her face; of feeling her clothing simply vanish as the stuff fell all about her. Of how much worse her humiliation would have been, had Prince James not acted so swiftly to cover her with his cloak.

She ought to thank him. How did you thank a prince for covering you with his cloak when your clothes vanished in a crowded room? The stern matrons who had instructed her manners had never mentioned that.

Belle caught a spluttering laugh in the palm of her hand, smothering it. She dared not let it start, lest she found herself unable to stop ever again. She shut her eyes, tightly.

Why didn't Rumpelstiltskin come to her? What was a fool like Gaston, to him? What was a deluded cleric with a handful of magic, when his _wife_ lay alone, afraid that to laugh would shatter her? He had promised her that she was not harmed, but she trembled all over, unable to shed a tear; she shrieked at Lotte; she felt a sick, dark satisfaction at the thought of how her husband might deal with the men who had wronged her. Not harmed? This?

The candles nearest her had burned out before Rumpelstiltskin did come to her.

Belle had not left the couch, and did not move when her husband stood over her, nor when he dropped to one knee and put his eyes level with her own. His expression was terrible, even in shadow, and still he did not comfort her.

"Your women left you alone here?" he asked, with a rasp to his voice that spoke of fragile self-restraint. She knew it from circumstances more pleasant than these.

"I sent everyone away," she answered, struggling to find her voice again. How long had she waited for him, all alone here? Long enough for her limbs to lock, curled up tight as she was. It hurt when she loosened the circle of her arms, released her knees. She welcomed the pain of it as something that she understood, something that she knew would pass within a few minutes and be forgotten. Rumpelstiltskin's hand crept towards her, as she straightened herself, but he curled his fingers away from her and let it fall back to his side. "What have you done?"

"That doesn't matter," he tried, but his soothing tone only riled her current resentment towards the menfolk.

"If it's done in my name," she said, coldly, "then it matters to me." As if in answer to her own coldness, she began to shiver. "Tell me."

"The priest would give no answers, save that he has freed you from my enchantments. The boy is protecting another and chooses death before dishonour." Rumpelstiltskin sniffed, contemptuously. "I'd be happy to oblige him, but the Prince... prevailed upon me... to have patience."

"I feel sick," Belle declared, turning her face away from his dark expression. Like the pain that flooded her limbs with the returning blood, she was grateful for a sensation that she recognised and knew how to face. "Don't even think of murder for my sake. I couldn't bear it. Never that, not for my sake. I want _answers_ , not blood!"

"That's what he said," Rumpelstiltskin said, darkly. "The Prince."

"Well, he's right," Belle said, and it would have been a snap had she the strength for it. "And let everybody else go, you've made your point!"

"Have I?" Springing to his feet, a cold challenge in his words, Rumpelstiltskin strode to the window. "As you wish." Belle had expected another snap of his fingers, another trembling of the stones around them, but there was only the quiet _snick_ of her own shutters falling open. Her husband stood with his back to her, his shoulders rounded and his hands flexing at his sides. "My protection displeases you?"

"Protection..." Belle stumbled to her feet, Prince James's cloak falling from her back while she clutched the other to her breasts. Her head swam with a kind of darkness; it felt as though the cleric's dust had put a demon _in_ her, not driven one out! "You won't even touch me! You think of murder instead of comforting your wife!" The shrill shout eased the dreadful pressure in her, just a little. She no longer felt that she must retch at the very next word to pass her lips, or choke upon the very next breath she drew. "The Prince covered me, comforted me, protected me. _You_ thought only of vengeance!"

Rumpelstiltskin flinched. A moment ago, he'd held the castle in his fist, and Belle didn't doubt that he was capable, should he choose, of tightening that fist and squeezing the very life from every soul within the walls. But from her rage, he flinched, and it brought tears to her eyes to remember his nervous devotion.

"Please," she whispered. "Why are you so cold? Am I so shamed that you can't bear to touch me?"

"No..." Turning, stricken, Rumpelstiltskin came to her. Again, his hands stopped short of touching her, but at least he _saw_ her now. Belle thought about what he saw. Ruined cosmetics, a haystack of hair caught in a careless bundle behind her, and the rest of her bare behind her father's fur trimmed cloak. "This... magic," he said, stressing every word with a breathless urgency that she should understand him, "protects you from me. From _my_ magic. They didn't mean to shame you, treasure. It's not that."

"Protects me," Belle repeated, flatly. She was so relieved that he looked at her, that he _saw_ her again, that she could spare no part of her mind to comprehend his words. "I don't need to be protected from you."

"All the same." Rumpelstiltskin brought his right hand beneath her chin, his finger crooked, and touched her there with his knuckle. Belle yelped as tiny darts of coloured light leapt away from her, from where he'd touched her, and vanished into his flesh as he snatched his hand away. He held his ground, but for a moment the blackness was in his eyes, and he drew his hand to his chest, hissing with pain. "You are protected."

"Oh..." She wanted to reach for him, to soothe the hurt. She wanted it with every part of herself, but she could see the pinpricks of dark blood where Rumpelstiltskin had touched her. They began to ooze together, then to trickle thickly down his finger. "Oh no. No."

Belle's tears came, at last, but they were no longer only for herself, for her shame and shock and fear. She sat down again, hard, the cloak falling from feeble hands and baring her breasts, deepening her shivers. She had no strength with which to cry, and her sobs were slow and muted.

Crouching before her, Rumpelstiltskin bowed his head and grasped the very edge of the seat, either side of her. She remembered how she had wanted him, how elated they had both been at their overdone finery, at their victory. Tonight ought to have brought them to new discoveries, new heights of desire and happiness, but they were come to this.

With a few cruel words and a handful of dust, they were come to this.

"I must study it," Rumpelstiltskin said. "As I studied the other. This is _fairy_ magic," he added, and he spoke the name with such venom that Belle thought she must have misheard him.

"Fairy?" She gulped back her tears, wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. It left a streak of white and red, powder and rouge. "But they... they grant wishes."

"Oh yes," her husband said, standing suddenly. "That they do, and much more. The heart's desire, for their chosen ones, the meddling... baggages." He began to pace, and where he disturbed the air, Belle felt the chill on her bare skin and tried to cover herself once more. Without breaking his restless stride, Rumpelstiltskin caught up her nightgown and dropped it beside her. Belle put it on without a word, and carefully rolled up her father's cloak with that of the Prince, putting them beside her on the couch. "You haven't..." Rumpelstiltskin hesitated, awkwardness that bordered upon apology softening his vitriol and momentarily stilling him before her. "You haven't wished upon a star, my dear, or..?"

"No," Belle said, affronted. "Why would I do that?"

"Good." He dragged his hands through his hair as he began to pace back and forth once more. "Good. Good."

"Lotte said I'd been cursed," Belle said. She felt better, clothed, even if the silk was only the lightest tickle upon her skin. It covered her, and it was not made of magic, and it was something that her husband had given to her. If it was the nearest she could come to his touch, for the present, then she would savour it. "Fairies are supposed to bring blessings."

"A blessing, a curse," Rumpelstiltskin said, bitterly, "it's all a matter of _perspective_ , isn't it?"

Belle thought of her father's pain, her maid's horror on her behalf, thinking her wed to an unfeeling monster.

"I suppose it is," she said, small voiced. "This is the same as before, isn't it? The curse that wounded you so badly."

She had clearly interrupted Rumpelstiltskin's thoughts with her question. He froze, one foot held before him, mid-step, and gave her a look that would have frightened her, had she any capacity for feeling left in her.

"Not the same," he said, the foot falling, the expression becoming once again one that Belle could recognise as her husband. "That was an attack, this... defends. But the magic is the same. Shaped to work against my own. To poison me when it touches." He looked at his bloodied finger, wiggled his hand slightly, and a faint shimmer of oily purple magic healed the pinpricks, cleansed the drying trickle of blood. Pursing his lips, Rumpelstiltskin made a loose fist of the hand, then dropped it to his side. "Well observed, my dear."

A grudging normality had returned to him, after his strutting temper. She needed her attentive husband, now, and not that terrible protector, but he could not come to her. She could not lay her head upon his shoulder.

"How long..." she began, but had to put her hand over her mouth, then, to keep from sobbing. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, looking away.

"I imagine that it was meant to be consumed," he said, while Belle tried to calm herself once more. "In freeing your mind from my wicked enchantments. All it found was your dress, the traces of my magic within you from our... association. I must study it before I can know more."

"It... it didn't hurt my ring," Belle offered, holding out her hand so that he could see. "Everything else, your beautiful gifts, but not this."

Rumpelstiltskin's smile was faint, as he bent over her outstretched hand to look at her ring.

"Protected by your innocence," he said, straightening. "I bound it with the gold so that it might be yours, always."

"It doesn't help?" Disappointed, Belle lowered her hand.

"It'd help should you ever face an angry unicorn," Rumpelstiltskin quipped, but without the heart for it. "Brush out your hair, treasure," he requested, his shoulders sagging. "Over your father's cloak. I must have any of the dust that is left."

"There isn't much," Belle sighed, as she fetched her brush and, spreading her father's cloak upon the bed, bent over it to shake her hair from its makeshift binding. "I think I swallowed most of it."

"I need but a speck of it," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, but like his joke, his reassurance lacked enough will to carry. "And then you can wash away the paint, yes?" He sounded wistful, as Belle brushed and brushed her hair, shaking and spreading it with her hands to encourage any of the sparkling dust to fall. "If I can but look, I would see you, little wife."

When Belle had finished, folding the cloak upon itself to preserve anything that had fallen with her brushing, then rubbing at her face with a cloth until she hoped the powder and rouge were gone, she saw Rumpelstiltskin leaning beside the fire, watching her. His arms were folded, his fingers drumming restlessly against his sides. He had wanted to love her, tonight, she remembered; it was not only she who ached at being unable to cling to him, now. Knowing it gave her a little strength, somehow.

"An experiment," he declared, launching himself away from the wall as though he had found a new energy and purpose. Shaking his hand, as Belle approached him, he offered her a silk handkerchief. Even in the poor light, Belle could see that it was black, and smiled. "This is conjured by magic. Made of magic, if you like. Or... yes," he decided, straightening with a little self-satisfaction as he waved the cloth before her. "Held together by magic, would be more accurate."

"Like my dress," Belle said, and for the first time felt a common blush begin at the thought of it, in place of her numbing shock.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, and nodded at her to take the dangling handkerchief.

As soon as she touched it, Belle felt a warmth in her hand - the same, sunlight-warmth that she had felt when the magic dust struck her skin - and sucked in a sharp breath when the black silk evaporated into a fading cloud of purple smoke.

"It's a powerful magic that can unmake mine," Rumpelstiltskin said, teeth clenched. "Powerful and cunning." Belle listened, both curious and prepared, for the sake of a wife's duty, to listen to her husband vent his spleen again. Instead, frowning, Rumpelstiltskin once more made a flourish with his right hand. This time, the handkerchief that he produced was white and lacy. Belle recognised it as one of her own, from the clutter of small and useful things at the bottom of her travelling chest. Again, Rumpelstiltskin gave her an encouraging nod, and she grasped the cloth.

Nothing happened, which came as more of a surprise to her than the vanishing black handkerchief had.

"Fetched," he said, wagging a finger as she drew breath for a question that she did not know how to ask properly. "Not made."

"Does that help?" Belle asked, and found that her hope was childlike; sincere and happy in its ignorance of the realities of the world.

"It means that I can bring you a bath," Rumpelstiltskin said, turning away. "And hot water. And that the magic will most likely not disturb mine should I need to protect you as you sleep."

"I would like a bath," Belle admitted. Nodding, wordless, he waved his arm towards the space before the fire. It was only the tin bath that hung in the scullery, not the large copper tub that he'd conjured for her use at the inn, but she was grateful.

Although she had no thought of shooing him away while she bathed, this time, Rumpelstiltskin wandered to the window opposite the door, and even then kept his back turned to her while she scrubbed herself with the handkerchief.

The towel that he had fetched for her was a thin, square thing. Belle had clear memories of using such cloths for her entire life, yet her husband had spoiled her so badly that she now thought of towels as thick, soft and warming. Rubbing herself over quickly with what she had, Belle crouched before the fire and held out her hands to warm.

"Would you bring me a fresh nightgown?" she asked, and then wished that she had not. To ask him to look upon her naked was too cruel, if his need for her was half as consuming as hers for him. She crouched lower and kept herself covered while Rumpelstiltskin fetched the nightdress for her. It was the other silk one, the first that he'd given her. He dangled it over her shoulder, tickling her cheek with it until she giggled and reached up to take it. It slipped easily over her head, and she stood up, shaking out the skirt and turning to her husband.

Belle could see, in his eyes, all the same fears that she felt in her heart. How she longed to touch him - just to grasp his hands would have been enough. Just one kiss.

"This is going to be very difficult," Rumpelstiltskin said, unhappily.

"Your magic is the strongest in the world... isn't it?"

He gave a harsh little laugh.

"Hardly that, my dear. Magic sinks into the very rock, to the heart of the world where it burns and breeds. Enough to end me and a hundred thousand like me. But no other man can wield it as I do, and survive. I will undo this. No." He ducked his head and showed her one of his shy smiles. "It will be difficult to be beside you, and not touch." He said the last word so delicately that Belle's heart lurched, just as it did when he stroked her cheek or toyed with the ribbon of her gown.

"Well," she said, clearing her throat when her voice wobbled a little, "I suppose we're just going to have to learn how to have a proper conversation with each other, instead."

Rumpelstiltskin's smile turned rather sickly.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said, and Belle only just stopped herself giving him a push as she laughed.

"Where are they now? Gaston and the priest?"

"The Prince has taken responsibility for the dukeling." Rumpelstiltskin banished her bath and soggy towel with an irritable gesture. "The cleric is in the cells. I will have answers," he added, but it seemed that his sorrow softened even this much rage. "But I will spare their lives. For your sake."

"Thank you." She couldn't kiss him on the cheek. Words would have to be enough. Could they be? "It won't hurt you... to be near me?" Belle gestured to the bed, her heart sinking as she remembered how small it had seemed for the two of them. "Please don't leave me," she almost whispered, so afraid that he would. "Not tonight."

"I'll stay. One brief trip to fetch what I need," he said, watching her take the bundle of her father's cloak and place it with that of the Prince, back on the couch. "And then I'll stay. The Prince has you well guarded, too."

Rumpelstiltskin's trip was brief, just as he had promised - he vanished and appeared again beside the fireplace after only a few minutes, several large leather bags and an even larger sack in his hands. He left them by the fire and came to the bed, where Belle moved away from the edge so that he could sit without any risk of touching her.

He no longer wore the princely costume, but his scaled leather jerkin over a simple black shirt and his usual boots and breeches. He at least looked more comfortable, Belle supposed, but her heart was heavy as she pushed beneath the chilly bedclothes and tried to share a smile with her husband. She would have liked to unbutton those outrageous clothes, to uncover him, to leave him in no doubt of how she approved of his taste for finery.

"Now I'll stay," he said, and if Belle was any judge, he had been watching her with a near-identical regret in his heart. "Rest well. You are well protected tonight, my treasure," he added, quietly, and left her bedside as the candles were snuffed out. "From everything."


	51. Shame

Rumpelstiltskin had worked through the night.

Quite _what_ he had been doing, Belle was unable to tell, but the far end of her bedroom had been turned from a humble sitting room into a makeshift laboratory. A large table had appeared, while she slept, and was now wedged uncomfortably beneath the window and covered with Rumpelstiltskin's mysterious tools of copper, brass, glass and steel.

Belle dared not go too near, lest she undo some crucial piece of magic, but from what she could make out from the safety of her bed, neither her father nor the Prince would be seeing their fine cloaks again. At least, not in one serviceable piece.

"Husband?" He had not seemed to notice her waking, nor moving to kneel at the foot of her bed to watch him. Rumpelstiltskin stood before the cluttered table, perfectly still, until Belle spoke. Then he turned, head tilting as he watched her, and came to stand between the bed and the fireplace. "Have you learned anything?" she asked, with more hope in her voice than she felt in her own heart. Had Rumpelstiltskin triumphed, during the night, he surely would have woken her. He would not be so quiet and still, now, but be bursting with smugness and strutting about.

"To wear better gloves," he said, blinking slowly and displaying his left hand, which was wrapped around with what looked like one of Belle's cotton and lace handkerchiefs. "I cannot fathom the magic that could do this," he went on, approaching the bed and grasping both the bedposts, as though unable to trust himself to keep from touching her as he gazed down at her. "Fairy alone is hardly enough. But this spell is less elusive than the other. Less cunningly made, less able to turn my efforts aside, and it cannot weaken me. I will find its secrets."

He spoke slowly, abstractedly, though he studied her as he spoke. Belle tried an encouraging smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, then, and the smallest of smiles lifted his lips. "You slept well, my dear?"

"Well enough." Belle sank back to sit on her heels, the hurt of being unable to touch him a reopened wound. How gentle he was, in the mornings, beside her. How playful, how sweet, as though in gratitude to her for the gift of sleep. He had not slept last night, she knew. Not for one moment, beside her or alone. "You can't take me home, can you?" she asked, and the realisation was another dull blow, another sick ache below her ribs. "Not with magic."

"I'd not care to try," Rumpelstiltskin admitted. "Until I know more. We will leave here, if you wish it. Of course."

Swallowing a fresh lump in her throat, Belle grasped the bedpost to her right, her hand a few careful inches below his own. She looked at where their hands did not touch, at his bandaged palm. There was no blood to be seen, except as a shining stain upon his black cuff. Even the leftover dust could hurt him?

"No," she decided, marvelling again at how he obeyed her in such matters - how simply, almost gratefully he deferred. If she said they must leave then they would sleep tonight at an inn, or he would find her a house, or perhaps they would ride through the night, but leave they would. On her word, anything, while the King himself trembled upon Rumpelstiltskin's. "We must understand this danger."

"We must." He echoed her words, very softly, bringing his fingers closer to hers on the bedpost. "No-one must know of it," he said, with caution, as though he hesitated to ask it of her. "No more than was witnessed last night."

"Yes." Belle pulled her hands into her lap, nodding. If anyone knew that the dust had done more than dissolve his enchantments upon her, it might be used against him in another way, and though he had insisted that no injury or sickness could kill him, Belle was less certain. How could he know, truly? "We mustn't be seen together. That won't be difficult." Not difficult to achieve, perhaps, but nothing would be harder than to face the world beyond her quiet little room, alone. "Maybe now everyone will believe that I speak for myself, now the clerics have _freed_ me."

"So angry, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin sighed, turning his back to her and leaning against the bedpost. "It doesn't suit you."

"Yes," Belle said, almost defiantly. She _was_ angry. She had the right to be. "Yesterday was bad enough, being taken before the King, but this... I don't understand _why_ ," she complained, watching Rumpelstiltskin wander over to his table of tools and pick up a pair of stiff leather gauntlets. "Who cares if I'm bewitched by you, except my father and my friends? What does it matter to the College of Clerics, if I marry you, or anyone? Why risk angering you to free _me_?"

"Very good questions, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, slipping his hands into the enormous gauntlets. They were scaled and hard, like his mantle, and came almost to the elbows. They did not seem well suited to delicate work, examining dust. "But consider. If someone wished to find a way of stopping me," he went on, carefully lifting a thin vial of red liquid, "they would have no obvious place to begin. Some... experimentation... might be in order. First intruders within my borders, random mischiefs, tests of my lines of defence. Then the slaying of an ally, whose own magic was not inconsiderable. A trap, a lure, and a little magic left behind to wound me." He stiffened for a moment, recalling the dreadful few days under her anxious care. Had he been _so_ sure that he would survive that curse? "They might learn something new, some small thing about my magic and its limits, by freeing my poor little wife from my wicked enchantments, mightn't they?"

Belle thought about that, while she watched him work.

"And succeed better than they knew, because there was nothing to free me _from_ ," she concluded, bitterly. It made sense. Of course _she_ did not matter, not to anyone, but Rumpelstiltskin mattered. His notorious deals did not leave everyone as happy with the bargain they made as Belle had been. "Revenge?"

"Possibly." Distracted, or declining to discuss the possibility, Rumpelstiltskin tapped the head of a tiny brush over the reddish vial. It burst in his hand, with a 'pop' and a spreading cloud of magical smoke. Rumpelstiltskin swore, and Belle decided that he was best left to concentrate on what he was doing, if things were going to explode.

She was dressed to her petticoat before Lotte knocked - very loudly and several times - on the door. Belle let her in, beckoning her to place the tray of breakfast things upon the bed, and putting her finger to her lips. Rumpelstiltskin paid no more attention to the girl than he had to Belle's activities, even when Lotte stared at the changes he had wrought overnight in Belle's room, and at Rumpelstiltskin himself.

"Do you know where my father is?" Belle asked, as much to distract Lotte from her staring as to know the answer. She remembered how fascinated she had been, visiting Rumpelstiltskin in his tower for the first time - the thrill of seeing a wizard at work. "I'd like to see him."

"He wanted his breakfast sent to his study, my Lady," Lotte said, pulling herself together, if not quite bringing herself to turn her back on Rumpelstiltskin. "So he must be feeling better, mustn't he?"

"I hope so," Belle sighed. "Did the King remain here overnight?"

"Yes, my Lady. Prince James went back to the camp, though, and took Sir Gaston with him."

"In chains?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, hopefully, without looking around.

Lotte's jaw worked, soundlessly, until Belle, sitting awkwardly beside her tray of breakfast, nudged her with a toe.

"No, sir," she said, then, and looked desperately at Belle, who smiled her encouragement. If Rumpelstiltskin had not harmed Lotte for being foolish, he would not harm her for being sensible.

"Pity."

Much to her own shock, Belle rather agreed with her husband's view on the matter. Oh, she would not want Gaston _harmed_ , but the part of her that seethed with such unfamiliar anger wanted to see him punished for insulting her, manhandling her. She shuddered.

"Be sure not to touch anything of my husband's," she told Lotte, as the girl began to tidy up, although it seemed unlikely that she would dare in any case. "I don't know what most of it does, or what it might do to us if we touched it," she went on, too brightly and briskly.

"Most of it would only burn the flesh from your hands," Rumpelstiltskin supplied, feigning utter disinterest when Belle _knew_ that he was smiling, safe with his back to them.

"I won't, my Lady," Lotte promised, and it was a heartfelt promise, at that. "Which dress will you wear today?"

Rather proud of her for remembering herself, under Rumpelstiltskin's deliberate provocation, Belle smiled at Lotte over her tea.

"The same as yesterday," she said, and saw that Lotte only hesitated very slightly before approaching the end of the room where Rumpelstiltskin worked. The cupboard with Belle's clothing was next to the foot of the bed, well away from where her husband had spread himself, but she imagined that it still cost Lotte considerable courage to go so near to him. "But my warm boots," Belle called. "I shall go out, today."

"Where will you go, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, finally glancing over his shoulder. He watched Lotte a moment, and then lifted his eyebrows at Belle. She could see his concern, the way his brows knit slightly.

She almost wished that he would forbid her to go.

"I don't know," Belle admitted. "But I can't hide in my room while everyone gossips about what they saw." She felt her cheeks grow warm, as her words stoked the ugly memory of the previous evening. "And the King himself has declared that I'm no whore," she added, with strained and careful dignity. "I won't hide when I have nothing to be ashamed of."

Lotte nodded approvingly, laying out the pieces of the blue dress beside Belle, on the bed.

"Best eat up then," she suggested, timidly, and gestured to the untouched bread and cold sausage.

Belle did not feel able to make any promises about that. Her stomach felt as though she had swallowed a fistful of lead. Rumpelstiltskin turned back to his work, and though she knew that he was troubled, he did not forbid her.

"Thank you, Lotte, I'll dress by myself," she said, and toed her chamberpot out from beneath the bed. Lotte took it without a word, producing a muslin square from her belt to cover it, as she always did, before hurrying away with it.

"No snot," Rumpelstiltskin said, dreadfully pleased with himself. He had removed one of the heavy gauntlets, Belle saw, and was selecting from a box of fine, slender brass instruments. "You see?"

"You think that you frightened her into not being so frightened?" Belle shook her head, taking a small bite of bread. "That's silly."

"She should be frightened," her husband answered, with the same tone of self-satisfaction. "We just don't want her getting snot everywhere while she's about it."

"Did it work on your weeping housemaids?" Belle wondered, with an exaggerated innocence that caused Rumpelstiltskin to look over his shoulder, caught between annoyance and amusement. For all that he enjoyed frightening people, she thought, he seemed to enjoy having _one_ person who flatly refused to be afraid of him.

"No." He turned back to the table, and made a great show of concentrating.

Nodding, liking the small triumph of words, Belle ate while she watched him. It _was_ terribly impressive to see a wizard at his work. Belle would have liked to know what each of the curious instruments was for, what they were called, and to hear her husband speak about his magic. She was afraid that, trying so hard to be unafraid, she had let him believe that his power did not impress her in the slightest. She had not thanked him for the beautiful dress, last night, nor told him how much she desired him, seeing him dressed like a prince. She had not told him how he had claimed her heart.

Those things seemed more vital, now that she could not slip her arms about him or kiss his cheek; it seemed so much more difficult to speak of her affection than to demonstrate it. Words were less easy to believe in than kisses.

Stubbornness alone allowed her to finish dressing, tie back her hair in a simple ponytail, and set out to face the new day. Rumpelstiltskin said nothing when she bade him goodbye, but smiled thinly over his shoulder without meeting her gaze. She had collected her old cloak, almost as an afterthought, and fought the strong desire to wrap herself in it and hide beneath the hood, when her footsteps brought her to the busier corridors.

Well, she would _not_ hide away. Not here, not anywhere. Not even if her stomach was twisting in sickening knots and her palms sweating. She was the daughter of Sir Maurice, the wife of Rumpelstiltskin, lauded by the King himself. She would hold her head high and go where she pleased.

Belle was glad, all the same, that it was but a short walk to her father's study and that she passed so few people along the way. She would ride out insult and insinuation, but that other men had seen what only her husband should ever see... a shudder crawled up her spine and pinched between her shoulders, her arms turning to gooseflesh. Even her _father_ had seen her.

If she did not face him, now, then she might never find the courage. Half hoping for no answer, she knocked on the door of Sir Maurice's study.

Her previous visit had not been pleasant, and the weight of that added itself unkindly to her burden of memories, while she heard footsteps coming to the door.

She almost fled, but did not.

"Belle." Gaunt and pale, and seeming smaller without his favourite cloak about him, her father stared at her. The very same anguish that roiled in Belle's thoughts was there in his eyes, his expression, and he reached for her shoulders as timidly as Rumpelstiltskin would, when he doubted his welcome. He grasped her gently, as if he feared she might shatter. "Petal. Are you all right?"

The word, the lie, came to her lips so easily that she almost let it pass. A 'yes', a word that barely even needed any breath behind it, and could smooth over so much whether sincere or otherwise. She swallowed it, and shook her head, looking down as her eyes burned with unwanted tears.

"No," she said, hoarsely. "No, I'm not all right, but I wanted to see you."

"Come in," Sir Maurice said, his voice no calmer than hers. He offered her the same chair that she had been given yesterday, in the presence of the cleric, Gaston and Arnos. She went to the bookshelf beside the wooden stairs that led up to her father's bedchamber, instead, and let her eyes run over the familiar titles. "That snivelling little bastard will be punished," her father promised. "Even if the Prince has to thrash him himself. Would've there and then, if the King hadn't stayed his hand."

"Gaston, or Rumpelstiltskin?" Belle appalled herself with such sarcasm, but it was born of her hurt, her humiliation, and she had spoken before she knew it. "I don't care about Gaston or those stupid priests," she cried, turning to face her father with her fists balled at her sides. She felt like such a child, but it was a childlike anger that had her, now - it made her feel small and afraid in a world that made too little sense. "Why didn't you believe me? Why did you try to dishonour me like that? Would you paint me a whore rather than see me love my husband?"

"Belle..."

"Rumpelstiltskin treats me well," she continued, heated beyond any shame at speaking to her father so. "My home there is safe and comfortable. I _wrote_ to you!"

"I know," Maurice tried holding up his hands like a shield as he approached her. "I know."

"I was _happy_ ," Belle accused, horrified by the urge to lash out at him with her hands, to push him away from her, to strike at him. She had never been so _angry_ in all her life. "Happy, Papa! And you thought me _bewitched!_ "

Seeing that she was beyond any words of his, her father lowered his hands and waited on her, instead, watching her with wide-eyed apprehension.

Belle turned away, turned to the bookshelves and brought up her arm to rest there with her face hidden while she battled the sobs. So much weeping, even in her happiness. More tears, this past month, than she remembered shedding in her life. She fought them down, now, using her anger to smother the fears that birthed them.

"Do you love him?" Papa spoke gently, and warily, and did not try to touch her or to move her.

"I don't know," she whispered, facing him and leaning on the shelves for support. Her entire body shook, and her father was a blur to her. "I might. I could love him. The man he tries to be, for my sake. I want to."

Sir Maurice bowed his head.

"You're a good girl," he said, gruff with the effort of his own battle against tears. "I knew you'd never tell me if things were bad."

The fight went out of Belle, at that. Such a stupid, _honest_ reason to risk everything; a daughter's happiness. But where would he have been had Sir Gaston ill-used her, as _his_ wife? Who would have risked all for her, then? Belle knew the answer, well enough.

"One person for our people," she reminded him, pleading for reason when she knew that there could be none. A father's grief. She _knew_ that there could be no reasoning with it. "The whole _kingdom_ , now. Papa... if he'd turned me into stew on my wedding night, if he'd locked me away in a dungeon, it would have been a _good_ bargain."

Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, nodding, her father went to his chair and sank down, looking sick. The sight of him so pale cut through Belle's misery, and she followed him. She still felt small and afraid - the frightened child that she had never been. No amount of angry words could remedy that. Only one thing could, and her father could not comfort her, forgive her, welcome her home while she spewed bitter recriminations at him. He could not be well again while she tormented him with shame.

Slowly, Belle went to him and half sat, half leaned at the edge of the table beside his chair. She had only grown tall enough to manage that in the past year or two; could remember standing where she was now, gazing up at the man in the chair who seemed a _giant_ to her, and feeling safe and whole when he ruffled her hair or smiled when she recited her lessons.

Papa had been everything, her world, and now he was not. Her heart had space for another, and craved him moment to moment. It felt like a betrayal. Did her Papa feel betrayed?

"Thank you for covering me," she said, not trying very hard to banish the wobble from her voice. "I don't know how to thank the Prince."

"Rumpelstiltskin thanked him," her father said, speaking with equal, quiet care. "But he'd take no reward."

"That's probably best," Belle admitted, a tiny smirk breaking through her sorrows. "My husband enjoys making fools of people."

"But not you?" Worried eyes held hers, pleading with her for the truth.

"He teases," Belle admitted, uncertainly. "But it only makes me laugh. Or makes me furious until _I_ make me laugh," she added, frowning. "Marriage is a contract," she went on, finding her way through the thoughts as she spoke them. "He honours that more than I thought possible. I think he still would, even if I scorned him. But I don't."

Nodding, her father frowned down at his hands. Unlike Rumpelstiltskin, when her father was fretful his hands went still. To the hilt of his sword, sometimes, or laced together and tightened until his knuckles turned white, as now.

"He's... he's not unkind to you," he began, and Belle recognised the hesitancy - the painful search for words that she had known a moment ago. "As a husband. He doesn't..."

"No, Papa," Belle whispered, and the tears that swamped her then were from a different source; for his tenderness, for his fear, and for Rumpelstiltskin who might have chosen to be monstrous to a virgin bride and given her father cause to fear. "He's not unkind."

"Only he..." A ruddy embarrassment began to replace his sickly pallor, and his knuckles went whiter still. "Before your wedding, while we waited for you... while you got ready. The things he said. Implied. I couldn't... I couldn't bear it if..."

She covered his hands with one of her own, the left, and saw him staring wretchedly at her wedding ring. How could he ever believe her, even if she spoke of Rumpelstiltskin's hidden face? Of the man who had kissed her hands with nervous reverence when he gave her this ring? The man who, taking her for the first time, had asked her blessing to continue beyond the mere formality of making her his wife, and would have spared her even _that_ much, at her word? Even if she shared such secret truths about her husband, nobody would believe. Nobody knew Rumpelstiltskin as she did. Nobody ever would.

"He likes to make fools of people," she said, again. As little as she wanted to, she could imagine the things that Rumpelstiltskin had said to the assembled men, prancing and gloating while they waited. Now she understood why Arnos and her father had pleaded with him to spare her. He had let them believe that her fate would be worse than she could have imagined. "I know he's touched by something evil," she went on, every word feeling like a betrayal, and like a release from a silent burden, too. "It's black and brutal, and old. Sometimes he frightens me, but not for my own sake. Not for mine, Papa. I think a good man could easily be a terrible husband," she added, thinking unkindly of Gaston. "Now I know that a terrible man can be a good husband, too."

Nodding, her father swallowed hard.

"That's good," he managed, and took her hand between his own. They were large enough to smother her small one. "I thought he'd kill those men, last night. Gaston, the cleric. For what they did to you."

"Gaston only used words," Belle soothed, for her contempt was replacing her outrage, on that front. The would-be husband who went with whores, naming _her_ whore! "He did no harm."

"No, girl, he drew Rumpelstiltskin's wrath so the others could... do whatever it was they did. To you. Even _he_ couldn't wipe the smile of that priest's face. Kept saying he'd _freed_ you."

"Even you thought me bewitched," Belle said, with as little reproach as she could manage. "He might have killed Gaston for what he said to me. He promised that he would, remember? The next one to call me... that." Fresh shame stole her breath away and she clung to her father's hand.

"He wasn't," Sir Maurice said, darkly. "He wasn't the next. He's careful with his words, that husband of yours," he said, and said it with a grudging approval, a dark streak of spite that so startled Belle that it almost kept her from realising his meaning.

Almost.

Belle's hands fell to her sides, her insides turning to water.

"He... killed..." She gulped. "Who?"

"The bailiff's son, Nicholas. That hothead who went off with the tall ships before the call to arms, you remember?"

Her hand over her mouth, Belle nodded. She wasn't at all sure that she wouldn't be sick, if she took it away, and closed her eyes, turning away from her father while she struggled with both her innards and her thoughts.

_The next person who whispers that my wife is a whore is going to die._

Belle had thought it a threat, a magnificent statement of Rumpelstiltskin's claim to her hand. She had _loved_ him, at that moment, and feared him, and revered him, but she hadn't thought of what it would mean. He never bothered with lies because he need not. And in some corner, some tavern, some tent, some laughing huddle of men, the bailiff's son had probably boasted, urged the others to watch and see, and then tested Rumpelstiltskin on his word. Whispered that his wife was a whore, and died for it.

"Sit down, girl," her father said, making way for her in the big chair and helping her to it. She bent forward, beginning to find her breath again, but she could _see_ it so clearly. So clearly. "I shouldn't have told you," he decided, fumbling as he poured water from a jug into a bone cup and offered it to her. "If he shields you from such things then--"

"No," she said, almost choking on her first sip of the water. "I must know. Always the truth." Another few sips tamed her breakfast in her belly, and her breathing followed, slowing. "Did Gaston know, before the feast?"

"Yes." With a bitter snort, Belle put the cup down among her father's papers. "Then I wish the Prince had whipped him," she said. "The fool. What had he to gain, after the King ruled that my marriage was true?"

"I don't know, petal." Rubbing his face again, Maurice reached past her for the leather pouch that contained his medicine. He took a tiny pinch between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it onto his tongue, grimacing at the taste before licking his fingers clean and swallowing.

"You didn't write to me," Belle said, small voiced again. "To tell me you were ill."

"What good would that've done either of us?" he asked, gruffly, and tucked the pouch into his belt. "You look to yourself, girl. Lotte says you don't eat your meals, that you're half starved. You look ill." Feeling scolded, Belle bit her lip and looked down at her hands. "You're not, uh, already with child?"

What would he say, Belle wondered, if she answered that she was? That the child of the one he called _beast_ was growing in her?

"I don't think so," she said, getting up and making some space between them. "It's no wonder that I look ill, with all this." She felt damp and awful from being so upset, and those sensations were known to her; the cause and the solution both clear to her, although no-one had ever explained it. How did you tell, anyway, that there was a babe in you? Did you just _know_ , one day? Nobody had ever told her, except to allude to vague signs and discomforts with a kind of malicious relish that seemed designed to frighten young maidens rather than inform them. Unless her blood didn't come, she could not know, but Rumpelstiltskin said that there would be no child. She could not tell anyone _that_. Surely _no_ husband would want such a thing known? "I forget to eat, that's all. I lose track of the time, in the castle. And I've been cleaning," she added, lifting her chin with defiant pride. "Learning to cook. Laundry, though I'm not very good at it. Just walking from one room to another is equal to an afternoon stroll, here. There are a hundred staircases. It's no wonder I'm a bit thin."

And who was there who hadn't seen just _how_ thin, and seen her all over, when the clerics stripped her bare? She made a face and swallowed, hard. She had faced her father, faced her shame. She could do it again, and again, and keep telling herself that the shame should not be hers. _Was_ not hers. She had done nothing wrong.

The memory came to her, gently, of Rumpelstiltskin forbidding her shame, in their bed. How did such a man kill, whether in cold blood or in passionate defence of her honour? There were not two separate halves of him, this husband of hers. She did not know what it was that reconciled the two sides of his nature, but there must _be_ something. In his silences, his careful words, his black moods and his generous loving, something was _always_ left out. There was a space, a secret - a key to him. Would she understand, when she knew what it was?

"I was so glad, when you wrote." Her father spoke raggedly, as though ashamed of his relief at hearing that his daughter was alive and safe. "When he sent the box, I thought... we all thought it was some trick. A trap."

"I have one too," she told him, striving for patience when she had little strength to think of anyone but herself. "But we can use pigeons, if you want. Can pigeons be cursed? I expect the clerics think they can. Should I wrap my letter around a rock and throw it?"

Now she was only being petulant, and knowing it did nothing for her shaken self-respect.

"I thought he'd keep you forever," her father said, pressing on in the face of her bitterness. "And when you said you'd come, I thought... I thought there might be only one chance to save you."

"If Rumpelstiltskin wished me harm," Belle said, with quiet certainty, "then _nothing_ you or anyone else could do would stop him. Not priests, not knights, not lawyers or the King himself!"

"I know." Shaking his head, Maurice rested his hands on the table, bowing his head. "I know, girl. It's just... Nobody thought he wanted you, not that he really... meant to make you his wife. Honestly and properly. Last night..." He blew out his cheeks, as though steeling himself for some great effort. "Well, I saw that he does. You're not just one of his cruel games. I saw that."

Belle nodded, satisfied with that. But last night, she had slept alone when she most yearned for her husband beside her. Precious moments had been stolen from her, and no-one could know that, now, Rumpelstiltskin could not so much as dry her tears for her. She had so many tears unshed today, and no-one to comfort her.

"The cleric," she said, quietly. "I want to know why he did this to me. Humiliated me." It was only a small lie, but to lie to her Papa felt like such a terrible crime. She wanted to know who wished her husband harm - who had snatched them apart with a rescue that she had never asked for. "May I see him?"

"No! Gods, Belle!"

"Is he the one who sat here with us, yesterday, and told you that I was bewitched?"

"...no." Her father relented slightly, now that she asked only for knowledge. "He's not been found. I sent a messenger to their hermitage at Avonlea but it's been deserted since the war. Gyras was his name. He spoke for the other three."

"The leader, then," Belle said, nodding. Thinking. Perhaps one _needed_ a little blackness inside, a little evil of one's own, to understand such cruelty. For better or worse, Belle thought that she did. "Were I to leave three men to assault the wife of Rumpelstiltskin, I would make sure that they knew no secrets, no plans. Nothing that he could force them to say, when it was done."

"Belle," Maurice began, but without conviction. "Leave it to us."

Yes, Belle thought, leave it to men who thought in straight lines. Best that they find nothing, lest they find the truth that Rumpelstiltskin was seeking. With his crooked mind, his twisted soul, he would surely find it, regardless of Gaston and the priest.

"I will," she said, quietly. "But only because I know that you'll learn nothing from the man, when this Gyras has long gone with the answers."

"I'm afraid that you're right about that," her father sighed. "The King is livid, and now he must decide what to do about Gaston. Insult the Duke a second time or insult Rumpelstiltskin."

"Well," Belle said, with a satisfaction that made her feel icy inside, but didn't quite make her ashamed, "I know which I'd choose."


	52. High Tide

Belle had never really enjoyed riding, although her father had seen to it that she was a capable horsewoman. When nobody was looking, while they rode alone together, he had also made certain that she could swing herself astride from her elegant sidesaddle, shorten the reins and kick the beast to a gallop in one, swift movement. For her safety, he had said, though before the ogres came Belle had never felt unsafe anywhere. She had always expected that, should she ever need to put the trick into practice, she would feel a good deal less safe for having her skirts up around her thighs and her stockings on display as she rode away.

Today, she asked her father to choose her a horse from his stable and rode out as a gentlewoman should, sidesaddle and decently covered. It was important, today, to be decently covered from head to foot, and to be seen with her dignity intact. As much as she preferred to walk, Belle found that the height gave her confidence. No-one could look down on her, while she looked down upon them from the back of her father's finest gelding.

From her vantage point, as she rode sedately towards the gate, Belle could see several of the King's Guard among the busy townsfolk. As before, they were courteous, even smiling and passing the time of day with people, but watchful. When they saw Belle, they watched _her_ , and it was not until one gave a respectful touch of his helmet, just beyond the town gate, that Belle realised they were looking to her safety - and to the conduct of those she passed. The Prince had her well guarded, indeed.

Perhaps there was little enough need of that. Word had spread within minutes of the death of Nicholas the bailiff's son - spread to everyone except Belle herself, if she was any judge. To act against her, even to insult her, might bring a terrible punishment; Rumpelstiltskin did not need to be there to witness it. His legend would only be strengthened by the events of the past day, Belle thought. His wife might be frightened, lonely and poison to his very touch, but anyone who had forgotten his power had remembered it, now. She did not think that anyone would dare harm her.

Belle had meant to take the main road, to ride out past the royal encampment and enjoy the sight of the tents in the spring sunshine. She had not intended to go very far at all, only to occupy herself for a while with more pleasant memories of home. Even beyond the walls, she found darker memories, for until Rumpelstiltskin had healed it, there had been no telling the road from the fields; row upon row of sharpened stakes had faced outward from the walls, fortifying the ditches that had been dug into the hard winter ground. Her husband had made her a present of the fields, the road, the _future_ for her people with a head start on the spring planting, and she could see that life had quickly returned to something approaching normal, after Rumpelstiltskin took her away. Fences had been built, and one or two wooden sheds.

The arrival of the royal court had turned the nearest field into a bath of churned up mud, and that was enough to put her in mind of the dark days of siege. So, instead of turning towards the main road, Belle rode towards the cliffs, to satisfy her longing to see the waters of home. She would have liked to ride all the way down to the sea, or to find a vantage point where she could watch the countless wading birds upon the mud flats. There was so much that she had taken for granted, all her life, in a home that was no longer her own. Not in the way that it had been. It was bittersweet to think of revisiting them, now.

Her father had been only too glad to choose her a horse, to ready him for her with his own hands. Words had run out, between them, but Belle's trust in his knowledge of the animals he kept remained, as did his in her ability to judge the terrain and to manage the beast he chose for her to ride. The gelding was a bay, sleek and calm, although she could tell that the sidesaddle unnerved him. Near to the cliffs, and not certain that the road had been repaired after the winter and the war, she dismounted and led the horse gently, talking to him of every insignificant thing that came into her mind. When she plucked up a few spring leaves for him, he nuzzled her hand and seemed to like her better.

"Why aren't people like animals?" she asked him, patting his neck, and led him a short way from the path, tying him where he could graze on the sparse new grass.

Belle herself climbed the steep, scrubby slope behind the track until she could sit on a flat rock and, finally, look out over the twisted trees to the wide river mouth. The tide was in, and high, and she gazed for a long time at the reflection of fast-moving clouds upon the rippling water, allowing the sight to hypnotise her and the fresh salt air to fill her lungs.

Calmer, wrapped in the peace of the place, Belle realised that she had never before ridden out alone. She had been trusted to be without her female companions sometimes, at home, but to ride out called for an escort. At last, Belle found something to comfort her, in the quiet gratitude she felt towards her father for not questioning her, today. With nowhere to go, she had very much needed to escape, if only for a little while. Soon, she would go back and once more force herself to walk with straight back and head held high, being both wife and daughter. Out here, alone and with only a gentle horse to witness it, she could hug her knees to her chest and be just Belle, just for a little while. It gave her strength.

She had been in hysterics, when she told Rumpelstiltskin that she wished they had not come here. Belle was not given to wishing, any more than she was given to hysterics, but the regret about coming home was very real. They had found happiness between them, in the days since her husband began to recover from his injuries. There had been a shy courtship, of a sort; there had been truths spoken, and all the pleasure that one body could wish from another. At least, that was true for her. Belle was never quite certain that Rumpelstiltskin took _all_ that he desired, even when she encouraged him to have his way. Still he feared to expect anything from her, but at least he had begun to share his hopes with her, and to be bolder. At the inn, when she had asked him to be less gentle, he had been so... alive in her arms. She had freed something in him, some new trust, and then they had come here and the whole world seemed to scorn their unexpected joy.

The world preferred that the Lady Belle be dutiful and dull, nothing but an ornament upon the arm of a shallow knight - a token for her lands and little more.

Nothing came to her, any more, when she tried to imagine the future she might have known with Gaston. Her near-indifference to him was soured with resentment and regret, now, and all her assumptions about the first days of a marriage had been either shattered or proven by the weeks with Rumpelstiltskin. In her imaginings, such as they had been, marriage had been a wedding, a feast, a wedding night, and then... duty. Nothing but duty, until children came to complete the picture, and she had finally served her purpose.

What was her purpose, as Rumpelstiltskin's wife?

Lotte and then Papa had reminded her of the old expectations, with their questions. Belle sincerely doubted that she would _know_ whether or not she carried a child, so soon, yet others seemed to think that she should know. She had felt different every single day, since Rumpelstiltskin came and took her away - emotions like the tide, relentless surges of rightness and wrongness that left her hardly knowing her own self. There had been happiness, yes, but there had also been fear, anger, pity, joy, shyness, shame, pain and love. Nothing had been as she expected, when it came to what she had thought of as her wifely duties; that challenge to her expectations had only _begun_ with the wedding night. She did not manage the household so much as potter around in it desperate for something to do with her time. She did not endure her husband's visits to her bed in the hope of children, but enjoyed them in the reasonable certainty that there could be none; that she need not fear another bed, a birthing bed, a few months hence.

 _That_ was a burden that she had not recognised until it was lifted from her shoulders - that fear of sharing her mother's fate, of her life bleeding out of her with the accomplishment of her duty. Oh, she feared the pain - what girl didn't, no matter how she longed to hold her babe in her arms? But Belle knew that she was strong, practical; that countless thousands of women had endured the same pain and loved their children no less for it. No, it was that bloody ending that she'd feared, without ever confronting it in her conscious mind. Even if a child did come, Rumpelstiltskin could spare her that, couldn't he?

Leorna came to her mind, then, as she sat and watched the tide turn under a darkening sky. Her friend had the life that Belle had expected for herself; husband, home and now a child. Did she relish her life, Belle wondered, or lose herself in a sense of duty? She had waited so anxiously for the child to start in her, been so afraid that something was wrong and that it would not start. She would be disappointed that the first to come was a daughter, even if there was joy in having and holding her. The chief duty, after all, was to bring sons. A dutiful wife's fear, spoken or unspoken, was that she would prove unable to give her husband the son he wanted.

The wind was getting up, but she was not ready to go back. Facing her father had taken every ounce of her will, and her angry words with him had drained her of the fight that she would need to face everyone else. Everyone but Rumpelstiltskin, anyway, and he would be busy with his vials and instruments, trying to undo what had been done to her. To understand it, and how it might relate to the other challenges to his power. Belle would never ask him to hasten the undoing at the expense of understanding, but she wanted to. His arms, his kisses, his whimsical way of pulling her into his lap - anything would have been enough, today. How she regretted not kissing him, last night, before the feast!

As a thin drizzle began to pass over, the darker clouds close behind, Belle returned to her horse and rubbed the sparkling droplets from his muzzle, untying the reins from the small tree. As before, she led him rather than try to ride the cliff path or the first stretch of the road. It was in need of repair, and Belle wondered if her father knew. There had been so much to do, she could see, and he looked worn and old. Was it only that she had been away, and the strain of their separation, or _had_ he grown more frail, while she had been gone? Who had replaced her in running the domestic affairs of the castle, in managing the problems and squabbles of the household staff, and in seeing that they lived within their means?

Rumpelstiltskin might have said it to be witty, or simply to be cruel, but Belle thought that he was right. Her father ought to find a wife to brighten his days and warm his nights, and even give him sons.

Sons. Always sons, in a world where daughters might be loved more than life's breath itself, but could not inherit. Not unless they were to be a queen.

Giving up her inheritance mattered little to Belle. In truth, she would not want to see her father's land fall under Rumpelstiltskin's control any more than the King would, for it could only mean her people being caught between two powers. There had been enough of that, and Belle's people were good at peace, at productivity, at a quiet and self-satisfied prosperity. Her husband had little enough interest in Odstone, and certainly none at all in being a vassal of King George. That she relinquished her rights so freely must have wounded her father, though, for without her he had no heir at all. Without that inheritance, she would truly be of no worth to Sir Gaston or his family, nor to anyone else, and that was nothing but a relief to her. But without brothers, she had left her father to fight a battle for the future of the land and people he loved so dearly.

Away from the danger of crumbling cliffs and steep drops, Belle returned to the saddle and urged her mount to a steady trot. She was able to smile a little, remembering that the saddle had been a birthday gift to her from her father. The perfect fit made riding sidesaddle a much less arduous business, but there had been little opportunity to ride since receiving the gift. The ogres had not been close by, then, but the sons of the town and villages were already dying in service to the King. Belle had dedicated herself to service of her own, and no longer rode for leisure, even with her father.

Another smile was born in the realisation that a husband who offered her the world, offered to make her a queen, would very likely have no objection if she asked for a horse of her own. Much of Rumpelstiltskin's land was wooded and mountainous, but with the roads so well maintained, she might at least amuse herself on a fine day by riding to Odstone, not to mention putting her father's careful tuition to good use. She would take the saddle back with her, when they went home.

Seeing someone approaching on horseback, far down the road, Belle shaded her eyes from the sun and tightened her reins. The rider was reckless to the point of stupidity, even if he bore a life or death message, but she had to admire his skill and the grace of his grey mount. The Prince, she realised, with a sinking heart, recognising the colours of the King's Guard beneath the green cloak that fluttered behind him like a banner. When a prince hurried, for any reason, there was surely trouble.

Belle had stilled her own horse to wait for the galloping rider to pass her on the road, but Prince James slowed as he approached her, and her heart sank a little further as she realised that he meant to greet her. Surely she had not been the reason for his reckless ride along unfamiliar roads?

"Lady Belle!" He feigned a cheerful surprise at meeting her there, and Belle inclined her body as much as a woman on horseback was able, trying to return his smile. "My men told me that you'd come this way," he said, his stallion edgy beneath him as the Prince turned him to face the way they had just come. "Alone?" He looked around, blue eyes betraying the wary alertness beneath his good cheer.

"Yes, Your Highness." His men must have told him _that_ as well, she thought. Oh well. She would probably have been forced to face him again, sooner or later, and the King beside him. Sooner or later, she would have to face everyone who had seen her insulted last night. "I'm grateful to you," she said, forcing strength into her voice from a rapidly dwindling reserve. "For your cloak." For thinking faster than anyone else there, was nearer the truth, but Belle dared not voice her resentments in _this_ company.

"It was nothing," Prince James assured her, and because he did so with sober sincerity rather than pompous courtesy, Belle lowered her guard somewhat. "I thought your husband would keep you closely guarded," he said, restraining his stallion to match Belle's deliberately sedate progress back towards the town.

"The harm is done," Belle said, evenly. She could not allow the Prince even to _guess_ at just how much harm. "I don't fear assassins, Your Highness. They fear my husband."

"James," he said, leaning down from his saddle with a confidential air. "If I may call you Belle?"

"That's a fair trade," Belle smiled, in spite of herself. She didn't _want_ company, didn't _want_ to talk to this man, but he was easily disarming and... and _safe_ , in a way that she could not define. It was not simply that he would defend her honour with a drawn sword, and very likely defeat anyone who faced him. She felt no shame with him, none at all, and sensed that he did not share in the general disapproval at her marriage, but was intrigued by it, instead. It was a welcome balm for her aching heart.

"I suppose he can protect you from afar," James suggested, and it was such a hopelessly unsubtle effort to unseal her lips that Belle laughed.

"I wouldn't test him, if I were you. But you rode out to escort me home?"

"Honestly? I hoped to catch the villains sneaking up on you, and know who they were." He said it lightly, as a jest, but Belle was sure that he meant every word. "It's not like Gaston to keep his cards close to his chest."

"You're friends?" Belle supposed that they must be. There were few in the land - all the lands - who even approached the ranks of royalty. If her young womanhood had been isolated, how had growing up been for a Prince, the only son and heir? "You and Gaston?"

"If we were," James assured her, "then no longer. What he said to you was unforgivable."

"Surely not?"

"Jealousy changes a man."

Frowning, Belle fixed her gaze far ahead, her mind racing.

"Gaston is jealous of my husband?" She could not credit it. Gaston had tolerated her, and perhaps he had desired her, but no more than that!

"Not only that, although he feels slighted, as any man might," the Prince said, and he spoke with such genuine regret that, once again, Belle trusted him in spite of herself. "The Duchess is with child, and all signs are that it will be a boy. If Duke Hubert has another son, he need no longer restrain his displeasure with Gaston. Marrying you would have secured Gaston's future, my Lady."

"Because the Duke wants these lands," Belle sighed. Of _course_ it had not been about her. "But Hubert speaks of Gaston with such pride," she protested, suddenly, remembering the man's praise of Gaston's prowess, at the betrothal feast. "His eldest son--"

"Belle." James interrupted her with a quiet awkwardness that earned her full attention. A prince need never be apologetic, in any company. "I tell you this only that you might convince Rumpelstiltskin to spare Gaston whatever punishment awaits him. Hubert has always been convinced that Gaston is not his son, not his true heir. When her physicians told him that Her Grace would bear a son this time, he sent Gaston against the ogres rather than send you only men to join your father's ranks. I believe that you were never meant to be Gaston's wife, but his widow, one way or another."

"That's foolish," Belle said, angry because once again it came down to sons. Sons, when the Duke had daughters aplenty if he doubted Gaston's blood, and some of them were already bearing him grandsons. "Suppose Gaston had died before our wedding? Suppose that it's another daughter?"

"Then a physician will be very sorry," James said, confidently. "And so will Her Grace."

"And if it's a son, Gaston will be... disinherited? For failing to bring me home as his prize? So he... helped the clerics out of spite, having lost me?" Belle shook her head. As angry as she was at Gaston, she did not believe that. She had found him unappealing precisely because he was so straightforward, so shallow. He was not one to plot revenge, to gamble with his life for a dishonourable reason!

"He won't speak of the clerics. Father thinks he's too afraid of them."

"Gaston's no coward," Belle said, firmly, and there she was again, defending the man who had called her a demon's whore. It left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"No. He's not, but he is afraid of something, and it isn't your husband's revenge. I believe he truly meant to free you, Lady Belle. Perhaps to win you back, if you could be persuaded to accuse Rumpelstiltskin, I don't know. No man should doubt his father's love, that I do know. If you have any influence over such matters, I beg you to speak for Gaston and appease your husband, if you can. At the very least, there is more to be learned from him."

Nodding, unwilling to reveal that she had already secured Rumpelstiltskin's promise to spare Gaston and the cleric from death, Belle watched the Prince from the corner of her eye as they neared the gates. Rumpelstiltskin was right - the man bore a resemblance to the late Queen, in his generous mouth and sandy colouring. He bore none whatsoever to King George. Did the King care at all that James was not his blood? And did James _know?_

"What?" He gave her an exaggerated, nervous smile. "What is it?"

"I..." Caught out, Belle grasped desperately for something to say that would not betray her husband's confidence. She found it in a glance down at the gate guard, who caught her bridle to steady her mount at the passing of a laden hand cart. "Forgive my impertinence, but why does His Majesty praise my father's horsemanship so? I mean... I know that he's a fine horseman, but King George seems... sparing... with his praise. And my father always holds his reins when he dismounts, and I don't know why."

Relieved laughter was her answer. Belle wondered what the Prince had expected her to say.

"This may come under the banner of a state secret," he said, leaning down so that they would not be overheard as they passed through the gate. "But he says it's because Sir Maurice had the knack of keeping him from looking like a donkey's ass when he rode into battle. He hates horses and the feeling's mutual. Don't tell anyone."

And Belle laughed too, freely, and once again she didn't know how to thank him.

~+~

Although the rain had been nothing but a fine drizzle, Belle had been out in it for some time and was wet through to her petticoat. She hurried to her room, eager for the warmth of the fireside to warm her chilled hands. Whether it was only that she felt more at ease, after her ride, or that rumour was losing its vicious momentum, she felt that she attracted less notice than before, on her way to her quiet staircase. Her laughter with Prince James had been a medicine, relief for the pain, and she felt considerably better.

Rumpelstiltskin was still there at his borrowed work table, which was tidier than it had been before. Belle hurried towards him, only to stop and remember herself, crestfallen, a few paces behind him, pulling her hands to her belly. He was right. This was going to be _difficult_.

"Ah," he said, turning and looking her up and down, his expression strained. He still wore the enormous gauntlets, and one of them was stained from fingers to wrist with something black and sticky. "Have you set the world to rights, my dear?"

"Part of it, perhaps," she said, going to the fire and bending down to catch the warmth in her palms. Her hands almost ached for the want of touching him, just in simple greeting. It hadn't even been a day and Belle felt lonely without that small comfort. Before she came, Rumpelstiltskin had been a _lifetime_ without it. "What about you?"

"Slow progress," Rumpelstiltskin admitted, tearing his eyes from her and turning back to the table. "I was worried," he added, so quietly that Belle might have missed it had she not been absolutely still.

"For me?"

"Who else?" Flustered, he pulled off the gauntlets and scratched the back of his neck. "I could not watch over you." Belle straightened to see what he had picked up, and recognised the magical hand mirror. "Not with this, nor by any other means." He threw the mirror down among his tools, as though blaming it for the entire situation. Belle had rarely seen him so agitated, unless angered.

"Do you watch me often?" It was not an idea that she enjoyed, but she thought of how watching her Papa had made her feel, that morning when he had given her the mirror. For all that the thought made her skin crawl, something else fluttered in her belly at the image of Rumpelstiltskin watching her in the looking glass. Something that smouldered and _wanted_.

"No. You are well protected, at the castle."

"Never?"

"Sometimes." Rumpelstiltskin bowed his head, frowning deeply. She wondered if he expected her to protest, to forbid him from doing such a thing ever again. Would he obey her, if she did?

"Now you know something else about this magic, then," Belle said, briskly, startling him enough to look at her when he had been fervently avoiding doing so. "Distance made no difference. You still couldn't use magic on me." Her tone of stubborn optimism was rewarded with a faint smile from her husband, who looked her over once more, and this time with a hopeful interest mingled with his taut anxiety.

"Better get out of those wet things, hadn't you?" he asked, his expression brightening to that of a man with something to look forward to. Belle shook her head, smiling helplessly as she pulled at the lacing of her bodice. She took out fresh clothes from her cupboard and went to the bed before revealing anything overly tantalising, because the husband who watched her with that sparkle in his eyes, with that boyish wickedness, was the same husband who had killed a man to protect her honour. Even after a restful ride and pleasant laughter, her heart could not reconcile that.

It would be cruel to tempt him, anyway, and Rumpelstiltskin must know it too; he had avoided seeing her undressed, last night and again this morning. In spite of that, of everything, she had not the heart to send him away, nor to insist that he turn his back. He watched her, hands clasped before him and a soft, knowing smile on his lips, and she didn't even blush. She had grown comfortable with their new intimacy, with the taking for granted of things that had been fraught with blushes a month ago, and there was always that fear that he would interpret her slightest rejection as a greater one. He longed for acceptance but could not put his faith in it. Belle had not known, until lately, how to do otherwise. She did not know, now, how to take him to task for protecting her without seeming that she loved him less for it.

There was that word, again. Love. That _did_ bring the colour to her cheeks. She searched her mind for a distraction, something that would bring neither temptation nor conflict between them.

"Does the Prince know?" Belle caught herself in the middle of the thought, remembering what he had said to her. A secret never to be spoken of. "What you told me?" she finished, apologetic.

"How should I know?" He blinked at her, startled and slightly affronted.

"You know everything." Flattery, as she shrugged off her bodice, possibly distracted Rumpelstiltskin from what he might otherwise have been thinking, but his eyes were upon her - bare shoulders, the soft rounds of her breasts, and then her stockings and the frilly lace that hemmed her long drawers. It was not an alluring ensemble, but a warm one; if Rumpelstiltskin even noticed that, then he did not mind it. His expression - his entire stance - softened at the sight of her, and was pained with longing. To know that she was not alone in her yearning for touch was of little comfort.

"Not everything," he said, after just a moment too long. "Not that."

"Don't you watch the world, in your mirror?" Belle put on the dry clothes as quickly as she could, and Rumpelstiltskin went back to his tools, seeming quite content with whatever enjoyment the little show had provided him. She, herself, felt anything _but_ content.

"I have as little to do with mirrors as possible," he told her, vaguely, and then she had lost him again to his battle with the cleric's magic. That was a gulf that might never be bridged, she supposed. His work, his power... even if she wanted him to, how could he make her a part of that? If his darkness crept inside her, even in the small ways, would she still be the Belle he treasured? Even if she wanted it, he would surely never allow it. She would lose him, always, to his turret, his spells, his poisons and his dark errands.

Today, his relentless, sleepless energy was directed at the magic that kept them apart. Knowing that it was in part for her sake that he shut himself away so, Belle tried to be accepting. She fetched her book and returned to the bed, curling her feet beneath her and angling her body to catch the best light from the window nearest the door.

She could not concentrate on the words, even for just a few moments together; her eyes kept straying to her husband and his busy silence at the table.

He would _win_ the battle, wouldn't he? His lapse in composure, in confidence, had only been because he was worried about her, had it not? Surely he didn't doubt his ability to undo what had been done to her?

Belle could suddenly imagine a future where her touch was forever poison to her husband; where they had the memory of a bare month as man and wife, and no hope of ever regaining those lost touches. She could imagine them rattling around in his great castle like two peas in a box, forever unable to be happy because they remembered a time before, when touches spoke the words that they could not.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Her voice broke on his name, almost a cry in her sudden panic, and Rumpelstiltskin hurried to her at once, watching her eyes with fear in his own. "You will mend this? We can go back? Tell me it will be all right?"

Very careful not to touch her, Rumpelstiltskin sat beside her on the edge of the bed. He folded his hands in his lap, his shoulders rounded and his head bowed. Belle could see only his sharp nose behind a curtain of curls.

"Time will mend it," he said, delicately. "Enough of my magic ought to use it all up, all this twisted fairy magic. Consume it. But shall I curse my wife with something dreadful, to free her from something else?"

"If that's what's needed," Belle began, boldly, but Rumpelstiltskin held up a hand. She noticed anew how his skin changed when seen in daylight; that shimmer of gold that she could see only when she did not look for it.

"I will not," he said, firmly. Only quietly, but she knew that he was immovable. "It may be that I _cannot_. And suppose that you were hurt in the attempt? Magic against magic... it can be violent. You saw, when I was..." He cleared his throat, but could not force the strained note from his voice. "When I was unwell."

Belle swallowed, hard, remembering his torment.

"That bad?"

"If I act in haste? Very likely." Rumpelstiltskin glanced sideways at her, and she at him, and Belle saw the reluctant, helpless twitch of his thin lips. He leaned slightly closer and half-whispered, "I'd be quite upset if you exploded."

Belle almost choked on her splutter of outraged laughter, when she caught his half-hidden smirk. She brought her hands to her mouth, stifling the frantic giggles before they took hold, and told herself that the tears she wiped away as her husband left her side were tears of mirth.


	53. Hair and Feather

Lotte brought the jar of little round pills for warding off headache, after Belle's supper. Belle had said nothing, had scarcely even noticed the throb behind her eyes, and was touched that Lotte had noticed her discomfort. They had chatted a little, while Belle ate, and she realised rather belatedly that her maid had endured Rumpelstiltskin's presence precisely in order to make certain that her mistress _did_ eat.

Rumpelstiltskin's mood changed by the hour, as he worked in his makeshift laboratory. In her presence, he moderated his behaviour, but Belle knew him well enough, by now, to differentiate frustration from exasperation; pain from startlement; anger from irritation. In one blustery afternoon, Rumpelstiltskin had been all of those, and more. He became more reserved in Lotte's presence, Belle noticed, and had said nothing to upset her, so when the girl returned with the medicine and a glass of milk, she patted the mattress beside her and urged Lotte to sit.

"Stay for a little while?" She had not meant to plead, but her pitiful voice distracted Lotte even from her wariness around Rumpelstiltskin. Perching beside her, Lotte put a hand to her brow and clucked.

"You're poorly," she fretted. "To bed with you, my Lady, and I'll bring a bottle for your feet, and your shawl."

"I'm all right," Belle assured her. "I've been crying too much lately, that's all." She did not miss Lotte's dark glance towards Rumpelstiltskin, and prodded her sternly. "Because of what happened last night. Because Papa thought me bewitched and tried to part me from my husband." At least her voice was steady, now. She had shed all her tears, and the bitter hurt was dull inside her, like the pain in her head.

"He meant no harm, my Lady," Lotte said, wretchedly. "I'm sure no-one did except those men in hoods, and they're not like any priests I know. Not doing _magic_."

"I think you may be right," Belle said, taking Lotte's hand and squeezing it. "But the harm is done, anyway." To turn her mind from that dark thought, Belle took a deep breath and forced herself to be more cheerful. "The Prince came looking for the villains, while I was out. I rode back with him."

"Oh," Lotte sighed, almost a moan of appreciation and envy. "On his white horse?"

"Yes. He rode like a madman on the seaward road, mind you. Papa would have something to say about that." Remembering Prince James's small confidence about the King and his dislike of horses, Belle felt her smile grow less forced. "At least I had a chance to thank him for covering me with his cloak," she said, and saw Lotte's eyes glaze as she turned ugly truths into romantic tales, inside her head. Today, Belle could not begrudge her that. No doubt James would rescue a maiden, were it called for. And perhaps, soon, he would battle a dragon. 

"It would be a help if you washed my Lady's hair, Lotte," Rumpelstiltskin said, without turning from his work. He placed a gentle emphasis upon the girl's name, and Lotte clutched Belle's hand, frightened. "Very carefully. The magic that was thrown at her will not harm you, but it should be washed away, I think. My dear?"

"My hair?" Belle tried to apply her mind, to understand his reasoning, but the same dullness that sat in her breast was in her brain, as well. "Yes, of course. Fetch some water, Lotte."

"No need," Rumpelstiltskin said, and Belle followed his pointing finger to the fireside, where the tin bath once again stood, full and waiting. Lotte gripped her hand even more tightly, her breath coming faster. "Be thorough, now," he said, almost cheerfully, as Belle led Lotte by the hand and knelt beside the bath. "We can't have this wicked magic left on your mistress, can we?"

"No, sir," Lotte managed, and her hands shook only slightly as she untied Belle's hair.

Belle wondered, while she bent over the bath and allowed Lotte to scrub and rinse in the hot water, why Rumpelstiltskin had not asked that she wash her hair last night. Had he not known how volatile a speck of the dust would prove to be, whenever it met his magic? From what little she had understood of his experiments, they kept going badly wrong, but never in the same way twice running.

"I should have fresh sheets," she said, while Lotte rubbed her hair dry with busy efficiency. "I slept on them last night. And I must wash my hairbrush, and my silk nightgowns should be washed as well. I don't want that horrid magic to touch me," she explained, seeing Lotte's puzzlement. "When it's finished with my clothes, who knows what it might get up to?"

That was enough to secure Lotte's unquestioning cooperation, and Belle washed her hairbrush in the bathwater while Lotte knelt behind her and untangled her wet tresses with a comb. Perhaps it was only a small victory, to be sure that she had washed away all of the cleric's dust, but Belle felt better for it. She knelt beside the fire to dry her hair faster. She smiled at her husband, when Lotte hurried off with the two nightgowns and a bundle of bed sheets held at arm's length.

"You were almost pleasant to her," she said, when she had caught Rumpelstiltskin's eye.

"She has nothing to fear from me while she obeys you," Rumpelstiltskin sniffed, busying himself with a long pair of steel tweezers over a tiny dish and picking something out of it. "If I catch her spying again, I shall turn her into something for my garden. I've enough slugs, snails, frogs and toads. Perhaps a small fountain. Yes. Forever weeping to no useful purpose. A fountain."

"I'd never forgive you," Belle declared, in case he wasn't teasing. She thought that he was, but sometimes, even he did not seem entirely sure when he said such horrid things.

"Oh." Shrugging, Rumpelstiltskin sniffed again, rather more theatrically. "As you wish." With the tweezers held well away from his body, he dropped something into yet another dark vial. It was only in this light, with the vial standing between Belle and a dish of candles, that she realised the stuff was blood. _His_ blood?

This time, nothing happened. Rumpelstiltskin relaxed and peered cautiously into the little glass tube, then gave a small 'ah' of satisfaction.

"My dear," he said, removing the leather gauntlets and searching quickly among his boxes and rolls of tools, "I need a little of your hair." He turned to her holding a small pair of scissors. "If I may?"

"How much is a little?" Belle clambered to her feet, the pounding in her head intensifying until she was upright, then receding slightly more than before. Gingerly reaching for one another, they passed the scissors.

"A few hairs," he urged, watching her keenly and rubbing his palms together. "They must be cut, not plucked." He made a snipping motion with two fingers beside his ear.

Pulling a few strands forward over her shoulder, Belle cut them above the level of her ear and held them by thumb and forefinger, offering both hair and scissors back to her husband. He took the scissors first, returning them to the stained and cluttered table, then returned to her and flexed his fingers, his eyes darting between her own and the near-invisible offering of chestnut hairs. Then, wincing as if in expectation of another painful sting, he pinched the hairs between his own thumb and forefinger, taking them from her.

A bare moment later, Rumpelstiltskin squared his shoulders and nodded, as though he had been quite certain that nothing painful was going to happen to him. He took the hairs to his table, folded them carefully up in a sheet of clean parchment, and stood back looking satisfied.

"Very good," he said, and he sounded relieved.

"Can't a wizard do dreadful things with a few of my hairs?" Belle asked, though her interest overrode any alarm at the prospect. He had had ample opportunity to take her hair and anything else that he liked, over the past weeks, and had been satisfied with a few of her ribbons instead. She did not think that he meant to craft any magical mischief with _those_.

"Yes," her husband agreed, with a trace of smugness that she was happy to see return, "but I can do dreadful things without them, just as easily."

"Oh good." Belle managed not to smile even a tiny bit, until Rumpelstiltskin glanced at her. "Does that mean--" But Lotte returned, then, with her arms piled high with bedlinens, and Belle held her tongue.

"Nobody else'd come up, my Lady," Lotte huffed, when Belle relieved her of half the stack. "Not while... while you're not alone."

"I see." Belle hid her expression from Lotte, carrying her own share of the linens to the bare mattress and dropping them there. "Then we'll have to manage between us, won't we?" she said, with a cheer that was entirely false.

"Leave it," Rumpelstiltskin said, coming to stand so close behind Belle that she had to suppress a shiver. "Leave us now, and bring your mistress a hearty breakfast in the morning."

Frozen in place, her arms still full of sheets and blankets, Lotte nodded urgently. She did not tear her eyes from Rumpelstiltskin's as she set down the remainder of the linens, but Belle saw more wariness, more suspicion than fear in her maid's eyes. Of course, she would imagine that Rumpelstiltskin had lecherous plans, after an instruction like that. And, of course, Rumpelstiltskin would want her to imagine just that. Belle only wished that it were true.

"Thank you, Lotte," she said, steadily. "I'll manage. Good night," she added, as Lotte retreated, curtseying at the door before closing it behind her. "I'd hoped that she would keep me company," Belle said, a little reproachfully. She turned, stepping away from him first so that no part of her would touch him by mistake.

"You tire of my company, mistress?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, mock-pouting until Belle laughed. A true laugh, this one.

"Of course not. I'm tired of not having it." She indicated the table that had occupied him the clock around. "Have you time for your wife, sir?"

"I have." Gallantly, Rumpelstiltskin stood aside, a sweep of his arm inviting her towards the fireside. Belle was again afraid of touching him, as she passed, but was too pleased with the turn of events to risk souring things.

"Does this mean that you've found the way?" she asked, and realised that she was wishing for it to be so. Wishes were foolish, nothing but false promises; wishing did not get a thing done. "With my hair?"

"Not yet," her husband admitted. He lifted one of her small couches, easily, and set it where the tin bath had been. Belle had never sat there, behind the foot of her bed, because the light was too poor to read by, but thought how nice it would be to do so now. Her husband and a warm fire. "But hair," he said, as they arranged themselves with some care on the seat, "is not a living thing." She watched, warily, as Rumpelstiltskin extended one hand towards her face, and caught a hank of her damp hair with the crook of a finger. He seemed less than certain of his idea, and they both held their breaths until the hair failed to spark the protective magic.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, his eyes shining strangely in the firelight, and the delighted giggle that made him quiver was a silent one. Belle smiled too.

"So my hair isn't protected from you."

"It would seem not, although I'll refrain from trying to work magic on it." The smile becoming whimiscal, Rumpelstiltskin withdrew his hand. "Shall I brush it?"

"It's wet," Belle said, humbled in the face of his naked hope. He hoped for such _small_ things, this man with all the power in the world. "It needs the comb."

A moment later, her comb was in his hand. She wondered if, were she to turn around, she would see her bed neatly made with the fresh linens.

Of course she would.

"Be careful," she urged, when Rumpelstiltskin reached again for the hair that hung beside her cheek. "I... I don't want you to be hurt."

"I'll be careful." And he was - careful and patient, simply combing the portion of her hair that he could reach until it hung straight and smooth. Belle hardly dared breathe, at first, lest she accidentally bring skin against skin, but Rumpelstiltskin's hands were steady, his concentration unwavering. It seemed to give him such peace, such inner calm, and Belle watched his eyes while he watched his own hands move. It reminded her of when he was absorbed at the spinning wheel, except there his eyes grew distant and unfocused - his expression sober. Here and now, his focus on the task in hand was absolute, and his eyes sparkled with appreciation. Such a small thing.

"Have you found anything else?" Belle laced her hands together to make certain that she did not reach for him. It would be so easy.

"This narrows the possibilities rather," he replied, drawing back from her with equal care. "Be patient, my dear. I must know... if there is a greater threat, I must understand it. I must think." He held out a hopeful hand, making a circling motion with one finger to ask her to turn her back to him. Belle obliged, rearranging her skirts as she perched at the edge of the couch. She heard a contented sigh, then felt him cautiously hook some more of her hair away from her body, and begin to tend it with the comb.

"Does it help you to think?" Belle wondered, content save that she could not watch his face, now. "My hair?"

"I suppose it does." He sounded amused. "You don't mind?"

"Of course I don't." After a few moments at war with herself, Belle voiced the rest of the thought. "I mind that I can't be in your arms."

"Yes."

"I don't just mean..." Belle sought for a delicate phrase, reddening. "Not just in bed. I... I've missed you so much."

"I'm here," Rumpelstiltskin said, sounding puzzled. "It's not forever, treasure."

"Promise?"

"If I have to track down the fairy whose magic was in that dust, and tear her wings off with my bare hands until she undoes this, I promise." It should have been a boast, a quip, nothing more - but Belle felt the shiver between her shoulders, heard the way his jaw tightened as he made the oath, and knew that he was quite sincere. He had spoken of fairies in general with such sneering distaste, the other night. It had seemed more akin to hatred than to his usual scorn towards the rest of the world.

Belle knew enough, albeit from story and rumour, to understand that fairy magic was the antithesis of what fuelled Rumpelstiltskin's terrible power. The fairies were said to bring blessings, just as she had protested to him, but her husband was quite right. She, herself, was living proof that a blessing for one seemed nothing but a curse, to another. Her father would never believe - truly believe - that this marriage blessed her life.

"I hope that you can find an easier way," she admitted, nervously. To her relief, Rumpelstiltskin only chuckled.

"So do I," he confided, leaning close to whisper it. Belle could feel his breath in her hair, and closed her eyes. "And a faster one." A moment's hesitation, and then, "I miss you too."

Without understanding why, Belle felt infinitely better for hearing that. She smiled and hugged herself, and concentrated for a long while on the soft sensation of his hands in her hair. Rumpelstiltskin's breathing slowed and softened, while he worked with the comb. She was glad, if she could soothe him, for he had worked the clock around without rest or meals, or even a cup of tea. She had seen neither his silver flask nor his clay pipe, which made their appearance when he was agitated, at home, and here, he could not even resort to his great wheel to calm his thoughts. Nor to her bed, Belle thought, with less pleasure. She did not begrudge him the comforts that he found there. It was her satisfaction, as his wife, that her embraces gave him such release - not the physical, although she delighted in that also, but in his growing certainty that she begrudged him nothing; that she cared nothing for the warping of his flesh; that she refused to think him ugly at all.

It was still fragile, that understanding between them. Belle had not been certain that it could stay strong, while they were kept from one another, and if she feared anything about Rumpelstiltskin, she feared his doubts. Doubt made him edgy, gave him a barbed tongue; he spat and struck out like a cornered animal when he thought himself unwanted. No, more than that. He thought himself _incapable_ of being wanted.

He seized upon the least imagined proof of it.

"How goes it with your father, my dear?" Finished combing her to smooth perfection, Rumpelstiltskin moved back so that she could turn and face him again. He watched the fire, where a log was at the point of breaking in two and buckling into the glowing ashes. "You spoke with him?"

"Yes." There was more to that question than the concern of a solicitous husband, Belle thought, studying him with a new freedom while he avoided looking at her. Did he look tired, or did she only imagine it? He looked sad, remote, as he always did when his thoughts turned to his son. "I've never said such things to him," Belle confessed, miserable at the memory of conflict, and of her father's new frailty. "To anyone. I was so angry." Swallowing to ease the tightness in her throat, Belle put her palm to her breast, as if she could touch the poison of her fury, and pull it out.

"He sought to protect you," Rumpelstiltskin said, very gently. "It must be a cruel thing," he went on, his expression growing more bleak by the moment, "to learn that a father is only a man."

"Yes," Belle whispered, and could not have guessed whether the tears that choked her were for her own sake, or for his. She gulped until she trusted that she would not sob. Not again. The quiet moments with her husband had eased the painful knot at the back of her neck, and drained the pain from her head. That and the pills, anyway. "Do... if you want to speak of your son, I'd like to know about him," she offered, timidly. When her husband did not recoil, only turned his head slightly in her direction without looking at her, Belle was heartened. "What he looked like. What sort of a boy he was."

Rumpelstiltskin's sad smile was faltering. It slipped away as he gazed, unblinking, into the flames. "If you don't like to speak of it," Belle said, quickly, but he did look at her, then, and his eyes held not reproach, but gratitude and a great deal of surprise.

"I never have," he said, frowning at a realisation overdue. "Never spoken of him, except to you." How she wanted to take him by the hand; to reassure and comfort him. Belle made both her hands into fists in her lap, afraid that her heart would overrule her head. All she could do was offer him a smile, an uncertain one. "Your father will forgive you, Belle." Rumpelstiltskin rose, but only went to the fire, slowly adding fresh logs. "Perhaps the truth is best spoken, between you."

"Not in anger," Belle protested, but without confidence.

"Even then." Squatting before the fireplace, Rumpelstiltskin took up the poker and began to prod the ashes, aimlessly. "I'd not be the cause of... of a rift that could not be mended."

Another unexpected consequence from his deal with her, Belle supposed, glumly. In her openness, she had thrown all of Rumpelstiltskin's plans - unseated his every expectation of having a bride. He must have understood what pain he caused her father, in taking her as he had; in convincing Sir Maurice that he would use her cruelly, as nothing more than a prize. To do that, then to come to her on their wedding night and demand no more than the truth from her... why didn't the conflicts of his nature simply rip her husband in two?

"Is there anything that you could not forgive?" Belle leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and only then realised that she did so to be a few inches nearer to him. "In your child?"

"Nothing," Rumpelstiltskin said, without hesitation. "Never."

Belle nodded. That was as she had hoped. She was almost sure that her Papa felt as Rumpelstiltskin did. Searching for something to say, something that did not bring her back to her angry exchange with her father, nor him to his loss of Baelfire, she remembered what the Prince had told her, about Gaston. The Prince whose father was not his father, appealing for Gaston, whose father almost certainly _was_ his father, and merely a blind fool. It seemed the sort of irony that would appeal to her husband's darker nature, and Belle found herself reluctant to share the conversation.

"Can magic tell if a child is... like the Prince?" she asked, cautious with her words.

"Magic can do almost anything." Rumpelstiltskin returned the poker to its hook and rose to his feet, turning to face her and clasping his hands behind his back. "There's no reason that anyone should look."

"I suppose not," Belle agreed. Her husband was a fine figure, between candlelight and firelight. She tried to ignore the longing, the little frustrated itch in her belly that would grow, if she gave it the space, until she was too restless to leave it well alone. "It wouldn't matter, would it, if the son you'd raised wasn't your own blood? It wouldn't to me."

"It matters not to King George," Rumpelstiltskin said, allaying her fear that she was forbidden to speak even with _him_ about that secret.

"I was thinking of... of something James told me," she said, deciding that she did not want secrets of her own. "That Duke Hubert believes that Gaston is not his son. The Duchess is expecting a new son."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, a startling bark of a laugh that Belle did not know how to interpret, beyond the fact that she had surprised him. He clapped his hands, childishly.

"I wondered why the boy was sent to the front lines." His malicious enjoyment of the news faded rather, as he bent at the waist until he was eye to eye with Belle. "The Prince told you this? _James_?"

"He rode out to find me," Belle said, hypnotised by his unblinking gaze. "Hoping that he'd find me being ambushed and catch those behind the clerics' plan, I think. He wanted to ask me to plead with you to spare Gaston whatever horrible punishment you have in mind."

"I see." Puzzled, frowning, Rumpelstiltskin straightened. Her answer had not satisfied him, yet she had told him all that had happened - all but the gossip about King George and her father, and she had no intention of sharing that with anyone. "I don't imagine that Duke Hubert is the sort of man to love another man's son," he said, lightly. "Nor to forgive the Duchess, if this is true."

"Could you tell, with magic, whether it's true or not?"

"Possibly." Rumpelstiltskin gave a shrug of absolute indifference. "Who cares?"

"Gaston might," Belle pointed out, more coolly than she had meant. Oh, she did not want tonight to sour - not on top of everything else! "I only wondered if it were possible," she sighed, and went to fetch one of her old nightgowns from a drawer. Without exactly meaning to, she selected the one that had been made for her wedding night, with the embroidery of daises and no trace of a bloodstain.

Her bed, of course, was pristine. Lotte and three helpers could not have made up the new linens better than Rumpelstiltskin's magic. Investigating a lump beneath the covers, Belle grinned helplessly to find the warmth of a hot water bottle. It was larger than any she knew of in the castle, and Belle wondered where her husband had taken it from, since he could not have made it for her.

"Warm feet," Rumpelstiltskin said, behind her with no warning, his voice like silk. "To which every wife has the right." He was too close, it was too dangerous, but Belle could not bear to chase him away. He wanted to be beside her, and danger meant little to him.

"Thank you, my dear," she said, trying to master her ridiculous grin. "Let me change?"

Rumpelstiltskin retreated, but only to sit at the foot of the bed while Belle, between the bed and the dresser, tried to be matter-of-fact about shedding her clothing. It was no easy task, while her husband watched her with eager appreciation, his eyes following her hands to every fastening. "Doesn't it pain you," she asked, when only her chemise and drawers were left, "to look at what you cannot touch?"

"I have a very good imagination," her husband said, proudly, and his gaze returned quickly from her face to the shape of her bosoms beneath the cotton. There seemed to be no anguish in his longing - only pleasure. Did he not miss her touch as she missed his? Belle could imagine as well; how Rumpelstiltskin might sit her across his knees, now, and tease them both before uncovering one of her breasts. The want of it only _hurt_ her, yet there her husband sat, smiling, eyes shining with enjoyment as he watched her undress.

It make her uncomfortably shy, removing the last layer, and Belle pulled the nightgown on quickly before dropping her drawers beneath the voluminous skirt. Rumpelstiltskin watched this, too, without any sign that his enjoyment had been spoiled by her sudden modesty.

"It would upset me," she decided, getting into bed and nudging the hot bottle into a new position with her toes so that her feet could rest in the hot spot, "to look at you undressing when I couldn't touch."

"Then I shan't," Rumpelstiltskin said, shrugging. When she had settled, her pillows behind her against the board and her feet cosy beside the flannel-wrapped stone bottle, he sat cross-legged at the opposite end of the bed, smiling.

"You never do, anyway," Belle pointed out, watching him. He looked devilish, there in his boots and leathers at the foot of her childhood bed. "You never let me see you undress."

"Didn't imagine you'd want to, my dear," he said, rather less easily.

"I think it's only fair." Belle folded her hands in her lap, demurely. "Perhaps I shall ask for a dressing screen, like a true lady, and never let you see me."

Eyebrow raised, Rumpelstiltskin waited to discover if this was the entirety of her challenge.

"I'd peek," he said, wrinkling his nose, playfully.

"You wouldn't." Belle felt silly, now, and ready to laugh at herself, but found that she did not want to concede this particular argument. "You've been a gentleman for this long."

"By choice." Clearly enjoying himself, Rumpelstiltskin raised his knees, still crossed at the ankle, and rested his elbow there, chin propped in the cup of his right hand. "It's hardly in my nature."

Belle's feet were warm, she had her husband's undivided attention, and knew that she ought to count her blessings. She had spent too long, recently, dwelling on the other things.

"Will you sleep, tonight?" She found herself wondering if he might lie beside her, covers and bedclothes between them, and not be harmed.

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin leaned back against the bedpost, grasping one bent knee while stretching the other leg towards her.

"I'll work," he said. "And see that you're safe while you sleep."

She tried to smile in answer to that, she truly did, but her expression betrayed her and Rumpelstiltskin's bright manner became softer. Of all the things to add to his sleepless burden, now she had made him _worried_ for her. Belle looked at her hands.

"Your book, treasure?" When she lifted her head, Rumpelstiltskin had it in his hand, offering it. "You've a whole library to get through."

"Yes," she said, forcing her smile to be warmer than it might have been. "But my head hurts, tonight. Too much to read by candlelight." Belle hesitated, watching her husband lower the book, more concerned than ever. "Would you read to me?" she asked, and wondered why she felt that she was asking for too much, with that simple request. Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her in surprise. "I enjoy your voice," she told him. "Even when you say wicked things." A moment later, honesty compelled her to add, "Especially then."

For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin looked lost in his confusion, his lips parted as though he had forgotten what he meant to say. Then he nodded, surprise becoming resolve.

"As you wish." With a few flicks of his fingertips by way of encouragement, he urged Belle to move over as far as the wall, taking her hot water bottle with her. Stealing one pillow from her while she was gathering them up for her own use, Rumpelstiltskin came to sprawl beside her, facing her and propping his head on his left hand. Thankful to have him so intimately near, Belle curled her toes around the heat of the bottle, and hugged a pillow to her chest while she watched him open the book.

She had not found the book terribly interesting, but did not have it in her to abandon a book having begun it. Rumpelstiltskin found the place that she'd marked, earlier, with an uncut goosefeather quill.

At first he spoke uncertainly, beginning at the top of the marked page. After a few lines he looked up from the page, seeking her approval, and Belle gave him a grateful smile. She had not been insincere; she did enjoy his voice, when it was without bitterness or mockery. A warm voice, expressive as his ever-moving hands, and strangely soft without ever quite being lost in the air.

Reassured, Rumpelstiltskin turned onto his back and propped the book on his belly, folding the pillow behind his head, and began to read again without his earlier hesitation, following the words on the page with the tip of the feather. When her eyes grew heavy, watching him, Belle closed them and let his voice wash over her. The words interested her little - it was a silly book, pomposity hidden behind a promising title, and she had hoped that it would make light reading for the long journey. No, it was his voice that soothed her and captivated her; his soft tones, his occasional hint of exasperation with the writer's foolish phrases, making her smile into the pillow, and the mere fact of his willingness to spare the time to read to her.

Belle might easily have gone to sleep, lulled by his voice and the welcome sensation of him fidgeting by her side, but a tickle at the end of her nose brought her back from the place where sounds echoed strangely. Blinking, she saw that her husband held the feather, and let out an undignified snort of laughter when he tickled her cheek with it. Only then did he stop reading to her, letting the book fall closed on his thumb and smiling from an arm's length away.

The tip of the feather traced the outline of her mouth, then stroked along her jaw, up and around the curve of her ear and down her cheek.

It was a strange proxy for his touch, yet his inventiveness and his smile made Belle oddly content. She gave the feather a kiss, the next time Rumpelstiltskin brushed it across her bottom lip, and watched his smile soften as he brought it to his own lips, added a kiss of his own, and returned it to hers for a slow caress. His eyes spoke the words that he could not. Belle hoped that hers did, as well.

"Thank you," she said, foggy at the edge of sleep, with her body yielding to the mattress and the comfortable warmth in a way that she had not managed since they came here. "Thank you."

"Sleep well, treasure." With one final sweep against her cheek, the feather was withdrawn.

Rumpelstiltskin did not leave her side until she was sleeping.


	54. A Year and a Day

Belle's old nurse had always told her that sleep was the best medicine. Belle could not argue with that, on a crisp and sunny morning that followed a deep and dreamless sleep; she felt put back together, stronger, and for the first time in days that she would not burst into tears at the least provocation.

At his work table, Rumpelstiltskin had found a chair - one of the scroll-armed, red-cushioned ones that belonged to the council chamber, no less - and was seated, bent over sheets of parchment and writing with urgent concentration. Making her way to his shoulder, Belle saw that he had several sheets of parchment spread beneath the one upon which he wrote now. Each was covered with his fidgety writing, small diagrams, mathematical calculations and the strange symbols of alchemy and magic that made her eyes water if she tried to look too long. His fingers were stained with black ink.

"A moment," Rumpelstiltskin said, just as Belle drew breath to greet him, and she closed her mouth and waited obediently for him to finish committing his current thought to parchment.

At last, he set down his quill and, gathering the several sheets into one neat pile, pushed back the chair and rose to face her. He looked worn, wild-eyed, and the weight of centuries seemed to be upon him.

"My dear. You slept well?"

"Very well," Belle agreed, lightly, determined that, today, nothing about her own demeanour would compound her husband's troubles. "And you?" She pointed to the pile of parchment, and watched his face struggle to choose an expression. There was fatigue, above all, and she longed to soothe it away.

"I... have you ever, when searching for something, found something else, unexpectedly?" Rumpelstiltskin grasped the low back of the chair, looking down at what he had written. Much of it was incomprehensible, to Belle - some of it the old tongue, some of it the common tongue, but much of it in a code or shorthand that must be Rumpelstiltskin's own. "All magic comes with a price. Even for fairies."

"Yes?" Lost in any conversation concerning the inner workings of magic, Belle resorted to a look of polite enquiry, much as she did when her father spoke at length about his stable.

"It matters not," Rumpelstiltskin said, suddenly, as if noticing her properly for the first time, and before Belle knew what was happening, he had gathered up the sheaf of pages and, striding to the fireplace, dropped them into the grate!

"You worked all night on those!" Belle yelped, rushing to his side, but it was already too late to retrieve the parchment, which was curling and blackening around a fierce, almost white flame at the centre. Within a few breaths, there was only ash and the faint sensation - no, Belle realised, the faint _taste_ \- of magic in the air.

When her husband began to pace, long strides across the end of her small room, Belle retreated to the bed lest he brush against her in passing. She could recognise no distress in his agitation, no anger - only the intense energy of his determination, his magic, his intellect. Rumpelstiltskin was a man struggling to contain himself, in the light of his discovery, but he did not burst with excitement, nor smugness, nor pride. She felt, almost, that she ought not be witness to it.

Lotte's loud knock at the door brought Belle's heart into her throat. She could not let the girl in, not with her husband in such a mood. While he was reserved, sulking, snappish or even gleeful in his own cruelty, Lotte was perfectly safe from him - Belle was sure of it. But like this...

Rumpelstiltskin, stopping dead, pinned the closed door with the sharp, remote gaze of a hawk spotting prey.

"Breakfast," Belle said, forcing herself to sound unconcerned. It could not hurt to remind her husband that he had commanded Lotte to bring her a hearty meal. She opened the door a little, and smiled at Lotte, and reached out for the tray that she carried. "Thank you," she said, her false cheer sounding rather manic, to her own ears. Lotte narrowed her eyes and tried to peer around the doorframe. "I'll see you later, Lotte. Thank you."

Grateful that her maid chose not to argue or question, Belle pushed the door shut with her backside and carried the tray to the dressing table. There was but one plate, laden with hot sausages, poached eggs and toast; beside that, one dish of porridge, dressed with cream and honey.

"Come and eat something," Belle urged, with the guilty realisation that she asked not for Rumpelstiltskin's sake, but for her own. To eat, to sleep, to tease and court her - those things made him human, in the moment. When he strayed from those things, when his power caught him up, he forgot how to be a man. He had taken her as his wife to _remind_ him how to be a man, to be the father who loved Baelfire so dearly, and she would. "Cook never puts honey on the porridge. This must come from the King's own cook."

There was that sense, again, that her husband returned to her from so very far away, and that he did so by an effort of will alone. Rumpelstiltskin approached, slowly. Belle was matter-of-fact, handing him the bowl and spoon, but inside she trembled with an inkling of her own power.

Rumpelstiltskin took the porridge, and the silver spoon, and sat heavily on the bed. He looked puzzled, troubled, and so tired.

"All those calculations," she said, making a start on the plate of sausage and egg. "It must have taken you hours. Why did you burn them?"

He gave her a questioning look, as though he had forgotten what he had just done, then blinked and straightened his back, nodding slightly.

"I can't have anyone else reading them. Knowing what I know."

"Ah." That made more sense than Belle had hoped, and she relaxed somewhat. "But you don't yet know how to get this magic out of me?"

"I... know that it will dissipate of its own accord," he said, angling the spoon and teasing out the honey and cream into patterns on top of the porridge. "In a year and a day."

Belle almost choked on a bite of toast.

"A year!"

"A year and _day_ ," he said, darkly. "Fairy magic has its own rules. Could've been worse," he went on, his voice hardening all the while. "Seven years. Thirteen. A hundred."

"A hundred..."

"Fear not," said Rumpelstiltskin, beginning to fold the porridge in over the cream and honey, sides to middle. "Now that I understand its strength, its scope, I can find the right spell to counter it. Just enough of my magic to consume it all, you see? But..." the spoon went still. "Safely. That's the trick."

"I see." Belle could not pull her mind away from the notion of waiting another _year_ to be able to touch her husband. To kiss his cheek, to take him into her bed, to rest her head upon his shoulder. A _year_. "It was meant to free my mind from your enchantments, so wouldn't that magic work?" she asked, knowing that he must already have thought of it, and decided against trying it. "I don't mind if you enchant me for a little while."

Mouth quirking, almost smiling, Rumpelstiltskin met her gaze.

"I could certainly have fun with that," he said, and in what Belle thought of as his bedroom voice - playful, challenging and deep. "But such magic leaves wounds that do not heal. It is the blackest of all magics, to steal a person's will from them." Rumpelstiltskin twirled the spoon at the centre of the bowl. "Even a fairy would hesitate to suspect me of that. They... know my methods." His smile became cruel. "I modelled them after their own."

At last, Rumpelstiltskin brought the spoon to his mouth, but only to lick it clean, first the bowl and then the back with slow, deliberate sweeps of his tongue. He grimaced slightly, swallowing what little he had taken.

"Can't you turn me into a frog?" A piece of sausage on her fork, Belle hesitated over the thought, remembering the young foreign suitor, Shafer, who had given her a frog when their fathers were not looking. "I quite like frogs."

"And end up with a wife forever trying to catch flies on her tongue?"

"I meant, and turn me back again, of course," Belle laughed, but Rumpelstiltskin's expression remained disapproving.

"So did I."

"Oh." Making a face, Belle turned her attention to her breakfast. After a while, Rumpelstiltskin placed the bowl beside her tray, the porridge untouched, and wandered back to his work table. While she might not mind being a frog for a little while, the thought of being a woman who _remembered_ being a frog suddenly alarmed her, and she had to shake herself before finishing her breakfast.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed not to notice her, after that. He had begun arranging rows of small, glass dishes, but for the most part he simply sat in his stolen councilman's chair, brooding. Belle was glad of that, for there were things that she would rather not do with him in the room, still, and most certainly could not do if he watched her. She missed her bathing room, at home, and the lazy ease of hot water that came at her touch. Of course, there would be none of _that_ little pleasure, either, until this wretched magic was undone - even assuming that Rumpelstiltskin dared allow her inside his castle, tainted as she was.

Could she remain here, at her father's house? He would allow it, Belle was sure, but would he welcome it? Quite probably not, if it involved Rumpelstiltskin slowly borrowing everything in the vicinity for his secret work. Rumpelstiltskin would probably be able to solve the problem much faster if he returned home without her, but Belle felt a terrible pain, whenever _that_ occurred to her. Whatever else happened, whatever else was true, she did not want to be parted from her husband.

Logically, that meant that she preferred to be parted from her father, which made her feel a betrayer all over again, and Belle knew that she would never make peace with it. Not entirely. Her father needed her here, strong beside him, but she was Rumpelstiltskin's, now. It was not as though the alternative had been to remain with Sir Maurice, a busy and contented spinster. The alternative had been Gaston and his family, who sounded worse to her with every new thing that she discovered about them. As Gaston's wife, she might have been nearer to her father, and likely allowed to spend a great deal of time at home once a child was on the way, but she would still have been torn.

This morning, the choice was easier. Her husband was preoccupied, his head bent over the neat rows of dishes. Into the centre of each one, she watched him squeeze a drop of blood from a pricked fingertip.

"I'll see if Papa is busy," she announced, while she pulled back her hair and tied it with a ribbon. She had chosen a new one, a green one, with the guilty pleasure of knowing that Rumpelstiltskin might steal it from her tonight. "I won't leave the town," she added, when he glanced up; she had not forgotten his misery at being unable to follow her movements with his magic, to protect her. "Please be gentle with Lotte, when she comes back. Let her do her work."

"As you wish, my dear."

There was a hesitant silence, in place of the moment that should have been a kiss goodbye - perhaps only a peck on the cheek, but _their_ moment. Belle felt her shoulders droop.

"Can I touch your hair?" she asked, without real hope. The magic was even in his hair, she was certain; she had seen how it changed, with the rest of him, while he was ill.

"I expect not," Rumpelstiltskin said, but then smiled. "But I'm sure you can think of something amusing to do with that feather."

Belle blushed, violently.

To her disappointment, her father was already attending upon the King inside the council chamber. Belle learned as much from one of the stoic guards outside the room - the Prince's men, this time. Those loyal to Gaston would no longer be trusted, of course. Not by the Prince who, it was said, commanded such fierce loyalty in his own men that they would each gladly die for the sake of James, or his father King George. Gaston's men were loyal also, and with the Duke angered and Gaston disgraced, they would be carefully watched.

At a loss, Belle made her way outside. It was easier, today, not to notice the fearful looks that she earned. Possibly they were fewer - Rumpelstiltskin had been in residence for days, now, and had not cursed the town that he had saved, nor harmed anyone who did not cross him. People liked to know where they stood; Belle had seen that, as the life of the town changed because of the war. The ogres had been feared, but perhaps change had been feared more. Once the town was besieged, a new normality had taken its place and, with it, a new confidence and a new resolve. A new defiance. Instead of waiting for the worst that might happen, life had gone on in spite of it.

If a people could get used to ogres on their doorstep, they must be able to get used to the reality of seeing Rumpelstiltskin wed to their erstwhile 'princess', surely?

A few stalls were out, at the sunny end of the square. Belle was glad to see fish and other seafood piled high on one, clearly fresh from the waters today. That had been much missed, first as the fishermen were called away to fight and then, later, when it became too dangerous to travel the sea road at all. They were not a town dependent upon the sea - it was a maxim of her father's that no town should depend upon only one source of wealth - but the proximity of the estuary, the harbour, the gull cliffs and the rocky beaches meant that no-one need go truly hungry, no matter how poor. There was always food, always fertiliser for the fields, and always the ships from far away that came to trade for their cloth and coin.

Out in the streets, Belle was even less aware of being noticed than she had been inside the castle. People were busy, with their own lives to lead. Gossip was never in short supply, while the royal court was visiting, and Belle clung to the hope that both her husband and her nakedness were, by now, yesterday's news.

An aimless walk took her towards the smithy, once a necessary adjunct to the castle itself but now all but buried in the town that had risen around it. Thus parts of it were of good old stone, like the castle and the main walls, while the blacksmith's home had been rebuilt as fortune allowed, and was now a generous two-storey construction of timber, extending over the smithy itself.

Belle had loved to sit and watch Dimitri the smith at work, for as long as she could remember. Since the war, where he had lost his arm to - it was said - the teeth of an ogre, his eldest son had worked at the forge, while Dimitri himself guided the work, ordered the iron, soothed the horses, dealt with the customers and continued to be the very heart and spirit of their little town.

It cheered her when the blacksmith's son raised his hammer in a wave of greeting, as Belle approached. She could not see Dimitri, but two of his other sons were busy in the forge, while the sounds of squabbles and laughter from behind the building accounted for at least three of their still-younger siblings. Smiling, remembering when she had played here, Belle went to the door of the wooden house and knocked.

Elena's help and kindness, on her wedding day, had been such a comfort. Belle felt guilty for not writing to her, at least with a note of thanks, but at least she could make amends now. Of all the women Belle knew, Elena was the most level-headed. If there was anyone who would try to give her a true welcome, it was she.

Nevertheless, Belle waited nervously for an answer to her knocking, afraid that she would not be welcome in _any_ home, now that she was Rumpelstiltskin's wife.

The door was flung open by a girl of about Belle's own age, and Belle took a small step backwards, not recognising her. Mistress Elena came down the passage before either girl could speak and smiled at Belle over the stranger's shoulder.

"Good morning, our Princess," she said, and nudged the girl in the back. "Away home before your father misses you," she said, and Belle watched the dark haired girl wander away - past the forge, where she exchanged a lingering, miserable look with the blacksmith's eldest son. "That's Marie. She and Simeon are in love. Are you coming in, Lady Belle? Only there's a draught."

"Good morning, Mistress Elena," Belle managed, tearing her eyes from the girl's back and going inside. "Marie and Simeon don't, um, look very happy about being in love," she said, as she closed the door behind her. "Have they quarrelled?"

"No, they've to wait a year before they wed," Elena explained, cheerfully, and showed Belle into the tiny parlour with its coal fire and yards of homemade lace covering all the tables and chair backs. The room had been a wonder to Belle, as a small girl, and so had sitting at the table by the window and watching Elena herself make the lace. "Marie's father won't hear otherwise, and I'm glad of it. Patience is a virtue that'll serve any couple just starting out in life, eh?"

"Yes," Belle agreed, finding herself unnerved by the unexpected warmth of the welcome. Elena had always seemed a mother hen, to Belle. She had nine children of her own, and always room to gather up another when a knee was scraped or a quarrel lost. She had always been warm to Belle, in a brisk and businesslike sort of way, and that did not appear to have changed now that she was a married woman.

When everything else _had_ changed, it was rather a shock to find one thing that had not.

Elena fetched a pot of rose and chamomile tea, shooing various children out of the house on her way to and from the small kitchen. Belle sat at the table by the window, studying the piece of lace that Elena was making and enchanted, as ever, by the varied bobbins and bright, glass-headed pins. A pattern of fans was emerging across the red velvet pillow, in a strip of white lace about the width of Belle's small hand.

"That's for your Gaston," Elena said, slipping the teapot and two fine porcelain cups onto the table, beside the lacemaking. "He's to have a baby brother, he tells me, and it'll be a gift for the Duchess to sew for the babe's little gowns." Sitting down opposite Belle, Elena was still smiling. "How do you like being a bride, my Lady?"

"Oh, I..." Taken aback by the mention of Gaston, Belle had to clear her throat and collect her thoughts before she was able to answer. "I like it very much," she said, and saw Elena's smile broaden. "You don't think me bewitched, for that?"

"If you are, there's no telling the difference from the way you were," the woman laughed. "I heard you told His Majesty what was what."

Her cheeks reddening for the second time inside an hour, Belle chewed her lip. She had said very little to King George, but her husband had addressed him with such crowing irreverence.

"What else have you heard, Mistress Elena?" she asked, accepting a cup of the pale golden tea.

"That Sir Gaston might be in no position to pay me for this, come sundown," Elena said, ruefully. "He insulted you and is to be taken before the King, today."

"Today?" Oh dear. "I'm sure the King will be... politic. Just as he was when it came to the matter of my marriage."

"I'm sure he will," Elena agreed. "And what'll your husband do?"

"I don't know." Belle hid her confusion behind her cup, scalding her tongue with hot tea. "Nothing, I hope."

"You weren't harmed, by that glitter the man threw on you?" There was the mother hen, warm and generous and ready to brood. Belle smiled.

"I don't think so. It's difficult to be sure, with magic." Did keeping an eager husband and wife apart count as harm? Belle thought so, but it was very likely not what Mistress Elena meant. "Thank you," she said, with a sudden urgency. "For helping me before the wedding. For your words. They... they helped very much." She remembered the lover's knot, and the satin cord that was never far from Rumpelstiltskin's restless hands.

"I'm glad of it, Princess," Elena said, warmly. "Have you news, then?"

Belle took a moment to understand, and then looked down at her teacup, flustered. When her father had asked, when Lotte had asked, it had been with a kind of dread in their voice that her answer would be 'yes'. Mistress Elena asked with the matter-of-factness of a woman who had happily fallen pregnant upon weaning each of her own children - for whom motherhood had come as swiftly and as naturally as a babe's first cry.

"No news," Belle said, shyly, and found herself fidgeting with the cup between her hands, just as her husband did when he was ill at ease. "How... how would I know? It's just that... no-one ever told me things. Not the small things that make it all make sense."

"Nurses, governesses and maids, but no mother," Elena sighed. "I wondered if it was so, though I must admit, it's hard to imagine your dear mama, rest her soul, speaking of that sort of thing."

"I suppose not," Belle smiled. Elena was right. In her hazy memories, Mama had said very little about anything.

"You'll know when you've not bled," Elena said, startling Belle with her bluntness. "And that's not certain. Other things can make that stop for a while, or for good. If you suspect, count the days since you bled last, and count back to when you were with your husband since. After three moons, and with the other signs, there's no doubting it then."

"The other signs?" Belle had heard of many, and had no way of knowing which were true. "Sickness," she said, cautiously, "and movement?"

"Maybe a flutter, maybe not, and likely sickness. Not always in the mornings, whatever folks tell you. Your chest'll feel different, and if you don't notice that your husband will." At Elena's laugh, Belle went pink again. Yes, she thought, Rumpelstiltskin would notice anything that changed _there_. "I was bone weary, those first months, all but the last two times, and my head could hurt something cruel. You look so scared, Princess. Don't be."

"It all sounds like such a trial," Belle sighed. "All that, and then the birth. Why is it so difficult?"

"Most anything that's worth doing is difficult," Elena shrugged, cheerfully. "The birthing got easier after number four. Or was it three?" She blew out her cheeks. "Scream and holler and curse your husband's name until it's born, then it's only joy, Lady Belle. Trust me."

Made mute by her own terrors, Belle nodded and drank more of her tea. She felt that she should ask the woman much more, while there was the opportunity and while she was blushing anyway, but the questions would not form into words. It was the same when she spoke with Wren, who would likely tell her _anything_ if she only found the words and the nerve to ask.

"He treats you all right, then?" Elena sounded hopeful, where others sounded doubtful, and Belle was grateful to her. "Dimitri said you arrived looking like a queen."

"Oh, yes." Belle was beginning to think that her blush would stick for good. "He treats me very well. In everything," she forced herself to add, because she knew what Elena was asking. "I... I should probably have taken more advice, when you offered it," she added, smirking at herself and trying, once again, to conceal it behind her cup.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," Elena said, her good cheer returning. "I don't expect he has much trouble finding the will, with you for his bride."

"Oh, Elena," Belle spluttered, fighting giggles, shocked and, at the same time, thrilled by her directness. Was this the sort of gossip that wives urgently hushed when a maiden joined their company? "I don't think he'd like me talking about it."

"Only if he's no good," Elena sniffed, and grinned broadly as Belle dissolved into laughter so hard that she had to put down her cup.

It was true. Rumpelstiltskin took such smug pleasure in seeing that his wife was _satisfied_. Perhaps a man _would_ want it known, in a discreet and gentle way, that his prowess was adequate. Or more than adequate. Belle wondered suddenly about Dimitri, and then about how it worked if a fellow had but one arm, and had to turn away from Elena to compose herself as the tears streamed down her cheeks. At least they were not tears of sorrow.

"Oh, thank you," Belle managed, eventually. Turning back, she saw that Elena had topped up her cup. "Thank you for making me laugh."

"You looked as if you could do with it, Princess," Elena said, much more gently. "There's been wicked talk, and after what you did for us. You weren't to know it'd turn out all right and you did it regardless. Shame on them who doubt you now, I say. He's your husband to love or despise, just as you please."

"Yes," Belle said, and took her cup between both hands, bringing it to her chest for the warmth. She was trembling still, from so much laughter, but she felt wonderfully calm. "Yes, he is." She chewed her lip again. "How do you know when it's love?" she asked, wistfully. "Is it like babies, and you can only be sure later on?"

Eyebrows raised in surprise, Elena toyed with her lace bobbins.

"Love's not all there is in a marriage," she said, after a long moment. "There's laughter and trust, and knowing one another better every day. There's willingness, and compromise, and there's hurt and sacrifice too. And the other, of course," Elena added, with the first hint of coyness Belle could ever recall seeing about her. It made her look younger, the girl she must once have been. "Maybe love's only for stories?"

"But..." aware that she was suddenly in a conversation without enough of the facts to be sure of her footing, Belle spoke hesitantly. "You love Dimitri, don't you? And he loves you?" She always thought of them together, side by side and inseparable, and smiling as though the world made sense for them.

"Oh yes," Elena said, quickly. "But love is... maybe not the same as _in_ love. True love, the sort the poems and songs are about. They say _that_ can break any curse, don't they? Of course I love him, and he loves me. We wouldn't be without each other, and after this long we wouldn't know how. But would I dare put it to the test? True love's kiss?" Elena emptied the last of the tea from the pot into their cups, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know about that." She smiled, certain of herself again. "Together is what matters. Truly together. And do you know what?" Belle shook her head, wide-eyed. "When Dimitri was hurt, out there when all they took him for was the blacksmithing, I woke up in my bed and I just _knew_. He was fifty miles away, and I knew. How about that?"

Belle swallowed, hard.

"I think that sounds like true love to me, Mistress Elena," she said, gently. "I hope that I'm as lucky."

"There's luck," Elena said, with a wink. "But it doesn't hurt to try hard, as well. I think I'd have had to try a bit harder, if my husband had magic." A sobering thought seemed to cross her mind, her brief frown a cloud over her sunny features. "Or maybe not," she said, slowly. "A bit of magic could go a long way, in the bedroom." Belle, who had been about to sip from her cup, managed not to spill any. "Not that newlyweds'd be worrying about that, just yet," Elena concluded, the broad and knowing smile returning.

Although Belle almost choked, she managed not to blush. She thought that she could get used to this conspiratorial gossip - the warmth and reassurance of it, and knowing that her trials and tribulations were not hers alone. A conspiracy of wives, she thought; a conspiracy of women, when the men were safely out of earshot. And the maidens, as well.

That, at least, she was beginning to understand. How _could_ someone understand these matters until they had a husband of their own? Belle knew that she would have been embarrassed, frightened, shocked to hear such talk, a few months ago; the truth of it all, the humour, the affection, the frustration of being a wife was so much more difficult to comprehend than the way two bodies might, if willing, be fitted together for mutual enjoyment. Most of what a new wife needed to know, she needed to discover for herself, with her husband. Most of it defied words, but fitted into that knowing look that Elena kept giving her and, Belle supposed, she was shyly returning.

"I'm sure that my maid Lotte thinks I've gone mad," she confided, after some thoughtful moments over her tea. "My father, as well. He's not well," she finished, the words going nowhere - just a sad tail end to her thought. "Nothing I say will stop him from worrying too much."

"Like Marie's pa," Elena said, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure he thinks the girl is ravished by Simeon every time she sets foot in town. As if I'd allow that! But I know I'll miss every one of mine when they fly the nest. Miss them like being torn in two, my Lady. I reckon your father'd be heartbroken just the same if you'd gone off with Sir Gaston - he just wouldn't feel he had cause to speak out."

"He needs a wife, himself," Belle declared, more sure of it than ever. "Not to be alone."

"Well, the kingdom's stuffed full of widows," Elena said, shrugging. "He wouldn't have to look far, would he?"

"I suppose not." It seemed so simple, but Belle knew that she wanted her father to be happy for her own sake, at least as much as for his own. She did not want to return to Odstone burdened with worries for his health and happiness; she did not want her happiness to come at the expense of his. She did not want to be far away, and find a letter in her box telling her that her father had died of grief.

Belle talked a while longer with Elena, counting on her fingers to make quite sure that she had asked after the remaining eight of her children before leaving. As she contemplated the remote possibility of starting _one_ child, Belle could not even imagine herself as mother to nine of them. There might be enough love to go around, but where did Elena and Dimitri find enough time, or hands, or the opportunity to be alone together for a single moment? Their unflagging contentment was something to aspire to, but Belle thought, as she took her leave with more warmly-worded thanks to Mistress Elena, that she hoped for rather fewer than nine, should children ever come.

So thoughtful was her mood that Belle almost walked into the back of one of the King's Guard, at the edge of the main square. He stepped aside smartly, at her mumbled apology, and Belle saw that the King himself was leaving the castle, Prince James beside him and, some way behind and carefully watched by more of the Prince's men, Gaston.

She almost shrank back, wanting to lose herself in the small crowd that had come together with interest to see the King go by. King George's strides were long, his hand tight upon the hilt of his sword, and his face resembled the darkest of thunderclouds.

It was the Prince who spotted Belle, standing uncertainly beside the obliging guard. With a word to his father, and holding up his chain-mail gloved hand, he halted the procession and beckoned for Belle to approach. She had little choice - at least, no choices that would not place her father in a difficult position with the King - and approached James obediently, stopping some yards away to make her curtsey to the King.

"Here may be the place, Your Majesty," James said to the King, who regarded Belle with hard eyes for a few moments and then appeared to find some satisfaction in whatever his son was suggesting.

More of the townspeople were gathering, with the guardsmen keeping a clear route towards the gates. Acutely aware of the onlookers, Belle cast a desperate glance at the Prince, who scratched his nose and... and _winked_ at her behind the cover of his hand!

Glancing back, his gaze taking in Gaston, the guard, the courtiers and Sir Maurice, the Prince nodded.

"Good people," he called, his voice loud and clear with no need of shouting. Belle heard the murmurs around the square go silent. "You will all have heard that Sir Gaston, son of Duke Hubert, disgraced his rank, his family name and his honour by insulting the daughter of our beloved Sir Maurice, the wife of Rumpelstiltskin, the Lady Belle."

Across the square, behind the royal party, Belle saw nods and people craning to see. Her mouth had already gone dry; now she was unable to so much as swallow.

"Sir Gaston will make his apology to the lady before you all," James announced, and the nods became a dark murmur of approval.

 _How many of them_ , Belle thought; _how many of them have thought and spoken just as Gaston did? Thought me bewitched, thought me a whore?_

"Get on with it," the King spat, barely looking in Gaston's direction, and Prince James stood back to allow Gaston to approach.

In those moments, in the silence where only the heels of Gaston's boots made any sound in the cobbled square, Belle longed for her husband - for Rumpelstiltskin's hand in hers, or the luxury of hiding her face against the shoulder of his awful scaly coat. Anything but to be alone here, watched, and faced with _this_.

Gaston's expression was grave, but harboured no hatred and none of the contempt that Belle had seen at the dance. She saw him swallow hard, glancing at the King and the Prince, who simply waited. Belle saw her father, behind Gaston, his eyes like flint.

"Lady Belle." Gaston's voice faltered, but he cleared his throat and tried again, raising his voice so that the onlookers could hear him. "Lady Belle." He dropped to one knee before her, and Belle looked to her father, appalled. "For the untruths that I spoke about you, for my part in what followed, I humbly beg your forgiveness." With Belle staring at the top of his dark head, he swallowed again, tightening his hands on the crown of his knee. "I apologise most sincerely and will make any recompense that you see fit to name."

All eyes were upon her - father, King, court and people - and Belle would _not_ perform for a crowd. She simply would _not_. She took a step closer to Gaston and bent down, offering her hands to draw him up. Thereafter, she had to crane her neck to see his face, but she did not back away.

"I forgive you, Gaston," she said, quietly, and watched his cheeks flame with redness; his eyes flood with relief. "Who have you been protecting in this?"

He gasped.

"I... I cannot say," he said, his voice as quiet as her own. "It is more than an oath. I _cannot_." Something about his urgency convinced Belle that he was not making an excuse, but stating a plain fact. "I can never speak of it. I beg you, Belle, demand anything but that."

"Sir Gaston," the Prince said, coldly. "You gave your word."

 _A secret never to be spoken of,_ Belle thought, finally tearing her eyes from Gaston's face and looking at the others. King George's expression was one of contempt, James's one of chilly anger, and her father's only worried - worried for his daughter, thrown onto this stage, and likely worried for what it would mean should Duke Hubert raise an objection to this treatment of his son.

"Will something prevent you, if you try?" Belle asked, and Gaston nodded, gratefully. "Magic, then. If you've any choice in the matter at all," she told him, levelly, "I advise you to fear my husband more than whatever binds you."

"I will try, if that is what you demand," Gaston said, defeated. Where was his strutting now? His petulance? His pride? He was just a boy, barely older than Belle, and he had been humbled. "Though it cost my life, I will try."

Belle believed him, and thought of the fine lace upon Mistress Elena's cushion. Lace for Gaston's baby brother, yet to be born into the world.

"No," she said, stepping back. There was Rumpelstiltskin, behind Sir Maurice, his arms folded and his expression good-humoured. He gave her an encouraging little nod. "Sir Gaston, I demand that you present my father with your finest horse and..." And what? Belle could hear murmurs of dissent from the onlookers immediately behind her. She dared not look at the King. "And when you marry, make your wife your queen."

Gaston did not understand. Belle could see that he did not, but thought again of the lace, and of the unborn child that could end Gaston utterly. She nodded, satisfied, and ignored the sounds of dissent that were spreading around the square. It had been she who was insulted - she who was left naked before the court. She would have her price, and it would be her _own_.

Bowing low, his face crumpled in bewilderment, Gaston said nothing as she passed him. Prince James, too, stood aside to allow her to go to Rumpelstiltskin's side, to her father's side; to stand between them and watch what would unfold.

"There you have it," the King barked. "Sir Gaston will accompany us to visit his father, the Duke. We leave at first light." He resumed his impatient strides towards the gates, and did not look back.

As the Prince turned and gave Belle a half bow and a puzzled look, Rumpelstiltskin stepped forward and watched Gaston with his head tilted to one side. Gaston eyed him, uncertainly, his hand straying automatically to the hilt of his sword.

"One more thing," Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice sickly and terrible, impish and infantile. Belle forced herself not to shut her eyes, as her husband snapped his fingers. Beside her, Sir Maurice gasped in horror as Gaston was surrounded with the unnatural smoke. Belle caught his arm, restraining him, and Rumpelstiltskin danced backwards towards them, giggling, while Gaston slashed his sword through the ugly smoke.

When it finally faded, Gaston stood unharmed and as naked as the day he was born, brandishing his sword at Rumpelstiltskin. It took Gaston but a moment to understand, and he looked around desperately as the laughter began. Not Belle, not her father. Not Prince James, who looked pained and scowled darkly in Rumpelstiltskin's direction, but everyone else.

"Off you go," Rumpelstiltskin said, shooing Gaston after the King as the laughter rose to a storm, and Belle finally remembered her modesty and turned away, feeling sick, her father's hand clutched between both of her own. "Off you go, now."

Gaston did go, his head held high and his sword by his side, and halfway across the square one of the Prince's men caught up with him and slung a cloak across his broad shoulders. The laughter only deepened, at that.

Through it all, an ugly topnote that would carve itself into Belle's nightmares, Rumpelstiltskin's high-pitched giggles cut like a knife.


	55. Enough Magic

"The Duke will destroy us." Sir Maurice sank into his chair, breathing as though it pained him, while around him the study filled with grey-faced men. Councilmen, for the most part, but Belle recognised others, and Dimitri the Blacksmith among them. Men who spoke for the town, and now shared her father's fears enough to follow them here. "The King might have reasoned with him, but not after _this!"_

Belle gripped her father's shoulder, and looked to her husband. Rumpelstiltskin had followed, too, and leaned just inside the doorway, in shadow, and so still as to go unnoticed by many of those who had entered after him.

"You need your medicine, Papa," Belle said, but he brushed her away when she tried to reach for the pouch at his belt.

"Don't you know what your husband has _done_ , girl? Duke Hubert will not let this go unanswered!"

"He will." Rumpelstiltskin spoke so quietly, yet his voice commanded the room. All eyes were suddenly upon him. "Do you imagine that my wife's people are unprotected?" He spread his hands, looking at them askance.

"If Duke Hubert moves against the King," Sir Maurice began, rising unsteadily, and Belle gripped his arm when he swayed.

"Papa, please. Let it be discussed in council. Rest a while." Belle's silent appeal to the other men bore some fruit, some nods of agreement, although faces remained taut with worry. "We need you strong and well," she went on, relieved when her father subsided into his chair, reaching for his medicine. "Please," she asked of the assembled, "let my father rest a while."

Men filed out until only Rumpelstiltskin remained, while Belle was preoccupied with pouring a cup of water for her father. She understood their fears, yet the Prince's words had convinced her. Whatever the truth of Gaston's parentage, Hubert had no love for Gaston and no desire to protect him. The family honour might be protected, just as well, by a stiffly worded letter as by rallying for vengeance or by threatening civil war.

"The King dealt carefully with Gaston," her father said, still breathless after his medicine. "Just as he must now deal with the Duke. Why did you interfere?!"

In his fear for his people, Belle noticed, Sir Maurice had lost his fear of Rumpelstiltskin.

"He abused my wife," Rumpelstiltskin answered, tartly. "The lady has her price, and I mine. Now the boy owes us nothing and I need not hunt him down and claw the still-beating heart from his breast." He shrugged, exaggerating an expression of innocence into something arrogant and ugly. "Less effort all around, I think."

"Is everything a game to you?"

"Hardly." Rumpelstiltskin peeled himself away from the wall, striding to the table and facing Belle's father without blinking. "But I always aim to be the winner. Duke Hubert will not act against _me_."

Belle felt her father's shoulders grow less rigid beneath her hands. The medicine still worked; the pinkness was already returning to his cheeks and he could breathe again.

"Rumpelstiltskin is not our enemy," she said, stepping away from her father's chair. "He is my husband, the man who saved us _all_. What gratitude has he seen?"

"Gratitude!" Maurice brought his hands down flat on the table, making everything jump. "You were his _price_ , Belle!"

"And now I am his wife," she answered, hotly. "And if he says that my people are safe, then they are safe. It's more than we deserve, after what's been done here. I'm _ashamed_ , Papa. Ashamed of what's happened here and in _my_ name." Belle saw her father draw breath to speak, and pushed on, too angry to do otherwise. "You fear his power yet show him no respect, less than you would a beggar on the street. _My_ husband. I'll hear no more lies about what happened. Rumpelstiltskin named his price for saving us from the ogres. I became his wife of my own free will. All the rest of it-" she threw her arms wide, as if she could encompass the entire kingdom in her frustration "-was not his doing, nor mine. Look to those who caused trouble, Papa - they cared not what would happen if my husband was angry at our people. And if we are not welcome here, then we will go."

To her chagrin, her voice broke on the last word, but at least she knew that he had _heard_ her. Belle saw her father and her husband staring at each other, equally taken aback by her outburst. Rumpelstiltskin's expression was one of polite challenge; Sir Maurice's a storm of conflicting anger, shame and bewilderment.

"Do you think her bewitched?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. "Or does your daughter speak her heart?"

"She does," Maurice conceded, gruffly. Slowly, still weak, he stood. Belle clenched her fists to keep from reaching for him, steadying him, comforting him. She could not be here, always, to do those things. Not now. "And too much of the truth."

"Perhaps." Rumpelstiltskin met Belle's eyes. "Perhaps truths are best spoken, among family." For the first time since she had seen him in the square, he looked less than cocksure. "I'll not quarrel where there may be peace, for her sake."

Swallowing, Sir Maurice nodded.

"Nor I." Another swallow, and a nervous glance at Belle. "No harm was meant, in appealing to the King. We thought to have Belle back, and to satisfy you another way."

"You must know that your daughter is of greater value than all you could offer," Rumpelstiltskin pointed out, tilting his head. "Or did you imagine that I valued her not at all?" At Maurice's silence, Rumpelstiltskin's expression became one of comprehension. "Ah."

"Papa..."

"I'll not have you go in anger," Belle's father said, turning to face her. "Gaston was man enough to apologise for his part in this, and I am too. I'm sorry, Belle." As Belle's eyes misted, her aching heart ready to burst with relief and love, he looked to Rumpelstiltskin. "And if I've wronged you, then I'm sorry for that as well."

Inclining his head without a trace of sarcasm, but tight-lipped, Rumpelstiltskin turned to leave.

"What... what do you want done with the prisoner?" Sir Maurice asked, warily.

"Oh." Glancing back over his shoulder, Rumpelstiltskin smiled and gave a vague wave of his hand. "I shall speak with him again, soon. Tonight. Perhaps you would be kind enough to have a guard tell him so? He caught Belle's eye before opening the door, and she could not discern his mood. "My dear."

She answered him with a mute nod, and watched him go. He closed the door behind him, very quietly.

Belle felt that she had survived a battlefield. She felt exhausted by the exchange of mere words.

"Do you want us to go?" she asked, trying not to sound like a sullen child.

"Of course not! Gods, Belle, this is such a mess. Will he punish us?" Sir Maurice slumped back into his chair, gripping the arms tightly.

"I don't think so." Belle shivered, recalling her husband's abrupt change of mood - first his glee at Gaston's humiliation, then his shrewd, quiet tones with her father. "I fear for those responsible. I almost hope that the cleric does not speak. Or cannot, like Gaston."

"You believed that?" Rubbing a hand over his face, Sir Maurice straightened the items that his ill-tempered strike had shifted on the table's surface.

"Yes. Prince James believed him afraid of something, and not of us. Not of Rumpelstiltskin. I believed Gaston."

Belle half-sat, half-leaned on the table, to her father's left, and tried to force her thoughts to catch up with events. She knew not what to _feel_ , let alone what to think. Her father stared at the papers in front of him, a helplessness in his expression that she had only seen once before - on the final day of the war. "You know," she said, timidly, "when you were taken ill, and the physician came, Rumpelstiltskin knew what medicine you would need. He went and fetched some, lots, in case it was needed. I think he went all the way h--" She swallowed the sudden tightness from her throat, hearing herself. When had she begun to think of the Dark Castle as _home_? "All the way back to the castle. Because he didn't want me to worry unnecessarily."

Her father nodded, his face still a struggle of emotion that it tormented Belle to witness.

"He took you away, my girl," he said, his voice quavering. "He took you away and let us think he'd... use you up and... laugh like that..." Maurice put his hand over his eyes, half turning his shoulder towards her.

She couldn't bear it, not _that_ , not her Papa's tears, but... but she must. Rumpelstiltskin was right; truths needed to be spoken, or this would never mend.

"It was _my_ choice," Belle said, firmly, but quietly. "The first one I ever got to make for myself, about anything that mattered. What woman gets to choose who she will marry? What other woman need not blame her father if the marriage is a torment? I _chose_ , Papa, and if there's a monster in him then there's a heart as well, and I hope he can love me."

"I hope he does," her father whispered, sniffing hard and making a visible effort to collect himself.

Reaching out to squeeze his shoulder again, Belle struggled with herself - with the things that she was afraid to say to him. But why ought she be afraid? She was no maiden, not now, and he knew it. His fears - the fears that Rumpelstiltskin had seeded in him - must be worse than any truth. Worse, too, than her fears of losing her place as a daughter, by being a wife.

"He's gentle with me," Belle told him, trying to speak as plainly as Elena, and as carelessly. She could not - her entire being revolted against sharing what was hers and Rumpelstiltskin's. "He never hurts me. One of the people from our town told me that husbands hesitate to raise a hand to their wives, where my husband rules. I hope that it's true. He _never_ hurt me."

"Oh, Belle." Damp eyed and miserable, Sir Maurice covered her hand with his, and tried to look at her. "Thank the gods that he's not..."

"A beast?" Her father's relief made it worth the sacrifice of sharing a taste of her most precious memories. Perhaps he _would_ rather think his child a wanton than imagine her cruelly used? "Look beyond the surface," she said. "You taught me that. That's what I did. I am truly his wife, Papa, not his plaything, and I'm glad of it."

Nodding, patting her hand, her father tried to look at her. Belle bent to catch his eye, teasing with a smile just as he had, when he found her sulking as a child. She did not straighten until she had made him meet her gaze.

"I worried, when you wrote about doing the chores," he admitted, as though confessing a grave fault. "Why has he no servants to look after you?"

"He doesn't need any," Belle said, reasonably. She recalled her own surprise, the first morning after Rumpelstiltskin brought her to the castle, at finding they were alone there. "I do those things because... well, because I can. I'm going to learn how to cook properly," she said, aware that stubbornness was the large part of her motivation, and not caring. "Perhaps I'll tire of the other things, once I master them, but I want to be busy. He has the biggest library you can imagine," Belle went on, and saw a smile tease her father's heavy expression. "Thousands of books."

"He'd better keep that under lock and key, then," Maurice said, attempting to sound jovial, "if he wants to see you from one day to the next."

"Don't tell him that," Belle whispered, her own smile born of relief that the storm appeared to be behind them.

"I'd better do as he asks," Sir Maurice said, taking a deep breath before standing. He was steadier than before, Belle was pleased to see. The medicine worked as well as magic. "Tell the prisoner to expect him."

"Yes," Belle said, standing also, and considering that waiting in a dark cell and _anticipating_ a visit from the Spinner might be more frightening than merely receiving a visit, unannounced. Enough to loosen a tongue? Enough if, as with Gaston, the secret was bound by magic? She shivered a little.

Belle had expected to find Rumpelstiltskin in their room, back at his work, and felt strangely ill at ease when he was not there. She knew that he preferred to keep his blackest moods from her presence, and his anger most of all, but he had seemed quite calm upon leaving her father's study. She would have liked to tell her husband that Sir Maurice had begun to hear her, to believe her; that she felt, for the first time, that all might be restored between them.

More than anything, she would have liked to slip her arms about his waist and cling to him until she felt anchored again; that she belonged again.

Knowing that Rumpelstiltskin would not leave her for very long, while he doubted her safety, Belle occupied herself by turning out the clutter at the bottom of her trunk. She had made no effort to sort through the small items, having removed the household linens that need not make the return trip with her, and had packed her clothes with less care than she ought. Now, she brought out the tiny box that protected her mother's necklace, and the shallow basket where she had collected together her ribbons, and Rumpelstiltskin's handkerchiefs, each time he refused their return after drying her tears. This she handled with care, afraid that if she touched the silk, it would vanish.

When they went back, Belle decided, she would see to it that her husband owned handkerchiefs that were not held together by magic. She would make them black, she decided, as a gentle reminder that she very much liked his black silken nightshirts.

Lotte brought her lunch, while she was still down on her knees and tidying the bottom of the chest.

"Soup, my Lady," she said, craning her neck to see if Rumpelstiltskin was present. "At your table?"

"Thank you." Dusting herself off as she rose, Belle placed the basket and the jewel box on her dressing table and went to the far end of the room, where Lotte was arranging not only a bowl of thick soup, but a large piece of bread spread with golden butter, and a lump of cheese. The effort to fatten her up was so blatant, so defiantly unapologetic, that Belle could only smile to herself as she sat. "You'd better help me eat this," she said, patting the seat beside her. "Tell me about your family?"

With a nervous look at Rumpelstiltskin's work table, Lotte sat down.

"My family?"

"Or something else. I miss talking with you, that's all," Belle offered, encouragingly. She had never known Lotte to be short of things to say. "I enjoy my husband's company," she said, carefully lifting the bowl of soup into her lap, "but he is a _man_."

Lotte covered her smirk, hastily.

"Yes, my Lady." Pulling off a small piece of the bread for herself, Lotte thought a while. "Mama says I ought to find a husband, now you've gone away."

"Do you want one?" Belle knew that Lotte had dreams of a grand husband, a handsome prince, but she had never heard her express real interest in anyone... well... attainable.

"I suppose so." Lotte nibbled the bread, looking rather hunted. "I thought so, only..." Her cheeks coloured. "It sounds like a lot of bother," she said, awkwardly. "With all the moaning and groaning."

Belle choked on her soup, coughing until Lotte slapped her between the shoulders, and then glad for the excuse to hide her face behind her hand while she caught her breath.

"It's no bother," she managed, eventually. "Not that part." Lotte seemed to be waiting for more. "Didn't your mama tell you?"

"Not much. How it works, how there's babies after, but not about... moaning."

"Well... it's nice. Like trying to be quiet when you taste the most delicious thing ever." Belle knew that she was blushing again. "Nicer than that," she added, and sighed. No words that could be decently spoken could explain those pleasures, those joys - the clinging closeness of being with her husband as they lost themselves, together.

"So you... sort of... want to?" Lotte asked, ready to be incredulous but wary of offending.

"Yes." Belle took a deep breath. She had been so cross that no-one had told her - her ignorance still haunted her, for all Rumpelstiltskin's patience. "When you both want to, it's very nice."

"Oh." Putting another crumb of bread into her mouth, Lotte stared into space, chewing.

"So that's no reason not to get married," Belle said, nodding confidently. "It's nothing to be afraid of, or to be silly about. Not if you like him, and he's kind. But no reason to do it, either. Not by itself." She stirred her soup, feeling a little pang as she remembered Rumpelstiltskin playing with the porridge, so distant as he sat so near. "I don't think it would be enough, by itself. Even if you did it every waking moment, which you couldn't."

"I might wait a while," Lotte said, after a long silence. "Even though you're gone away, Sir Maurice says I'm still to be your maid?"

It was a question, wavering with uncertainty, and Belle felt ashamed of herself.

"If you want to be," she said, "and it's a comfort to me that you're here. You'll look after him for me, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, my Lady," Lotte said, fervently. "Rather him than a husband!"

"But keep your eyes peeled," Belle said, finishing the soup. "You wouldn't want to miss spotting your prince because you were too busy." Pulling off a piece of bread, Belle watched her maid, thoughtfully. "You wouldn't want to come back with me, would you?"

Lotte gulped.

"To the Dark Castle?"

"I don't think he'd allow it," Belle said, quickly. "But if he would... would you rather come with me than stay here?"

"Oh, my Lady..."

"It's all right, Lotte," Belle soothed, gripping her arm for a moment. "I wouldn't ask you to come if you'd rather stay. I know... I know you were looking forward to coming with me, when I married Sir Gaston. To the Duke's estate." She elbowed Lotte, very gently. "I'm sure Odstone has some eligible young men of its own."

"I think I'd rather see to your papa, my Lady," Lotte said, awkwardly. "He... your husband scares me."

"Yes," Belle sighed, and made herself eat some of the bread. "He scares everyone." Frowning, she added, "Except the old woman I told you about, Mistress Wren. I don't think she's afraid of him at all."

"And you," Lotte said, meekly. "I miss you, my Lady."

"I miss you too," Belle assured her. "Don't be afraid to write to me. I have a box, just like Papa's, where the letters appear." Feeling shy, she went to her dressing table and touched the small basket of oddments. "He gives me too many gifts. Books and clothes. Jewels, flowers. He allows me to buy whatever I like. I wish I had something to give to him."

"You'll give him sons," Lotte protested, joining her and looking down at the folded silk handkerchiefs. "That ought to be enough for any man, if you ask me. I stayed with Mama when our Jacques was born, and it looked worth all the gold and books and flowers in the whole _world_." Cautiously, she picked through the little basket, and uncovered the small glass bottle at the very bottom, the one that looked as though glowing embers had been trapped inside, as the liquid swirled. "Oh!" Lotte turned to hold it up to the light, marvelling at it. "Is it magic?"

"...yes." Belle would have taken it from her, but could she touch the glass without harming the magic inside? "Be careful with it," she begged. She dreaded to imagine what might happen if Lotte spilled it over herself. "It was one of the first gifts he gave me," she sighed, remembering. Pleasure in a bottle, for the wife he thought could never desire him and find pleasure of her own; the wife who would never bring him a son, though she offered herself freely to him.

"It's beautiful," Lotte sighed, and set the bottle carefully in the nest of handkerchiefs and ribbons. "What does it do?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Belle said, quickly. That was true; Rumpelstiltskin had not told her how the potion worked, nor exactly what would happen if she used it. He had warned her that she ought not use it unless she planned on being _sated_. At some length. Her insides fluttered at the welcome thought.

How much of his magic was in that tiny bottle? Enough to shorten the days until she could feel his kisses again? It would be used up, wouldn't it, when it met the magic that lingered within her? Even if she only touched the bottle, if the magic was destroyed then a little of the fairy magic would be consumed also, wouldn't it? Rumpelstiltskin was going to hesitate to use any magic on her, afraid of harming her, but she had _this_ much.

Cautiously, Belle touched the glass with a fingertip. She more than half expected it to evaporate at her touch, but nothing happened. The bottle was just a bottle, as un-magical as any other.

"Look inside my writing pouch," Belle told Lotte, pointing back to the trunk. "I bought the most beautiful pen, made of glass. You can try it, if you like. It's much heavier than a quill, but so smooth."

"Glass?" Intrigued, Lotte went to look, bending over the trunk to rummage.

Biting her lip, Belle picked up the little bottle of glowing magic and gave it a gentle shake. The glow dimmed and the liquid swirled an oily, copper brown. As she watched, the contents began to separate and the illusion of burning embers to return. Shaking it quickly, Belle broke the wax seal with her thumbnail and plucked out the tiny cork, emptying the potion into her mouth and swallowing as quickly as she could.

It was immediate, magic like a body-blow that knocked her back against the side of the bed. Belle fell backwards, gasping; her head was spinning, sickeningly, and to inhale felt like breathing in fire. It was not pain, or perhaps it was so _much_ pain that she could scarcely comprehend it.

Belle was dimly aware of Lotte, shaking her and shouting her name, but the heat was in her veins, in her bones, in her mind. In her helplessness, she was almost peaceful - knowing nothing, recalling nothing, recognising nothing. At the centre of the fire, she was quite still, and absurdly unafraid.

Voices were around her, disjointed and meaningless. Belle tried to reach for them, but any effort of will brought the pain into sharp focus, brought her from the peaceful stillness into a place of struggles and torment, and she soon learned to stop trying. Be still, that was it. No questions, no reasoning. Absolute stillness as the heat swallowed her up and burned everything away.

Pain came in earnest when the heat met freezing cold. Belle awoke to herself, found herself screaming and struggling in a bath of icy water, her limbs restrained by faceless figures. Her white gown clung to her everywhere, heavy and sodden and _hurting_. Voices clanged in her head, distorted beyond recognition - too loud, too harsh, too real. She slipped into darkness, gratefully.

Darkness became a blur. Points of light nearby had a painful halo about them, and the world lacked sharpness. Belle blinked, trying to clear her vision, but it made no difference.

"She's awake, she's awake!" Belle's mind took so long to connect the sounds with their meaning, the voice with a name. _Lotte._ Her shoulder was shaken.

"Belle." Papa. _That_ voice she knew at once - deep, familiar. The voice of love and safety and... home? "Belle." His voice grew harsh with dread. "She doesn't know us."

"She's weak." And that voice... oh, that voice called to her. Belle wanted to run towards it. Yes, run towards it, wrap herself all about it. That voice. "And very cold. Take the ice away and wrap her. Make up the fire. Put the bottle to her belly. Keep her close and give her your warmth."

"Y... yes." Papa's voice trembled, and Belle felt herself lifted. A painful, numbing chill all about her became recognisable only in its absence, and she heard herself moan at the screaming of her limbs as they began to thaw.

Warmth began to replace that bone-deep chill, and brought with it a memory of heat. Boiling, burning, searing heat. Someone held her fast, arm about her shoulders, her head upon their shoulder; Belle rose and fell with their breathing, the motion rocking her half to sleep.

She drifted and dreamed for a while, the voices hushed around her, until warmth had driven out the chill and the pieces of her thoughts began to connect, no longer rigid in ice. It was Papa who held her. They were on a bed. Her bed, in her room. Lotte's worried face was at her other side; chilled hands stroking locks of hair at her cheeks, fussing with the blankets that bundled her up like a butterfly in a cocoon.

"There." Blinking, as the voice pulled at her thoughts again, Belle raised her head enough to see Rumpelstiltskin standing at the far end of the bed, his hands gripping the board. "The danger has passed," he said, and although he looked at her, he spoke to the others. To Sir Maurice, who clutched her to him, and to Lotte who all but collapsed with tears of relief. "I suspect nothing can be done to cure her impulsiveness."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, pinning her with a look that was both hot and cold.

"Husband?" Belle found that her voice was a parched croak, her throat sore. She remembered screaming, and shivered.

"Very nearly your widower," Rumpelstiltskin said, sharply. To Lotte, he barked, "Go away, if you can't stop snivelling!"

Beside Belle, her father tensed and pulled her closer, but made no protest as Lotte scurried for the door. Belle tried to push herself upright, but only slipped down onto the pillows, her hair wet and cold beneath her head. Everything roiled, horribly, as her father eased himself from the bed. Stillness came as a blessed relief.

"Perhaps you'd leave us?" Rumpelstiltskin made a command sound like a question. Belle tried again to push herself upright, this time getting as far as to raise herself on one elbow. "I can tend her, now."

"If you're sure," Papa said, and his acquiescence sounded much like a warning.

"No need to doubt your daughter's strength," Rumpelstiltskin said, too brightly. "The fever did not claim her life. Neither will my reprimand."

"Reprimand?" Belle and her father spoke the word as one, but the memory came to her, then. The potion. She resisted the urge to curl in on herself, tight around the stone bottle that still nestled, hot, against her belly. "It's all right Papa. I'm all right, now."

"All right then." With painful reluctance, Maurice bent to kiss Belle's brow. "I'll visit you in the morning, all right?"

"Thank you," Belle whispered. A whisper hurt less than trying to force her throat to produce a stronger sound. She blinked sleepily at Rumpelstiltskin, as she listened to her father's heavy footfalls on the stairs. "Reprimand?" She asked, again, and heard the door shut, sharply, in answer to her husband's curt gesture.

"Should I not reprimand you?" he asked, coming to stand over her. "You deal carelessly with that which is precious to me, mistress," Rumpelstiltskin said, each word drawn out, dangerous. "Your very life."

The strength in her arm failed her. Belle fell back to the pillow, and waited for the room to stop its sickening spin all over again. After a moment, the mattress dipped with Rumpelstiltskin's weight, beside her hip. She forced her eyes back open.

"I wanted to be free of it," she told him, resorting again to a whisper that did not torture her throat.

"Death would accomplish that," he retorted, but something trembled behind his bitterness. Something frightened, and very unsure. "Why did you _do_ it?" He demanded, leaning over her to better watch her eyes.

Belle considered, her thoughts now running so fast as to run together, to be incoherent. She was so tired, and cold again where her wet hair bundled beneath her head. She had a brief, vivid memory of a bath in which ice floated, and women holding her down.

"Thought it would help," she answered, since the truth was all that she had to offer. "It was only for pleasure. Not dark magic, not dangerous."

"You might have died," he whispered, almost face to face with her. He did not blink. He barely breathed. "Leave magic to me, little wife. I command it. You will be my queen in all but that. _Never_ that."

She nodded, and wished that he would lean just a little further, and kiss her.

"Did it work?"

"What?" Blinking at last, he snatched back from her. From the temptation of kissing her? Belle ached to know that it was so.

"Did it work? Did it use up the magic inside me?"

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her for a long time, the rapid rise and fall of his chest her only clue to his emotions. His expression was only of bewilderment, and he looked so _tired_.

"It... was not enough," he managed, eventually. "Not enough of my magic to counter it all."

"But some?"

"Yes." He could hardly draw breath. "Belle..."

"I'm sorry," she croaked. "I can't bear it, being apart from you. Just a touch. Just a kiss. To go home. I'd do anything." Two, hot tears slipped down her cheeks. For his pain or for hers, she could not have said. "I'm sorry."

"To touch me?" Even incredulous, his voice had grown tender at the sight of her tears. Rumpelstiltskin leaned over her again. "To come back with me, you'd endure so much? Risk your _life_?"

"Yes," she choked, and it was almost a laugh; almost hysteria, if only she could find the strength for that. "Yes, of course. I love you!"

Rumpelstiltskin's gasp was soft, almost a moan, and he shut his eyes.

"Don't say that," he urged, his voice faint. Pitiful. "Not that."

"I love you," Belle said again, forcing the last of her strength into her voice so that it was no mere whisper, this time. "And can love you more, if you'll let me. More and more. And I miss you, and the home where it was just us and I could be selfish, and happy."

"Belle." Through the mist of her tears, Belle saw that his eyes were misted also. Clumsily, Rumpelstiltskin pressed his mouth to hers, another of those almost-moans escaping him as the magic lashed out, forcing him back with blood beading on his nose, his chin, his lips. Belle could taste it on her own lips. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, as though the pain meant nothing to him. Perhaps it didn't. "I'll find the way, treasure," he panted, wiping his mouth again and leaving a smear of blood on the back of his hand. Something new shone in his eyes; a feverish purpose. "Just enough magic. I'll find the way."


	56. The Iron Pot

Near dawn, Belle surfaced from exhausted sleep, in a panic until she recalled where she was, and why she was wrapped in blankets. She was too warm, now, and damp with perspiration. It took her long moments to persuade heavy limbs to free her from the wrappings and move the heavy water bottle out of her way. That much effort left her trembling, and Belle eased herself upright to lean against the headboard, stifling a groan. She had brought this upon herself and would be uncomplaining about the consequences.

Seated at his work table, Rumpelstiltskin had succumbed to sleep, at last. Head pillowed on his arm amidst the clutter of his latest experiment, he had slumped over the table and was perfectly still. When had he slept last? Belle had to drag her sluggish thoughts into some kind of momentum before her memory would oblige her. At the inn - that was the last time her husband had slept.

Her own discomforts pushed aside by her tender concern for him, Belle contemplated getting out of bed, to put a blanket across his shoulders, or urge him to come and lie down. Yet something told her that Rumpelstiltskin would be displeased if her unsteady legs caused her to fall in the attempt, and that if she woke him up, he would return to his work at once rather than make himself more comfortable in the bed.

Belle tested her strength enough to use the chamberpot, while he was sleeping, and knew without a doubt that she would not have managed to walk as far as the window corner where her husband slept. Her limbs quivered violently until she was able to ease herself back onto the bed, and shut her eyes until the room stopped spinning.

Oh _why_ had she done such a thing? Every part of her that took pride in a quiet, sensible determination told her that she had been a fool - an utter fool. Somewhere else inside her, mercifully muted by her weakness and humility, crowed that she would do the same again without hesitation, if it meant being nearer to Rumpelstiltskin.

Yes, she thought, staring at his back. Love was madness.

It was another mercy that she could recall so little of the previous day. Not even the taste of the potion came back to her, as hard as she tried to piece together a sequence of events. She had burned with a fever, been plunged into icy water to quench it. She could feel bruises where they had held her - Lotte, and other women. Then her Papa, warming her, and Rumpelstiltskin sending them away. Kissing her, though it wounded him, for saying that she loved him.

His expression...

Pulling her knees to her chest, Belle closed her eyes. She had spoken her heart, without thinking, and her husband had looked as though she had struck him, pleading with her not to say it. Did he fear her love, or that she spoke falsely?

Without warning, Rumpelstiltskin jerked upright, pushing the hair from his face and looking around him, wildly. Recognition came quickly, calming him, and then he turned to look at Belle, who raised her hand in a feeble wave of greeting. Rubbing the back of his neck, Rumpelstiltskin came to her side and sat, studying her face with sleepy eyes.

"Lie down with me," she pleaded, her voice cracking strangely in spite of her efforts to keep it steady. "You're worn out." She tried and failed to smile for him. "I'm sure we can manage not to touch."

His smile was as feeble as her own.

"Do you feel better?"

"Yes." Belle patted the bed beside her, relieved when Rumpelstiltskin crawled to the far side, planted his back to the wall and pulled a pillow under his head. "I'm sorry for being so foolish," she said, as he watched her. "Will you forgive me?"

At last, the smile warmed his eyes, even if it remained feeble about his lips.

"Eventually," he said, and closed his eyes.

Fearful of brushing against him, if she tried to sleep herself, Belle pulled a blanket to her chin and remained where she was, propped against the headboard. Weary as she was, she no longer felt drowsy; she would have liked nothing better than to curl up against Rumpelstiltskin's side and watch him while he slept. _That_ was love, surely? She felt no such urge towards anyone else, regardless of her affection for them, any more than she longed for their kisses. Or was it only a selfish longing, for the comfort and pleasure that only her husband could lawfully give her?

No, Belle decided, watching him turn onto his stomach and bury his face in the pillow, both arms beneath it. There was tenderness towards him, a feeling that seemed as fragile and as intricate as spun glass. It cut her when he was in pain or upset, and filled her with the ache of a different need - to console, to reassure, to soothe and give of herself, for his sake.

It was the past that filled Rumpelstiltskin with such doubts - the wife, the child, the helplessness of a man without any power to his name. It seemed to Belle that he had found power, only to find that it brought little comfort. There would still be loss, and helplessness, and the fear of both.

How could she battle against that, if her tender words and her foolish hopes only put him in greater fear?

Belle understood those fears a lot better, now. In the hostility of her people, in Lotte's nervousness, in her father's suspicion, she had found what it was to feel... apart. Alone. She _had_ become afraid to offer her heart, when once she did so without thinking. From her quiet disappointment in Lotte to the devastation of Papa's mistrust, she had found reasons to be resentful, suspicious. Even hateful, as Rumpelstiltskin could be when he could bear no more of her; had she not _wished_ , if only in passing fury, that Gaston had been thrashed for his actions? That was no wish of the Belle who had left here, a bride, certain that she was loved by her people, and her Papa.

Doubt was not a rational enemy. She understood that, now, as she could never have understood it before. It had brought her to extremes, to uncharacteristic thoughts and actions. To pain.

What had seeded Rumpelstiltskin's doubt, all those lifetimes ago? Belle had not had the heart to insist that he make good on his fevered promise, and tell her all the things he kept so close. He had never spoken of the wife who did not love him, or of Baelfire's fate. Had his first wife spoken words of love, only to betray them?

Sleep never seemed to carry her husband to a pleasant or peaceful place - not even when they had loved one another to happy exhaustion. He did not toss and turn, but neither did he ever truly relax. His hands, beneath the pillows, would be fists. His expression, even half hidden by his hair, lacked the unflattering slackness of true repose.

He _did_ find comfort in her, Belle was certain of that. Even if it eluded him in sleep, he found it in her arms. Even the first time, she thought, feeling the aching surge of tenderness anew. It almost hurt; made it difficult to fill her lungs completely. When she had touched his face as he took her; when he had kissed her palm, there had been that small surrender to something beyond the confines of his loneliness.

Unable to touch him, Belle untangled one of the discarded blankets from the others and, with great care, leaned over to cover him as best she could. That a heavy blanket dropping across his back failed to wake him betrayed Rumpelstiltskin's exhaustion. No sleep, no food save a few bites at the banquet - she had not even seen him take a glass of water, since then. It must take its toll, she thought. It simply must. He might be immune to harm, but how did a person go on from day to day without... _structure?_ She herself had found it difficult enough, cut adrift from the routines of any ordinary way of life. When to eat, when to sleep, when to seek companionship - those things mattered all the more, in isolation.

Rumpelstiltskin's body and magic might not fail him, without food, sleep and water, but what about his spirit? What about his mind? How had he kept his sanity, all alone in that vast castle?

Even weeping, unwilling housemaids would have to be better than living utterly alone.

Even a weeping, unwilling wife.

Belle hated it when her compassion for him became pity, but pitiful it was, to seek a bride on the terms that Rumpelstiltskin had been willing to accept.

"I do love you," she whispered, placing her hand beside his head on the pillow, as near as she dared. "Let me love you more, and I will."

At once, feeling foolish, Belle snatched her hand away and returned to hugging her knees beneath her blanket, until morning came in earnest, and Lotte knocked upon the door.

Fearful as she was, Lotte knew enough not to expect a sickroom to have become a hotbed of depravity overnight, and crept in unbidden after a careful peek around the door.

Turning, dizzy with the effort of it, Belle put her finger to her lips and saw her maid's nod of obedience. Rather than open the curtains or begin her usual chatter, Lotte simply brought the tray of food to the dresser, then sat beside Belle and felt her brow with a scowl of concentration. Only once she had satisfied herself that her mistress had no lingering fever did Lotte's eyes wander, unhappily, to the sleeping figure of Rumpelstiltskin.

"He cussed me blue for letting you drink that bottle," Lotte whispered, her eyes like daggers. "As if I'd have let you!"

"Shh," Belle urged, for even a whisper could be too loud, if the whisperer was cross enough. "I'm sorry."

"If I drop dead of something oozy it'll be your fault!" Lotte went on, in a reduced whisper. "You almost died!"

"I know." Belle sagged back against the board, ignoring the strong desire to bury herself beneath the bedclothes. "I didn't think that anything much would happen."

Beside her, Rumpelstiltskin turned over with a grunt, putting his face nearly against the wall. Lotte leapt away from the bed at his first hint of movement, but held her ground once standing. When there was no more activity from the sleeping man, Lotte retrieved the tray and held it, pointedly, until Belle straightened her legs beneath the bedclothes and accepted it into her lap.

It was no elaborate cooked meal, she was relieved to see, but a dish of thin porridge with nothing added but a fine sprinkle of sugar, just as she liked it.

"Doesn't he _ever_ eat?" Lotte whispered, leaning down as Belle took her first, obedient spoonful.

"Yes, sometimes. He likes tea. And honey."

"Should I bring him some?" Lotte looked doubtful. "He looks done in. Looked it last night when we were tending you."

"Perhaps later," Belle whispered. "Let him sleep."

Blowing out her cheeks in some relief, when Lotte crept out of the room, Belle did her best with the porridge. There was a cup of hot mint tea, as well, which her stomach welcomed with less reluctance.

The meal left her feeling rather stronger, even if her body was a confusion of hot and cold shivers, perspiration and chills. Belle got up, and felt her concern deepen when even that failed to stir Rumpelstiltskin.

She had always rather rebelled, in her own mind, against the idea that husbands required looking after in much the same way as children, or pets, yet that had been the view of many of the married women about her. Was it proper to chivvy her husband to eat, sleep and amuse himself, when his work seemed to consume him too far? Was _that_ what he expected of her, in reminding him how to be a man?

Belle managed to dress herself, after a fashion. She made no effort at underthings, but wore two petticoats and a thick chemise over a lighter one, beneath her warmest dress. Still shivering, she added both her shawls and then, worn out from this much effort, made her way unsteadily to the couch before the fire. The fire was well ablaze, and soon began to settle her with its steady, welcome warmth.

It would have been wonderful, she thought, to wrap herself up in the plush cloak that hung beside her skirts - all that remained of the beautiful clothes that Rumpelstiltskin had created for her. She dared not even touch it in case it, too, vanished. He had been so pleased with the gifts of gold and now, save for her ring, all that was left was the clasp of the cloak. Belle felt silly, grieving the loss of something that had been made by magic. It could be replaced, no doubt, but Rumpelstiltskin had crafted those beautiful things for _her_ , as much tokens of his devotion as symbols for her to wear, to display his power. She loved wearing them and, with them, the ever-present reminders of her husband.

Just as Belle was contemplating trying to lie down and sleep where she was, she heard Rumpelstiltskin awaken behind her. Turning, she offered him a smile, and tried not to let her concern show. He had barely had any sleep at all, and looked dishevelled as he sat there, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Your maid was here?" He indicated the abandoned breakfast tray, and Belle nodded, watching him frown at the realisation that he had slept through... well, Lotte. "She nursed you well," he said, after a long moment. "Last night."

"She _says_ that you cussed her," Belle said, as sternly as she could manage. With her voice still hoarse, it was not a very impressive effort. "I hope that only means you resorted to foul language."

Eyes narrowing, Rumpelstiltskin pretended to struggle for the recollection.

"Probably," he said, and flashed her a barbed smile. "But so did your father."

Swallowing, Belle turned back towards the fire.

"I _am_ sorry," she said, meekly. Even Lotte had been cross with her - how angry would Papa be? Worse than that, how _disappointed_? Belle knew that she could, in all fairness, be thought headstrong. She could not recall being thought reckless, before.

Rumpelstiltskin came to her side and sat, closer than he had dared the other evening. No nearer to being able to touch him, for all that her sudden whim had endangered her, and frightened those who cared for her. Belle looked down at her hands, folded loosely in her lap, and waited to hear his judgement of her; his accusations, his disappointment.

Instead, Rumpelstiltskin produced her comb and brush, and began to work out the knots that had made a bird's nest of her hair.

"Tell me how well you are recovering," he said, after a long while. "Be accurate."

"I feel weak. Hot and cold." Belle blinked rapidly to keep her tears at bay. "I'd little appetite, but I was thirsty. I... I think that's all."

Rather than have her turn, Rumpelstiltskin went to stand behind the couch while he tended the back of her head. The tangles were at their worst, there, but he was as patient as ever with the task, and careful not to touch flesh.

"No pain? No fever?"

"No." Belle forced herself to answer calmly, as much as she disliked being questioned. If he could not trust her with a tiny bottle of magic, how could he trust her to be _accurate_? "Lotte checked."

"Stay warm, today," Rumpelstiltskin went on. "Eat regularly, hot food." He spoke gently enough, but there was a remoteness that made him seem too far from her, even as he indulged himself with her hair. He was making some progress at that, smoothing what could be smoothed, but it would need Lotte's particular magic to stop her hair trying to curl itself, after such a night.

All in all, Belle thought, she must look an absolute fright this morning - hardly anyone's _treasure_. And, as if that was not bad enough, she felt sorry for herself, and ashamed.

"The ice," she began, shivering as the memory of it struck her. "Your idea?"

"Yes. When I say that you were burning up," Rumpelstiltskin said, tugging at a particularly stubborn tangle, "it is no exaggeration. I warned you that it could be violent, when magic meets opposing magic."

"Yes," Belle said, closing her eyes. "You did."

"You frightened me." He slipped the words in so hastily upon the heels of her own that Belle, drawing breath, might have missed them had he not been standing so near. "You might have told me... spoken of your... urgency."

"Is it only mine?" Belle pulled her shawls more tightly about her, clutching the cloth in her fists. "I only want an end to this. You've been mine barely a month. I can't bear it that we're kept apart."

"Yes." His voice reduced to little more than a whisper, Rumpelstiltskin rounded the end of the couch to her left and waited for her to shuffle away from him, allowing him to sit and take up the last of her hair. It brought his knuckles so near to her cheek, and the temptation to lean towards him was almost unbearable. "Look at me, little wife," he said, winding the frizzled ends of her hair around his fingers and drawing them towards him, giving her head the gentlest of tugs. Belle looked, and saw no anger, no reproach. Only confusion and that ever-present hint of doubt. "I'd not abandon you for the want of a touch."

"Abandon?" Belle put her hand to her throat, almost choking on the shrillness of her protest. "I didn't plan to _abandon_ you! I didn't know it would put me in such danger. And I didn't care that it might hurt," she added, finding a trace of defiance in her shame. "A year and a day, that's what you said! If I shortened it by a week, at least I was doing _something_ to help!"

"I see." Straightening his back, steadying his breaths, Rumpelstiltskin worked the comb through the knots with meticulous care.

"You understand?"

"No." His eyes narrowed, as though it required some great effort to concentrate on her words while he teased out the tangles. "Why you fight so for a husband in me. I don't understand, mistress. Not one bit."

Belle thought again of his son, lost, and the wife he never gave a name to. No, she thought, he didn't understand. Not one bit.

"Why did you fight to save me, when I'd been so foolish?" she asked, gently, and he looked at her, aghast, his lips parting in astonishment. "That's why," she said, with a helpless shake of her head. "That's _all_." There should have been a kiss, a fierce embrace of fear and forgiveness - something more substantial than words to reassure her husband. "I don't want to lose what I have."

They both struggled to be still, leaning as near as they dared. Rumpelstiltskin brought a hank of her hair to his face, his cheek, and then stooped to kiss it, breathing raggedly with his head bowed before her.

The unsubtle clearing of a throat snatched them apart, guiltily, and Rumpelstiltskin jumped to his feet.

"The, uh, the door was open," Sir Maurice said, uncomfortably. Belle turned, and saw him standing just inside the door, his expression confused and his cheeks reddening.

He could barely have witnessed anything, she told herself, and then resented her guilt. A tender moment with her husband was nothing to be ashamed of! They were hardly being indecent - not when the most the cleric's attack had left them was her hair!

"Papa," Belle began, without the faintest idea of what to say.

"We've nothing to hide," Rumpelstiltskin said, spreading his hands. "I shall leave you a while. My dear." He offered Belle the comb, and a faint smile as she took it from him. "I really should visit our prisoner."

"That's why I came so early," Maurice said, approaching with reluctant steps. He cast his eyes over the work table, then faced Belle and her husband, unhappily. "The man's dead."

"Dead!" Belle tried to stand, but her legs would not support her. Rumpelstiltskin barely remembered himself before catching her by the arm. He did not appear to share Belle's surprise.

"How?"

Sir Maurice squared his shoulders.

"Poison, we think. He must've had it on him somewhere." He stared at Rumpelstiltskin, who gazed back, calmly. "You knew."

"I _wondered_ ," Rumpelstiltskin corrected, lifting an admonitory finger. "Then I have other preparations to make. Expect me back by nightfall, my dear." He gave Belle a small bow and vanished, causing her father to stumble backwards, cursing.

"What does he mean, preparations?" he demanded, alarmed. "What _is_ all this?" Gesturing to the table, the stolen chair, Maurice gave her a pleading look. "He's a guest here as long as he's good to you, petal, but... but there will be questions."

"He's only studying the magic that the cleric threw at me," Belle said, soothingly. "He's not going to curse the town."

"Studying," her father repeated, with another nervous glance at the magical paraphernalia. "He, uh, said it... interacted with what you drank, yesterday. Made you ill."

"Yes," Belle said, appalled at how easily the truth would bend. "I didn't know that would happen. Lotte's furious with me, my husband thinks I meant to make an end to myself." She sat back, sighing. "Are you angry as well?"

"Of course I am," Maurice scowled. "You're lucky to be alive, girl, and I saw the look in his eyes when we got here. There wasn't a damned thing he could do, not with all his magic."

"Papa..."

"Do you know what that makes you, Belle?" He leaned over her, lest she mishear him. "A weapon that can be used against Rumpelstiltskin. Can there be anything more dangerous for my little girl than _that_?"

Astonished, Belle stared up at him, just as she had when scolded as a child. Just as then, her expression softened her father. Maurice sank down beside her, reaching across her shoulders and squeezing, sighing heavily.

"What's done is done," he said. "I know that. But open your eyes, Belle. Please."

"Is that what you think they wanted?" Belle leaned her weight against him, chilled by the thought. "To use me against him?"

"Who knows? The last man is dead. Took his secrets to his grave. If you're right about Gaston... who knows?" Slowly, with a reluctance that seemed to battle him for control of his limbs, Papa let her go. "A father's one task is to keep his child safe," he said, bowing his head over his hands. "I've failed, Belle. Even if he loves you, you'll never be safe. Not unless he locks you away in that castle for the rest of your days."

"No," Belle soothed, but with her heart pounding with fright at his words. "He's too powerful. I don't believe it."

"Why couldn't he touch you, last night?"

"What?"

"He all but tore the walls down while your women were with you," Maurice said, "because he couldn't help you himself. He knew what to do but he mustn't touch you, he said. Why?"

"The magic," Belle said, weakly, and there it was. The very danger that her father was striving to warn her about - that in finding Rumpelstiltskin's slightest weakness, someone might find the secret to uncovering a greater one. Nobody had known! Even she, in her naivete, had realised that they could not be seen together while he was unable to touch her! How much had her father witnessed? How much had Lotte and the other women seen? Not all of it, not the whole truth of it, but would it be enough information, in the wrong hands?

"When you marry a powerful man, his enemies become yours," Papa said, much more gently. He never had been able to speak harshly to her, or ignore her distress. "Be careful. Please. I don't want to see you become a weapon in a war between your husband and his enemies. He won't get hurt, but you, or your children..."

"I'll be careful," Belle promised. Of course she would; the promise was sincere, and seemed to reassure her father. But... but what would she have been, as Gaston's wife, and mother to _his_ children? Her battles might have been fought on a birth bed, or many of them, and been no less bloody; it was a prospect no less lethal than to stand between a wizard and his enemies. "He's in no hurry for sons," she said, quietly.

Sir Maurice snorted, holding out his broad hands towards the fire.

"His Majesty all but commands me to get some sons before I die," he said. "I've your husband to thank for that as well."

"It doesn't sound so terrible to me," Belle said, cheered by the thought of her father with a wife, with children around his legs. "Mistress Elena says that the kingdom is full of widows, since the war. She must be right. Any wife would be lucky to have you."

"There's a document," Maurice answered, wretchedly. "From the King's clerks. For you to sign, renouncing your inheritance."

"Then I'll sign it," Belle said, firmly. "I can spare our people the fear of Rumpelstiltskin one day being their master, and if you have a son then it won't matter anyway."

Her stubborn optimism almost appalled her, today. The world could not be set to rights by her hopes. Her Papa would not be happy simply because he took a new wife. Sons might never come, and then the King, or Prince James after him, would struggle to keep these lands in loyal hands. But what could anyone do except hope, and try?

"Is he always so tender?" Maurice half turned to glance at her, but avoided her eyes. "He was combing your hair. Is he always--"

"Yes," Belle said, evenly. Let her father have that to cling to, to comfort him; the proof of his own eyes that his daughter was unharmed. Reverenced. "He has some strange ideas about what a wife ought to be," she said, joining her father in warming their hands. "I don't know if they're new or very old, like him, but I like them. I'm lucky."

"You've some strange ideas of your own, petal," Maurice answered, fondly. "Keep your eyes open, all right? He might be good to you--" there was the barest hesitation, the barest shudder "--but to everyone else, he's a danger. Don't let yourself be used against him."

"I won't," Belle said, and thought of the beautiful queen, Regina, and her promise about the looking glass. What would she, or anyone, give to have a spy in Rumpelstiltskin's household? To know that, when it came to his wife, his heart softened? "I don't think he meant to care for me," she said, small voiced and feeling that she spoke betrayal. "To treat me well, but not... not more."

Sir Maurice gave a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

"Trust my Belle to be the one to melt the Spinner's heart," he said, helplessly. "It could only be you, petal. I hope it brings you joy."

Giddy with relief, Belle leaned towards him to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you, Papa."

"I must go," he said, after giving her a squeeze that was less than gentle. "His Majesty is leaving us."

"Yes, of course." Belle managed to get to her feet, to see her father off, but stretched out on her bed with the comfort of a blanket, once she was alone. She felt too tired to do anything else, and did not fight to keep her eyes open.

Lotte brought her meals throughout the day - small, hot meals, just as Rumpelstiltskin had told her to take. Belle ate and drank, obediently, and tried her best to listen to Lotte's conversation while she did so. There had been a glimpse of Prince James, apparently, magnificent upon his white stallion - enough to fuel Lotte's romantic dreams until the royal court should visit them again.

Belle smiled, enjoying the girl's chatter while she tidied and fussed, but said little herself. Each time Lotte left her, Belle slept again, deep and without dreaming.

It was a strange day, somehow dreamlike while being too bright, too harsh, too real. Belle supposed that it was the consequence of the magic, combined with the healing of her body, and surrendered to it. It was only near sundown that she found the energy to get up again, to make herself presentable, and to greet her evening meal with something approaching good manners, seated at her dressing table.

"You're looking more yourself," Lotte declared, standing over her like a taskmaster while Belle tackled a bowl of beef stew. "He said hot food would help."

"Yes," Belle agreed, even though her stomach did not. She had less than no appetite, but the hot food _did_ help, in spite of that. "Are my silk nightgowns laundered, Lotte?" she wondered, to distract herself from the final few, unwanted mouthfuls.

"I think so, my Lady." Lotte looked at her, curiously, for Belle had never taken any great interest in her own wardrobe, content to wear whatever was clean and suitable for the season. "They are pretty," Lotte said, shyly. "Silk all over. I can't even imagine."

Belle smiled, pushing away the empty bowl in some relief, and hoping that Rumpelstiltskin had ordered no more meals for the day.

"You shall have one, if you'd like one," she told Lotte, gently. "I'd like you to have a present, before I leave. You may choose silk at the market, tomorrow, and have it made for you, if you buy a bolt of black silk for me while you're there."

"Oh, my Lady," Lotte breathed, sitting down hard on the side of the bed. "May I?"

"I've found that I like silk very much," Belle said, her smile shy for reasons that Lotte would not understand. Not until she found a man who caught her eye, and filled her heart, and showed her new things.

"Black, my Lady?" Lotte looked puzzled. "It never suited you."

"Never mind that," Belle laughed, softly. "Take the purse from my trunk, and choose what colour you'd like for yourself. I need a bolt of black silk, and thread to match, to be packed with the rest of my clothes before we leave. Yes?"

"Oh, yes," Lotte breathed. "Thank you, my Lady!"

"Will you see if my nightgowns are clean and dry? I'd like to wear one to bed."

"Yes, my Lady!" Thrilled to the point of speechlessness, Lotte gathered up the tray and left her, once more, alone.

Of course, as much as she loved the sensation of silk against her skin for its own sake, Belle loved the nightgowns because they had been gifts from her husband. That he enjoyed seeing her wear them was but another gift, and another delight. She could feel nearer to him, wearing his gifts, and try to be patient.

Lotte had just left her with the lighter of the two silk nightgowns when Rumpelstiltskin returned, appearing beside his work table and leaving something there, before turning to find Belle with his gaze.

"Ah," he said, a sober expression becoming a smile when he saw that she meant to undress. "I'm just in time."

"I think Lotte would faint if you appeared out of thin air right in front of her," Belle said, trying to make nothing of his lascivious smile. "How was my husband's day?" She had spread the blue silk across her bed, and fussed with the sleeves and collar, rather than change immediately as she had meant to. Even with all modesty cast aside, _some_ things felt very strange, while Rumpelstiltskin watched her, and not least the growing realisation that he _enjoyed_ watching her - not as preamble to a passionate embrace, but for its own sake, a pleasure in its own right. "Did you go home?"

"Home." Rumpelstiltskin appeared to give the word some thought, as he came to lean against the post at the end of her bed, watching her closely. "Yes."

"Our home," Belle said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage while pretending to be busy with the already-smooth nightdress.

"Yes." He sounded so bemused, so flattered, so hopeful. All Belle wanted was to throw her arms around his neck and promise him... everything. The world. Her whole heart. "Ours. I believe I have the way," Rumpelstiltskin said, whirling away from the bed before the moment stretched out so long as to be unbearable. Belle breathed again, turning to watch him.

"To cure me?"

"You're not ill, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin said, with a dismissive wave, as he paced up and down the long end of the room. "More... polluted."

"But you have the way? You can fix this? Now?" Belle had to grasp the bed post; her knees had gone weak at the thought - the _need_.

"I believe so." Pausing before the fireplace, he gave her a nervous glance. "Should this fail, I... I confess that I know not where to begin." The look he gave her was pleading, as though for forgiveness, and Belle shook her head, urgently.

"Try," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Please."

"But you understand," Rumpelstiltskin pressed, clenching his fists at his sides. "If I'm wrong, it may come to..."

"A year and a day?" Belle could hardly credit that her husband - Rumpelstiltskin, the Spinner - was _afraid_! Afraid to _try_ lest he fail?

He shrugged, looking pained.

"Perhaps."

Belle stared at him, trying to force her sluggish mind to comprehend. Excitement at the prospect of being free to embrace her husband threatened to drive every measured, rational thought from her head.

"Will you be harmed?" she asked, and sternly, because she knew that he would dismiss the notion, if she allowed him to get away with it.

"Me?" Rumpelstiltskin pointed to his chest with both hands, eyes wide. "No. Rather uncomfortable, I daresay."

"And I won't be harmed." She paid that notion no mind at all. "You'll see to that, I know you will," she said, before he could draw breath to answer. So, his hesitation was in the fear of failure? Of facing what might follow? That was madness! "Please," she said, the word so heartfelt that her entire body trembled with it. "Try."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, delicately scratching the back of his head as he cast his gaze about the room.

"You've eaten well? Kept warm?"

"And slept the day away," Belle said, unreasonably anxious to show that she _could_ do as she was bidden. "I'm a bit out of sorts, but that's all."

Perhaps it was her urgency, her anxiety, that decided him, then. Rumpelstiltskin found a smile for her, the tight line of his shoulders softening as he nodded again.

"Very well. We will try. Be comfortable, my dear. It will not be quick."

Rumpelstiltskin gestured to the nightgown, and Belle began to unlace herself at once. She held her breath, lest they touch when he brushed past, behind her, on his way to the door. After contemplating the old wood for some moments, running his hands over the latch, Rumpelstiltskin produced the telltale purple haze of his magic and stared at the ironwork. Before Belle could even guess at what he was doing, the battered iron latch had a matching lock plate, and a large key.

"Seamstress, locksmith, spinner," she smiled, shrugging out of her bodice and beginning to unfasten her skirt. "My husband is a man of many skills."

"Only the one," Rumpelstiltskin answered, absently, and turned the key in the new lock. "And magic, of course." He turned smartly on his heel, brandishing the key with a look of pride, and Belle laughed.

Leaving the key on the dressing table, Rumpelstiltskin lounged against the bedpost and watched Belle shed her layers. She flushed somewhat, recalling that she had dispensed with her undergarments in favour of ease of dressing. Her husband made no comment as, for the barest moment after she slipped her petticoats to the floor, she stood nude and allowed him to look at her. His eyes followed her curves, a quiet sigh escaping him as he grasped the bedpost.

"Such a beauty," he said, and where Belle might have expected longing, or wistfulness, there was only warm approval.

"Lotte says I'm skin and bone," Belle said, dragging on the blue nightgown as bashfulness caught up with her, and the chill as well. "She thinks you starve me, and so does Papa."

"We'll remedy that," Rumpelstiltskin said, still in that contented tone. "When we go home."

There might have been the hint of a question, there.

Belle nodded, and gathered up her clothes, leaving them on the dressing stool.

"Ready," she declared, with a stubborn attempt at both confidence and good cheer. "What do I do?"

"Nothing at all," Rumpelstiltskin said, removing his leather jerkin and putting it with Belle's clothing. "Into bed, my dear, and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Once I begin, I shouldn't stop."

"Right." Excitement and hope warred with nerves and uncertainties, as Belle wriggled to the far side of the bed, pulling pillows with her so that she could sit with them behind her, in the corner. She recalled spending hours sitting thus, cross legged, when a book captured her attention, and with the addition of a blanket about her shoulders, thought that she was as comfortable as it was possible to be.

Rumpelstiltskin spent a few moments at the table, returning to the bed with a strange bottle, almost spherical, that looked like iron wrapped in a lattice of leather and buckles. At the top, the stopper was on a hinge and lay open to reveal a wide neck. The thing looked so odd as to _appear_ magical, and Belle watched it rather nervously while Rumpelstiltskin came and sat opposite her, resting himself in the other corner. He placed the strange container in the hollow of his lap, sitting cross-legged, just as she was.

"I don't have to drink what's in there, do I?" Belle wrinkled her nose at him, trying to hide the extent of her dismay.

"No, it's quite empty." Rumpelstiltskin gave her a nervous smile. "We shall fill it with unwanted magic. Trap it where it cannot bother us."

Relieved, Belle gave an encouraging nod.

"And then?"

"Put the lid on very quickly," he said, as though that much ought to be obvious, even to the magically unenlightened. "And hope for the best."

"I always do," Belle told him, and thought of how good it would feel to put her arms about his neck; to feel his hands upon her back, his mouth upon her breasts, and then...

Hope indeed.

"Be as still as you can," Rumpelstiltskin said, placing the iron pot between them on the bedclothes. "And don't be afraid."

Nodding, trying to look attentive, Belle could not help thinking that it had not been she who was afraid, a few minutes ago. She had not considered, before, that her husband, with all his power, might fear failure. It was a strange thought, disturbing, but it ceased to distract her as, raising his right hand, Rumpelstiltskin sent a tendril of his purple magic towards her.

It moved slowly, putting her in mind of a serpent, if a serpent could be made of purple smoke and still coil and slither like a living thing. Before the tendril touched her chest, Belle felt the sunlight-warmth of the fairy magic there, ready to meet it and then reaching out, a silvery white creeping vine in place of the sharp points of light that so stung her husband, when they touched. It caught at the end of Rumpelstiltskin's questing serpent of magic, coiled with it, and her husband raised his left hand. A second tendril of purple smoke drew the first down, towards the neck of the iron pot, and took the silvery vine with it.

Belle had expected nothing so gentle, or so beautiful. She watched, quite entranced by the slow flow of magic into magic, the silvery white grappling with the oily purple where it met, and unresisting as it was drawn out of Belle and down, into the pot. The sunlight warmth began to spread through her whole body, until Belle felt that she basked on dry grass on a blissful summer's day; such a gentle thing, until she remembered to tear her eyes from the slow counterclockwise swirl of mingling magic, and look at Rumpelstiltskin's face.

His cheeks twitched, his teeth bared, and the darkness of a stormy sky clouded his eyes. Sweat first beaded across his skin, then became a sheen as he poured effort and concentration into the task. It was difficult to be afraid, from within the pleasant haze of a summer's day, but there was... concern. Yes. Her husband, beloved husband... he struggled.

It took every ounce of self-control and every fibre of her being to remember his instructions and be still.

Look at the magic, that was the trick. Heavy eyes were drawn back there anyway, because the movement was fascinating; the flow was faster, now, and Belle felt herself smile with a drunken realisation as she watched the silvery light pour faster and faster into the pot.

"A siphon," she said, and felt the word slur, as though she were drunk.

"Quiet," Rumpelstiltskin snapped, his voice unsteady with the strain. There was an echo, behind the words, like a separate voice. A voice made of the distant roll of thunder, the roar of the sea, the bottomless echo of a vast, dark cavern. The single word left him panting, and his eyes had turned glassy black.

For a short time, fright brought her to her senses - to a sharp awareness of her surroundings, of her own sweat, of a subtle sound that eluded normal hearing, like crackle of a distant fire. Rumpelstiltskin trembled, his breathing harsh and short, hissing through his teeth as the magic poured, ever faster, until it made Belle dizzy if she tried to watch it.

Just as she began to slip back into the false daydream of the summer's day, everything stopped; light, movement, sound. Even her husband's strained breathing, as he slumped back against the wall. Awareness of the room, the world, returned in a rush and Belle caught Rumpelstiltskin's soft groan, as his eyelids fluttered shut over the swirling blackness.

Alarm rising, Belle looked down at the pot, and saw the swirling within it begin to slow - a haze of silver mist begin to rise. She found no help, in an urgent glance at her husband; he was insensible, limp against the wall.

He had _commanded_ that she leave magic to him, but the white mist was rising, unfettered by his purple tethers, and if Belle knew anything it was that this magic could harm her husband. She lunged for the iron pot and slammed the stopper into place, fumbling with the two straps and buckles that appeared to fasten over it.

Her heart did not stop pounding in a frenzy until she pulled the second one tight and, removing her hand from the stopper, found that nothing escaped.

The magic was trapped, and Belle scrambled to her husband's side, laughing in triumph. When she put her palm to his sweat-slick cheek, there was only the warmth of skin against skin, and Rumpelstiltskin's faint groan as he turned his head to lean into her touch.

It had _worked!_


	57. Dreaming

It was but a moment or two before Rumpelstiltskin reached for her, found her waist with trembling hands and tugged her against his body. Belle smothered a sob, pressed her cheek to his and buried both her hands in his damp hair.

"Are you all right?" she pleaded, feeling his hands slip loose and fall to his sides. "It worked, I sealed the lid before the magic could escape, was that right? Was that all right?" Belle followed her words with urgent, grateful kisses to his cheek before she could force herself to draw back and look at him. She watched Rumpelstiltskin battle to open his eyes, then to focus on her face, then finally on the iron flask with its extravagance of straps and buckles. His smile was drowsy and wry.

"Good," he said. After another few blinks, he met her worried gaze. The blackness had retreated to the very centre of his eyes, now, enlarging his pupils, and it was fading by the moment as Belle watched. "You caught the sun," he said, frowning, and lifted his hand to touch her nose. He missed. "Bloody fairies."

"Never mind that," Belle said, and claimed the kiss that had been denied them during the past days, not minding at all that her husband struggled to keep up and merely pawed at her back, making appreciative sounds while she did enough kissing for both of them. He sighed when she stopped, his hands once more sliding away from her body to rest limply on the bedclothes beside him.

Rumpelstiltskin did _look_ all right, Belle supposed, laying her palm against his cheek again and watching. Only worn out, as though the effort of the magic had combined with the days of self-neglect to rob him of the last of his strength. A tiny smile continued to play about his lips and, except for the remark about her having caught the sun, he seemed as contented as a cat basking on warm roof tiles. She had seen him thus after they made love - languid and hardly even trying to battle sleep.

Yes, sleep. There had been too little of it, and even Rumpelstiltskin himself seemed to feel that he had, at last, earned it.

"Come to bed," she urged, letting her concern for him melt into something far softer, as his damp curls slid through her fingers. Oh, she could have torn at his clothing - gladly, shamelessly - but to touch again, to kiss, to cling; that would be so welcome, so wonderful. "Come on." Belle tried capturing his hands and hauling him away from the wall, but it only made him smirk. "I'm not going to bed with your boots," she told him, swatting the side of his leg. "Or that," she added, looking unhappily at the sealed iron pot.

"Better put it somewhere safe," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, gesturing to the flask. He began to pick at his bootlaces with ponderous care.

It was quite clear to Belle that he would be unable to stand, let alone leave the bed, so she hurried to do as he said. When the round bottom of the pot rocked dangerously on her dressing table, she pursed her lips and took it, instead, to the chair that Rumpelstiltskin had stolen from the council chamber, settling it into the generous cushion. She would take no more chances with that horrible magic.

At any other time, Belle might have laughed to see her husband struggling, quite ineffectually, with the laces of his boots. They had quite defeated her, when he was injured, and she had resorted to a sharp knife rather than struggle in the freezing tower. Now, denied his touch for too long, Belle guided Rumpelstiltskin to the pillows, arranged him on his back and set to work on the laces herself. It was not so difficult, with warm hands, but the job was nevertheless a lengthy one. She settled her warmth and weight against his hip and curled as close as was practical while she unlaced his right boot. After a while, Rumpelstiltskin began to touch her.

It was innocent enough touching; his fingertips trailing down her arm, then the flat of his palm against her back, rubbing lazily above the rounds of her buttocks. It stirred something, anyway, and made Belle bite her lip as the warm flutter began inside her; the longing for him that came from the body rather than from the heart. For the moment, it was a gentle and distant pleasure.

Bending to prise open his right boot, having unlaced it, Belle giggled helplessly when her husband took the opportunity to squeeze a buttock. A warning glance at his face revealed a grin much like her own, but Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were closed, his other hand behind his head. He enjoyed teasing her - knew how wickedly easy it was to coax a response from her that was beyond her ability for self control.

When Belle settled back onto her heels, to begin all over again with the left boot, Rumpelstiltskin managed to slip his hand up and under her nightdress. His hand curled, warm and tantalising, just above her hip. His thumb stroked, slowly and softly, at the small of her back while Belle made a pious effort to concentrate on undoing the knot at his left thigh. It took still more effort to keep from glancing between his splayed legs, to see what effect this gentle play was having on him. Belle found a welcome distraction, in wondering what it would be like to wear such visible, prominent evidence of one's desire. She, at least, could pretend to feel none, if she so chose.

She was, to her own annoyance, a little disappointed when a furtive glance revealed no such evidence, even while Rumpelstiltskin teased her bare skin beneath her gown and filled her with tiny shivers. It made it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the lengthy task of relieving him of his boots. With a look of quiet triumph, and a sigh of relief, Belle eventually dropped the boots over the end of the bed and crawled back to her husband, who pulled her down for a rather clumsy kiss.

"Just the boots?" he asked, as Belle wriggled herself comfortable at his side and pulled a blanket over them. She smiled into his shoulder, sliding her palm across his belly and plucking at the waist of his leather breeches. She had to admit that his habit of changing magically into loose fitting silk was more convenient.

"For now," she said, for Rumpelstiltskin's voice was thick with sleep, even as he teased, and she would be comfortable enough beside him as he was. "I'm so glad that it's over," she confided, when her cheek was settled against his chest, her left leg hooked over him and his arm clasping her close. "A year and a day. I think I would have gone mad."

"Wanton little wife," he murmured, and before Belle could protest that she hadn't meant _that_ \- not only that - his arm slackened about her, and he succumbed to sleep.

Tired as she was herself, and heavy limbed, and sore, Belle resisted sleep. She could not think of closing her eyes until she had reacquainted herself with how it felt to lie with Rumpelstiltskin; to touch him wherever she could reach, to listen to his slowing heartbeat, to breathe the leather-and-autumn scent of his clothing, to feel the nearness of his quiescent magic, and remind herself that he was _her_ husband, her dear husband. Hers to touch, hers to kiss, hers to pleasure and hers to love. Her husband, Rumpelstiltskin.

No more forcing herself not to touch him. No more being frightened to be near him, lest she harm him by brushing against him. Relief went through her like a new fever, leaving hot and cold shivers in its wake and unshed tears behind closed eyelids. Of course he thought that she spoke of missing their pleasures together, for when had she told him how much she enjoyed simply being beside him? Gazing upon him? If she tried, he refused to believe her.

She would try harder, she decided, slipping her fingers between the buttons of his shirt until she found bare skin. A moment later, she loosened the button and slipped her arm inside his shirt, feeling Rumpelstiltskin stir a little at this new intimacy. He did not wake, but only fidgeted beneath her for a moment until he grew used to her bare skin against his own.

How she had _missed_ it, this luxury of closeness with him - that which she had first tasted on their wedding night, even in that strained embrace, and craved so shamelessly ever since. Surely bodies were _made_ for the comfort of skin against skin? It answered a loneliness so deep that it had gone unrecognised in her, until she discovered that there was an alternative. And she had been alive scarcely twenty years, and been loved in other ways all that while. What of Rumpelstiltskin, and his centuries alone and despised? Had he known how he longed for a simple touch, or for a kiss, or for a woman's arms? Or had he only realised it once Belle embraced him, offering all that he was so sure he would never know?

Warmth and comfort began to erode her stubborn determination to lie awake. There was familiarity, as well; subtle things, in the way that Rumpelstiltskin's breath hitched before he released it - never quite a snore. The way it was easier to be warm, with two, even under one thin blanket. The way she seemed to _fit_ there, beside him.

Belle was dreaming before she truly slept - daydreams easing into deeper ones, as her tired body gave up its fierce hold on her husband. Her dreams did not; in her dreams, Belle was the dragon, jealously guarding a treasure and raging at any who threatened it. In her dreams, Rumpelstiltskin smiled more, and more freely than before, and they were home. Home.

The candles had burned out before Belle found herself awake again. It took her some time to shake off the strange dreams, and to allow her sleepy eyes to adjust to the darkness. Even the fire had burned low, and her room had grown unpleasantly cold - too cold to remain as she was, above the bedclothes, even with Rumpelstiltskin to warm her.

Easing away from him, and once more concerned that such a disturbance failed to awaken him, Belle crept to the fireplace to add fresh wood, and then to the candle box for a single new candle, which she lit from the fire before setting it in the sconce nearest Rumpelstiltskin's work table.

Her effort to get beneath the bedclothes, in the narrow space to Rumpelstiltskin's right, did stir him. He sat up, looking around in confusion until he saw Belle, then gave a wordless grunt and followed her beneath the bedclothes, seeking her with his arms before she had so much as plumped a pillow for them. Belle was less comfortable, her position now the one that Rumpelstiltskin had occupied when she awoke, while he nestled against her side and pillowed his head upon her arm. Even so, she held him close to her, stroking his hair while he glided his left hand slowly over her body, apparently appreciating the act as much as Belle had, herself. She smirked to herself when, his innocent exploration of her torso complete, Rumpelstiltskin's hand came to rest in possession of her right breast.

"Sleep," she chided, gently, her fingers enjoying the tickle of his hair while she stroked it.

"I am," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, circling her nipple with a deft fingertip. Belle's smirk became a snigger. "Dreaming, I'm certain of it." He wriggled for a moment and began to kiss her other breast, nudging and nuzzling through her nightgown.

"Do you dream of this very often?" Belle asked, shivering pleasantly at the insistent kisses.

"Oh yes." He rubbed his cheek against her firming nipple, then his chin where his skin was more coarsely textured; Belle bit her lip at the contrast of sensation, and knew that she would be lost, and soon, if she could not persuade him to rest. "Even while I'm awake." A nudge, a nip, a kiss. "Which I'm not."

"Oh, I see." Enjoying his whimsy, his forthright interest in what she strongly suspected was his favourite part of her, Belle caressed and combed her fingers through his hair. She could find no protest when he pulled the ribbon loose enough to open the gown, to expose her breasts and throat to his growing hunger. If her husband desired this, he would have it; Belle could not bring herself to be strong, when his kisses felt so sweet. "What do I do, in this dream of yours?"

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, catching her up and turning onto his back, planting her firmly across his thighs while she giggled a wordless, insincere protest. She could see him now, in the feeble light of her one candle, and see that his expression was, indeed, dreamy.

"You have your wicked way, mistress," he said, with the coyness that never failed to undo her. "While I marvel at your beauty."

"These?" Belle captured his hands on their way to her breasts. "Are these beautiful?"

"Oh, yes." He licked his lips, gently trying to evade her with first one hand, then the next.

"A kiss," Belle decided, pulling his hands out and away from her body so that she could bend over and claim it. "Then they shall be yours."

He made a sound of pure delight, in the back of his throat, as their lips touched. Belle freed his hands, grasping his shoulders instead, and felt him clasp her back as tiny kisses became longer ones, then deeper ones, and finally became the kisses she had missed and craved these past days - exploration and abandon, content in one another. Belle caught herself rubbing against his leather-clad thigh, nothing but the silk of her nightgown between her and the soft, dry warmth; Rumpelstiltskin grinned when she stopped, shocked at herself, and she remembered that he would begrudge her no pleasure that she found here in his arms, in their bed. All the same, her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment, and she concealed it by kissing his cheek, then his ear, then the side of his neck that he exposed to her with a luxurious stretch beneath her.

If she was to have her way with him, it was not to be with the soft leather that clothed his leg. She had enjoyed her kiss, stretching the bargain out to many kisses, and sat back to look down at Rumpelstiltskin again. His left hand found her breast at once, squeezing it approvingly, while he wormed the fingers of his right hand between her thighs and burrowed into her folds, finding and spreading her slight wetness. Belle could only stare at him, wonder at him for such tenderness when - as she could plainly see, now - his own body had demands to make and needs to satisfy. Swallowing hard to keep her mouth from drying, Belle rested her left palm over the bulge in the leather, and felt her husband tremble. When she rubbed and kneaded, matching his hand upon her breast, he quickly grew hard, his fingers pushing inside her with unaccustomed lack of care. He wanted her, perhaps with even more hunger than she wanted him, and he would have her. Have his strange little dream, where she had her way with him.

When she struggled with the leather and buckles at his sides, Rumpelstiltskin brought his hands to help her manage; the one slippery with her juices, the other hot from contact with her skin. Together they unfastened him, their rapid breathing in unison as she tugged his breeches down, exposing his cock for the attention of her greedy hands. Rumpelstiltskin, reaching for her again, groaned and pushed his head back into the pillows at her sudden, impulsive hold on him - one fist above the other, around the length of him, and Belle's own little moan as it firmed in her grasp, as urgently responsive as any hidden part of her.

Rumpelstiltskin reached for her once more, a clumsy hold on her hips as he tried to urge her towards him, to lower herself onto it, but a perverse fascination had taken Belle over; she wondered, watching the loose skin move over the shaft with the rhythm of her hands, if his fascination with her little breasts was the same - inexplicable, a simple, base and wicked personal delight.

"Stop," he whispered, but without heart, his strong fingers becoming claws, nails digging into her hips as he lost himself to pleasure. Have her way, he'd said, and Belle decided that she was doing just that - clear-minded in her own, waiting excitement, and able, at last, to watch everything as Rumpelstiltskin surrendered to his own.

She had always been clumsy and uncertain, taking him in hand - afraid of hurting, of giving anything other than pleasure. She remembered how her still more clumsy kisses there had undone him, not only with the pleasure of it but with shock, awe and the kind of love that masked itself in fear; bending, before she could question herself, she slid her right hand beneath his buttock and gave him kiss after kiss around the base of his cock, around and behind, before beginning to work her way up the shaft towards her remaining hand.

He tried to stop her then, really tried, but Belle recalled why and nudged his warning hand aside with her head, allowing only the other hand, which came to guide hers in stroking him, as his moans turned from dismay to something else - something that matched the joyous burning in her heart. She felt him break, the very moment when her kisses found where his finger met his cock, and raised her head in time to see him, his head thrown back and his mouth open in a soundless cry while he pulsed and pulsed in her hand, the hot stuff going everywhere. Belle didn't care - could gaze only upon the naked beauty of him, in that blissful release; how he shook for her, how he came for her, how he _needed_ her.

Rumpelstiltskin's struggling silence became heavy panting, and a boneless sprawl against the sheet. Belle would have watched him forever, if she could, but his pleasure was passing and she wanted no doubt to slide in, ugly, and take its place. She lay beside him, kissed him until he rolled towards her and allowed his own sleepy kisses to express what he might not say, without risking his heart. Clumsy fingers beneath her gown offered the satisfaction that she had denied herself, and Belle guided his hand as he had guided hers, keeping the stroking unhurried while she filled up with moisture for him; keeping him from touching the swollen nub that could drive her to distraction too easily, and kissing all the while until her passage clenched around his fingers in quick, shallow spasms of relief.

He buried his face against her neck for a long moment before lying back, letting out a long, gentle sigh and slipping his right arm behind his head for a pillow. Belle fitted herself against his side, ignoring the twists and tangles of their rather damp clothing, and pillowed her head on his outstretched arm.

"Do you like your dream?" she asked, self-doubt finally catching up with her now that they were still.

"I do," Rumpelstiltskin said, and his voice was light. "I have others," he offered, unsure, his fingers playing in her hair. "Sometimes."

Belle smiled, turning her head to kiss his shoulder before resuming her pillow.

"Good," she said, squeezing him for a long moment.

They both slept again, less peacefully than before. Belle's dreams were an onrushing nonsense of images that kept startling her awake. Once, she opened her eyes to see Rumpelstiltskin on his feet beside the bed, shedding the wrinkled breeches. When he saw that she was awake, he became bashful and, passing his hand down the length of his body, conjured a dark nightshirt instead. Belle was too sleepy to remark upon it - too glad to welcome him back beside her, and to rest her head against cool, fresh silk. The hand that arranged her hair across her shoulders was steady, and a little of her worry subsided, as she fell towards sleep again; his exhaustion had been only a brief thing - the effort of magic to free her from the cleric's dust had not cost him so greatly as all that.

The morning seemed unreasonably bright, when next Belle surfaced from sleep. She had not closed the curtains or the shutters, last night, and the entirety of the sunrise seemed to be taking place behind her bed, filling the top of the room with warmth and brightness. Belle made a groggy sound of protest and buried her face against Rumpelstiltskin's back, wriggling herself nearer. They always seemed to come apart, in their sleep - possibly so that they _could_ sleep, she supposed, remembering how restless their first attempts to share a bed had been - but she missed his arms, the moment she was awake. The very moment.

Rumpelstiltskin lay facing her dressing table, his head beside the pillow rather than on it. He no longer looked or felt at ease - though he yet slept, Belle could feel a tension, an alertness that had been absent in his exhaustion. _It protects itself_ , she remembered him saying - his magic, his very power gave him an awareness, in sleep, that no mortal such as Belle could possess. To tire himself beyond that must be rare indeed. She would need to see to it, when they were home again, that her husband was cared for, if not caring for himself. It could be good for no man, mortal or not, to be so consumed by his work that he reached a state of incapability.

However, Belle's husband put his capability beyond any question when, waking as she idly stroked his flank, he turned to face her, gave her a wanton grin, and pinned her on her back with her hands either side of her head. Had this not resulted in her hair being pulled, she would have had no protest to make. As it was, returning his smile, she squirmed her wrists free from his grasp and pulled back her hair, behind her on the pillow, and Rumpelstiltskin became quite distracted by this untidy vision of his wife. His smile softening, he bent to kiss her, pinning her with his weight instead and pushing his hand between her thighs to tease her.

To her combined excitement and embarrassment, her body yielded to him within a few rubs of his finger beside the swollen place; her voice, too, giving away little yelps of surprise and pleasure with each rapid, panting breath. Rumpelstiltskin watched her, every bit as shamelessly as she had watched him come, scarce hours ago. He, however, was grinning at what he caused to happen to her; his eyes shone with amusement that watered down a good deal of self satisfaction.

"I didn't smirk at you," she complained, unconvincingly, as her limbs stopped trying to curl around him of their own volition.

"I'm not very nice." Rumpelstiltskin leaned down, slowly, and gave her a kiss. "Are you ready for me, mistress?" he asked, low voiced, his fingers sliding inside her. "I've quite an appetite, this morning."

"I'm glad you're recovered, husband," Belle said, mustering her dignity and managing not to simply beg him to mount her at once. "If you want the use of me," she said, warming to her theme and reaching up to grasp the collar of his nightgown, "I'll ask you to remove this first." She plucked at the black satin cord that tied the collar, and did her best to give Rumpelstiltskin a look of challenge. "I like to see my husband."

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he did not let the lascivious smile fade. Capturing her hands once again, and pressing them down beside her head, he wriggled his way between her thighs until the pull of her own gown prevented him. Belle bit her lip, already tired of the little game and wanting him to fill up the ache; drive her out of her own mind with the pleasure of him.

"Only mine?" he asked, knowing full well that it was her gown that proved the barrier; that if she desired haste, she would have to concede.

"Mine as well. And hurry," she added, and then laughed at her own, trembling attempt to sound imperious. It was easier to resist shaking with terror than to prevent herself shaking with desire; her teeth began to chatter as the magic whispered between them, leaving them belly to belly and bare. Rumpelstiltskin restrained her hands when she tried to reach up to touch what she had demanded to be allowed to see - his wiry shoulders, his hairless chest. Was this another of his dreams, to restrain and frustrate her while they teased? Belle could see the use of it, for in being denied she found an entirely new level of desire - a squirming impatience for that which she could not have.

After days without him beside her, without even the press of a hand for reassurance or his arms about her while she wept, denial had a piquancy that she could not ignore.

"Kiss me, then," she said, unsteadily, not wanting him to see how easily she might weep at the unwelcome memory of being without him. "And I'm yours."

Rumpelstiltskin did kiss her - a quick and insolently insufficient peck against her lips before, freeing her left hand, he reached between them to place himself at her entrance. Belle lifted her hips, stifling a moan of wanting, and used her freed hand to rub at his bare shoulder, urging him to hurry as she pulled her knees wider apart for him.

He sank into her so easily, now, and her body received him with such eager joy. Belle had closed her eyes, without meaning to, and forced them open again when Rumpelstiltskin recaptured her wandering hand and pinned it back to the mattress as he settled with her, planted deep inside her, and simply gazed at her. Not only her face, her eyes, though he lingered there with tenderness; he looked at her breasts, her hair, her small hands trapped beneath his own, her hollowed belly - all of her that he could see. Belle looked as well, at how her husband's muscles moved beneath his dark skin; how the sunlight from behind her brought out the tiny golden sparkle in his flesh, and cast the peaks and dips of his textured skin into sharp relief. Entranced, barely breathing lest she disturb the moment, Belle sought his eyes again - a moment of understanding, of permission given, of shared thankfulness at this reunion.

His first thrust forced a cry from her, finding a deeper pleasure than he had called forth with his fingers. Belle struggled beneath him, seeking greater sensation - not content until her heels were behind his back, bringing his next thrusts deeper still. Rumpelstiltskin was steady, almost patient in his taking of her, but not gentle; as the thrusting built and her wanton body answered it, the old wooden boards of her bed creaked in time with their efforts, a counterpoint to their mutual grunts and groans of enjoyment.

When Rumpelstiltskin freed her wrists, reaching instead for the headboard and one of her breasts, Belle had all that she wanted in the world; to feel him, to see him, to watch him take his pleasure as well. Inside, her own climax neared with each of his strokes - her insides ached, grasped, tightened and then released in long, pulsing agony that crested towards sweetness. She writhed, she struggled, she pulled at him with hands and heels until the need was all wrung out of her, and then slipped her heels behind his buttocks and urged him faster, harder, to his own, groaning release.

Her room seemed strangely quiet, after such an outburst of sounds; only their breathing, hers frantic and his shallow, betrayed them now. Even the invading, bright sunlight seemed peaceful, and welcome.

"I think I might be dreaming, now," Belle said, unsteadily. She lifted trembling hands to hold his face, and could have wept when Rumpelstiltskin, his expression one of incomprehension and relief, turned his head to kiss the centre of her palm - hot and wet. "Tell me I'm not dreaming," she begged, and wrapped herself around him when he sank down above her. "Promise me I'm not."

"No dream, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, his lips against her temple - not quite a kiss. Belle closed her eyes at last, nodding. Content. "This is no dream."


	58. Petals On the Water

It was not until Lotte knocked upon the door that Belle thought of stirring herself from Rumpelstiltskin's side. She did not know how long they had lain there, sharing lazy caresses and a contented silence, but the life of the castle ground ever onward without sparing a thought for lovers.

Lotte's second knock was more urgent, and Belle remembered that her husband had conjured a lock on the old door, before beginning his magic last night. With a sigh, Belle called out to Lotte to wait and sat up to look for her nightgown.

"Send her away," Rumpelstiltskin protested, reaching after her. "I can conjure you a feast."

"I'd prefer a hot bath," Belle admitted, freeing herself from the circle of his arms and locating her nightgown, clean and pristine, draped across her dressing stool. She slipped on the cool silk with a happy sigh. "I won't let her in, don't worry."

It took her a moment or two to work the unfamiliar iron lock with the big key, and then she faced her maid at the threshold, shivering as the draughts from below invaded her sunlit bedroom.

"A lock, my Lady..." Lotte looked anxiously at the new ironwork.

"My husband thought it best," Belle said, soothing Lotte before she could begin fretting, and reaching for the tray that she held. "I think so too. Papa came in without knocking, yesterday. Thank you, Lotte." Lotte continued to stare at her, still grasping the other side of the tray, firmly. "What is it?"

"Your face is all red," Lotte said, wretchedly. "Like you've had too much sun." She looked furtively to her right, towards the bed, but Rumpelstiltskin had vanished down behind the headboard, out of sight. "Or something."

"Oh." The night had seemed a long one. Belle dredged up the memory of her husband, drunk with exhaustion, complaining about her nose and 'bloody fairies'. "It's from the magic, from the fever," she lied, because there was nothing else to do. What remained of Rumpelstiltskin's secret, she could not share with her maid. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"Well..." Unhappily surrendering the tray, Lotte turned to go. "Eat up then," she managed, and disappeared down the stairs.

"Do I look _that_ bad?" Belle asked, taking the tray to her dressing table and turning to face the bed. Rumpelstiltskin had covered himself with his own nightgown and, in the daylight, Belle could see that it was not quite black, but a deep charcoal grey. "Lotte says that I'm all red in the face."

"Sunburn," he said, sitting up in bed again. "And not only your face."

Belle drew the collar of her nightgown away from her chest and peered down.

"Oh, goodness," she said, going back to turn the key in the lock. "I look like a lobster." At least the redness went some way towards hiding her blush, as she realised that her husband's earlier passion had been for a very strange looking wife indeed. What Belle had been unable to see, in the shadows of the bed, Rumpelstiltskin would have been able to see perfectly well. "It's just as well that I can wear my velvet hood, now."

"Fear not," Rumpelstiltskin said, lazily. "After your breakfast, a bath. Balms and ointments. Unless you'd prefer that I heal you with magic?" He raised his hand, glowing with faint purple light.

"I think I've had enough magic done to me, for the moment," Belle said, firmly. "Come and eat with me?" Her tray had porridge again, made exactly to her liking, and a plate of cold sausage and meats, which was less so. She offered it to Rumpelstiltskin, hopefully. "You've had nothing for days."

"Haven't I?" He looked as if he truly didn't know, Belle thought, as he swung his legs out of bed and accepted the platter from her, prodding suspiciously at the sausages. "I suppose not."

"I miss our afternoon tea together," Belle said, nudging his shin with her foot while she stirred her porridge. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, head bowed over the plate, and took a bite of sausage. Feeling magic at her elbow, Belle turned and saw tea things on her dressing table - pot, cup, milk jug, sugar bowl and tongs. Two cups, two saucers and two silver spoons. "That's not what I meant," she said, but with her own gaze averted, and her own smile trying to grow. She rubbed his leg with her ankle, causing him to pause in his reluctant chewing until she relented and let him be. "I miss _you_."

"I've been in your company for days," Rumpelstiltskin pointed out, watching her eat. "How can you miss me?"

"All right," Belle said, trying again - angling her thoughts in a new direction. "I've missed having you all to myself."

"You are a very strange girl," he said, but she thought that he was blushing a little over his plate. "My first wife felt differently."

Belle tilted her head, her spoon at her lips. It was not a subject that he broached in casual conversation - his comparison of his two wives was always self-deprecating, more than informative. She lowered the spoon and stirred her porridge.

"She was Baelfire's mother?" Rumpelstiltskin nodded, not looking up. "Why do you speak of her so sadly? Did the birth take her?"

Startled, he forgot himself and looked directly at her.

"No." Then, just as suddenly, he set the plate down on the bed and rose, going to the foot of the bed and paying an unnecessary amount of attention to the lightly carved bedpost. "No, she took herself. Away. I had nothing she wanted." He gripped the bedpost with both hands, and turned his head towards Belle, eyes downcast. "Perhaps I expect any wife of mine to be equally discontent."

"Is that why you try to give me everything in the world?" Her appetite gone, Belle put aside the bowl and went to her husband. She took him by the elbow, trying to draw him around to face her properly. "She gave you a son," she went on, when Rumpelstiltskin refused to look at her. "What can I give you to match that?" As he drew breath to protest, Belle pushed on, afraid to stop now that her thoughts were running ahead, in case she never found the courage again. " _I_ want you. _You_ make me content, not the way you spoil me. I know that you can't find it in your heart to believe that. Not yet. But I'm not her. You must at least believe that."

With her tongue threatening to follow her thoughts into tangles, in a situation that called for clarity, Belle rested her brow against Rumpelstiltskin's upper arm and reached her arms around him. He embraced her at once, drawing her against his chest and clasping the back of her head. Breathing unsteadily, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"She left the boy," he said, uncertainly. "That was... I never minded that she'd no love to give me," he explained, slowly. "I couldn't blame her for wanting more than I could ever give her. Wanting someone better than me. But she left him. Bae. He was blameless, he was beautiful. Why would she do that?"

"I don't know." Belle squeezed him as hard as she could, closing her eyes. "Thank you for telling me." Oh, she didn't _want_ to hear such things - hear such bewildered hurt in him, echoing from a wretched past. She didn't want to be compared to such a callous woman, to have her own loyalty questioned merely because another had betrayed him, long ago. But knowing was understanding, and only by understanding Rumpelstiltskin's doubts could she ever hope to conquer them. He squeezed her, far too hard, but released her at once.

"What will you do when you have all of my secrets, my Lady?" He touched her nose with his knuckle, then her chin.

"Still be your wife," Belle said, promptly. She felt uneasy, arguing her position when she would prefer - greatly prefer - that Rumpelstiltskin take her loyalty for granted. Had he not earned her desire, her affection or her love, there would still have been loyalty, and her own goodwill, and her pride. Maybe even her recognition of the weight of this man's sadness - the burden it placed upon the very world. "We take marriage very seriously in these parts," she said, drawing him back to sit where he had been before, with their unwanted breakfast. She poured their tea and added sugar for him, and a tiny drop of milk; he had yet to tell her how he preferred to take tea, as though taking it from her was enough. She sat down, spreading the skirt of her nightgown across the stool before taking up her bowl again. "I wouldn't shame my family or my people by running away."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, tightly, and ate a sausage with as little enthusiasm as Belle felt for her porridge. They ate anyway, the silence uneasy until, when Belle had finished the bowl, he seemed to take it as permission to leave what remained on his plate, and switched it for the teacup on the dresser.

"Do you live on magic?" Belle balanced her own cup with care, turning to face him. "When you don't eat or drink for days, is it magic that keeps you strong?"

"Many of the things that people do to stay alive become... tiresome... when one discovers that they're unnecessary." He sounded unbearably weary, saying that, but immediately forced a smile. "It's quite uncomfortable to go without air. I don't make a habit of that."

"I should think it is!" Belle hunched her shoulders at the very thought, and frowned as she sipped her tea. "You didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I?" Rumpelstiltskin lifted an eyebrow.

"Do you live on magic?" she repeated, patiently. "Instead of food, or water, or air?"

"Ah." Cocking his head, he turned the cup between his palms. "In a way. I suppose so. The magic that changed me requires form." He displayed one hand, turning it this way and that. "Any will do, but it has mine. It won't let me go to waste. I am bound to it, and it is bound to me. We make use of each other."

"You make it sound alive," Belle said, suppressing a shiver.

"Oh, it is. All magic is alive." Seeing her worried expression, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. "Alive but not self-aware. Magic has no will, no purpose, until it is shaped and used by one who has both."

"Then the magic that changed you... someone shaped that, to _do_ that. To give a man such power."

"Perhaps," Rumpelstiltskin said, watching her with bright interest. "Perhaps it was a mistake. Magic gone wrong. It often does. You mean to create a fine, sunny day and end up with a rain of fish." He flashed a true grin, with no trace of self-deprecation to suggest that _he_ had ever accidentally caused fish to fall from the sky.

"I don't like to think what someone was really trying to do, if the mistake fills a good man up with darkness," Belle said, quietly. "Perhaps they wanted to live forever?"

"Yes. Perhaps." Leaning across, he lifted her chin. "The world is afraid of me, but _you_ sorrow for me," he said, weakly. She nodded, feeling his thumb stroke her cheek. "Why?"

Why? Belle would have thought that it needed no words; compassion, empathy - they needed no _why_. Rumpelstiltskin looked as though he could not understand it at all - not even begin to. It was not that he lacked either one, for he had shown them both in his dealings with her. It was as if he could not see how they could possibly be applied to _him_.

"Because it's made you believe that you deserve nothing," she managed, lost in his unblinking eyes. "No love, no forgiveness. Nobody to desire you, or even tolerate you. Nothing."

Rumpelstiltskin leaned further, and gave her a quick kiss.

"I have power, treasure," he said, standing and pulling her up too, leading her towards the fire. "Pity those who have none."

Belle, her arm across his back, smiled to see the great copper bathtub where her couch had been a while ago. It was full and steaming, and deep red rose petals floated upon the surface of the water.

"Thank you," she said, leaning her weight against his side. "You don't need to spoil me to keep me," she said, rubbing his chest with her right hand, "but I like it when you do." Shy, Belle hooked her fingertips into the open collar of his nightgown. "And that you still want to make love to me when I look like a boiled lobster."

"I got the best of that bargain," he said, with a nervous chuckle. "Enjoy your bath."

Belle kept her arm tightly about him, when he tried to leave her side.

"Enjoy it with me," she said, shyness becoming a burning blush, because however pleased she was to be accommodating, as his wife, it still shocked her to be demanding. "Like you did at the inn."

"An insatiable wife," Rumpelstiltskin mused, and made her squeak with surprise when he swept her off her feet and held her in his arms, utterly untroubled by her weight. He looked down at her, amused and bemused in equal measure. "I'm quite certain that I did nothing to deserve _that_."

Slipping her hand behind his neck, Belle bit her lip.

"Is that good or bad?" she asked, and squealed again as Rumpelstiltskin lowered her, nightgown and all, towards the waiting water. Before her heels touched the rose petals, the gown was gone, and he settled her gently into the tub, kissing her before he let her go.

"I don't think you're so innocent that you don't know the answer to that, mistress," he said, in her ear, and then knelt beside the tub and brushed clinging rose petals from her breasts with his left hand. "One wife who'd no appetite for me at all," he said, stroking back her hair so that he could see her fully. "And now one whose appetite is insatiable. Which do you imagine pleases me more, hmm?"

Sighing as the hot water soothed her, loosening her limbs, Belle reached up to toy with her husband's hair. He seemed content merely to look at as much of her as the carpet of petals did not conceal, but when she guided his wet hand to her breast, he smiled a little and leaned closer. With the elbow of his gown beneath the water, the smoky silk clung to his arm, wetness seeping up to his shoulder.

"Come in with me," she said, and then tensed, not sure that she ought to have been so bold. It had only been an impulse, to share the pleasant sensation of the water with him. "If you want to," she added, haltingly. "It's so nice and warm."

Certain that he would refuse, that she had spoiled everything, Belle was startled when Rumpelstiltskin tugged the nightgown off over his head and stepped quickly into the bath. She pulled her knees to her chest to give him room, smiling with relief and delight that his enjoyment of her outweighed his customary bashfulness. Besides, she thought, as the water stopped sloshing about and Rumpelstiltskin looked at her askance, she could see very little of him, between the shadows and all the petals. Slowly, she stretched out her legs until her feet were resting upon his thighs, and settled herself back against the copper.

"This pleases you?" he asked, a gesture beneath the water sending gentle ripples in Belle's direction.

"Yes." She felt far too pleased with herself, now. While her husband did not look as if he shared her pleasure, neither did he seem to be unhappy, squashed into her bath with her. He rubbed her shins beneath the water and the floating petals, then leaned back and tried to imitate her relaxation. "You could make a bigger bath, couldn't you?" Belle asked, trailing her fingertips against his legs. "Next time?"

"As big as a palace," he boasted, still feigning an ease that he clearly did not feel.

"That would be no fun," she smiled. "There shouldn't be room to swim away."

"Oh," Rumpelstiltskin said, snapping wet fingers at her. "You mean there should be enough room to _fuck_." He licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh when she had been doing her best to become a sultry temptress.

"Yes," she chuckled, finding that proper laughter only added to her sense of comfort. "Room to _spoon_."

"I expect your _maid_ calls it that." Rumpelstiltskin barely made an effort at disdain; he settled lower in the tub, his knees protruding from the water, and began to rub her feet. Belle would have imagined - had she ever imagined such a thing as lying in hot water and rose petals while her husband rubbed her feet - that it would have tickled. Instead, it felt like yet another undeserved gift that even her feet were worthy of his attentions.

"There should probably be room to wash, as well," Belle conceded, closing her eyes and trying to picture this giant of a bathtub. "And a bit deeper than the normal kind. In case of splashing."

"While we're fucking?"

"Spooning." Belle smiled, without opening her eyes. "Yes. If I can't spoil you as much as you spoil me, we ought at least to be able to share the nice things."

"I see." Humouring her, Rumpelstiltskin fell still, her feet still cupped in his hands. "I like to make you happy," he said, in a much smaller voice. "I like it very much." Belle put her hand on his knee, squeezing softly. "I'd not hoped for so much. You give me more than you know."

"I'm glad." Opening her eyes, Belle brushed petals from his knees and shared his shy smile. "Sometimes it seems that the world wants nothing from a wife but her dowry, and a string of sons. It ought to be more than that. A woman can do so much more."

"Even one who looks like a boiled lobster," he agreed, nastily, and gave a soft laugh when she flicked petals and water at him. "There's a balm to soothe that," he said, raising a hand to shield himself from her second, less heartfelt splash. "Enough magic to heal your face will cost you little, and spare a lot of questions," he added, picking petals from his chest and dropping them back into the water. "And for everywhere else," he said, leaning towards her with outstretched hands while she squirmed, half-heartedly attempting to keep him from his prize, "a balm to soothe the sting."

"It doesn't hurt," Belle laughed, giving in quickly and sitting up so that he could reach her breasts, squeezing one in each hand with an expression of simple delight.

"It will when your skin starts peeling off." Rumpelstiltskin gave her nipples a pinch, none too gently. "Wash yourself, little wife," he said, eyes sparkling behind steam-dampened curls. He indulged himself with another soft squeeze, filling her with the pleasant beginnings of renewed interest in touching him. "And then let me tend you."

"All right."

"And then fuck you," he whispered, loudly, and belly laughter reduced her to weak-limbed helplessness as her husband climbed out of the tub, dripping water and covered in red rose petals.

"I'm not insatiable," she managed, watching while a flush of his magic left him clothed, silk shirt over leather breeches and the intractable boots, neat and dry as though the moments before had never been. She wondered if there were even puddles on the floorboards, where he stood. "I like it, that's all. That's not wrong, is it?" she pleaded, a little pained by the thought that it might be.

Rumpelstiltskin, crouching to make up the fire, looked over his shoulder while she quickly washed herself.

"Of course it's not. I question your taste, not your appetite, my dear." He smirked, and turned back to the flames. "I do have to wonder if a handsome prince or other worthy fellow would ever manage to get you out of bed again."

"Don't say that," Belle protested, stung. "As if I'd want another man more than I want you. That's not fair. It's not _true_." The sting turned to annoyance, and she stepped out of the bath and grabbed for the pair of thick towels that hung over the foot of her bed. Wrapping one about her shoulders, she rubbed herself quickly with the other. "Would you swap me for a prettier girl, if you found one who'd have you? Do you bed me and wish that I were more lovely, that I had green eyes or fair hair? No," she said, hearing him stand up and take a breath to answer her. "If you do, I don't want to know. I don't wish for a handsome hero when I lie with you. Only for more of you."

Rumpelstiltskin eased himself between Belle and the abandoned bathtub, reaching around to embrace her from behind. She didn't resist him - didn't want to let the little hurt fester, now that she had said her piece.

"Your husband is a fool," he said, a low voiced murmur against her ear. "A fool who has never desired another as he desires you, and never will. There must be blue eyes more lovely than the sky, and chestnut hair," he went on, while his words melted the last of her resolve and allowed her to rest in the circle of his arms, captivated. "With ribbons in it," Rumpelstiltskin added, hopefully, nuzzling her hair.

"My husband thinks he's ugly," Belle said, mustering at least an honest reply, if not one to match his flattery. "I disagree. I've never wanted anyone but you. You know that. You showed me what wanting _is_." She folded her arms over his, sighing. Where had that fit of impatience come from, on such a peaceful day? It was unlike her, and unlikely to appeal to her husband, regardless of how he liked her hair colour or her eyes. "You comfort me and flatter me," she added, her voice small. "After I speak to you so."

Squeezing her, he let her go.

"This visit has been trying, and not the comfort that you hoped for when we came." Belle felt magic behind her. The bath was gone before she turned, the built up fire bathing her in welcome, dry heat. Rumpelstiltskin waited by the wardrobe, watching her with quiet fretfulness while she crouched by the fire for warmth, letting it dry her where she had been careless with the towel. "Will we leave, soon?"

"Yes," Belle said, heavily. "I think we should. This isn't my home. Not now." She took a deep breath, straightening up and covering herself as best she could with the pair of towels. "And you're right, it's better if you heal my face. There have been too many questions, and I'm tired of lying."

A sparkle in the palm of Rumpelstiltskin's hand caught her eye, and her interest. She watched the purple magic fade to leave a thick glass bottle in his palm, sealed with a cork.

"Wren's finest," he explained, displaying it between thumb and forefinger. "Fresh from her stores."

"You took it from Wren?" Belle asked, truly shocked, although she could not have put her finger on the reason why a theft from Wren should shock her more than any of the other outrageous things her husband did.

"And left a pile of silver in its place that would buy her cottage," Rumpelstiltskin replied, affronted. "She'll not take gold from me," he added, and sniffed. "I've no idea why."

"Because it's valueless if you can make all that you want by magic," Belle said, with gentle patience, reaching for the bottle.

"Allow me," he said, and sounded so hopeful that her laughter returned, albeit a faint shadow of what it had been in the bathtub. He became so worried, when her mood was unpredictable or she found herself ill humoured; it was definitely for the best that they leave, soon, and return to learning one another before they tried to face the world again as man and wife.

She had thought that it would only be a matter of courage and perseverance. How wrong she had been. How young, and how willfully blind.

At his gesture, Belle went to sit on the bed, glad that the room was warm. Rumpelstiltskin sat beside her, facing her, and offered a kiss that she was grateful to accept. Where their lips touched, she felt his magic spreading outwards, beneath her skin, and knew that he had healed her burned face, just as he said he would. She wondered what the cost would be. A headache? A lost thought?

"As for the rest of you," he said, breaking the kiss with a sigh, "this will heal it in good time."

Belle watched him pour a golden oil into his palm, then clamp the uncorked bottle between his knees. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the oil, and then placed his hands upon her shoulders, stroking the stuff across her skin from shoulders to elbows. It smelled of fresh green plants, reminding her rather of the balm which he had used on their wedding night to see to her comfort. That had been cold, and rather sticky. This was warmed by his hands, and slippery between his skin and hers.

Eyes alight with enjoyment, Rumpelstiltskin dealt with each of her forearms in turn, dropping fresh oil into her palms before spreading it upwards. Belle's flesh _did_ feel too tender, under a repeated caress. Watching him rub her hands as he had her feet, she remembered a long-ago day at the beach when, escaping from the watchful eye of her governess with Lotte and Leorna to play in the rock pools, she had shed her shawl and gone bare-armed under the midday sun. That night, she had tossed and turned with a fever (although it had been the scolding that did most to keep her from her sleep) and woken the next morning with her skin aflame, everywhere that she had gone so shamefully bare.

This did not seem so bad as that, but she recognised the particular soreness beneath Rumpelstiltskin's hands, and the unpleasant heat of it. Then, it had been confined to her arms, shoulders and face. The redness was all over her, this time!

"Turn around," Rumpelstiltskin said, and Belle did, pulling her hair forward over one shoulder to expose her back to him. She shivered when his oily palms rested at the small of her back; the touch was curiously intimate and the sensation of his coarse hands gliding over oiled skin was... pleasant. Yes. Extremely pleasant, and calming also. She rubbed her hands together, slowly, while Rumpelstiltskin coated her back and shoulders with the oil and then, when Belle dropped her chin to her chest with a contented sigh, kissed the back of her neck and reached around to cup her breasts.

"We'll both get distracted, if you do that," she said, but without a trace of protest. What oil remained on his hands felt silky as he kneaded the soft flesh, his mouth hot against her neck and shoulders.

"That's no bad thing," he remarked, gently. Remembering her fraught reaction to his playful comments, but a short while ago, Belle gave a sheepish nod. "You've not had cause to enjoy being my wife, these past days," Rumpelstiltskin continued, squeezing the flesh of her shoulders in a way that seemed to wring out tightness and tension from her entire body.

"Until last night," Belle smiled, and waited while he poured more oil into his hand. "I shouldn't think you've very much enjoyed being my husband, these past days," she ventured, voicing what she knew must be true. The marriage had been his choice, his wish, but he had not expected to face the world with his wife beside him, nor to deal with the consequences of their affection. Where Belle hoped for love, for happiness, others would surely see a weakness that might be used against Rumpelstiltskin.

Papa had been right about that. The more Rumpelstiltskin grew to care for her, the greater the danger. No wonder he had been so afraid. He both doubted her sincerity and feared that her love might be genuine.

He didn't answer her, save to kiss her shoulders and neck with more enthusiasm, his hands returning to her breasts to spread oil upwards to her throat, then down her flanks and belly. _Those_ touches were anything but soothing, and when Rumpelstiltskin slipped an oily hand between her thighs, her breath quickened readily.

"You shouldn't have put your clothes on," she managed, her thoughts fraying at the curious warmth of the oil against her most tender parts. Rumpelstiltskin barely touched her there, save to coat her with the stuff, but his right hand was busy with her breast, and he had begun to lower his kisses down her twitching spine. "What a waste of magic," Belle breathed, her hands going to the backs of his, following his movements without making any effort to guide him. She preferred not to know whether he shared experience or a powerful imagination, when he loved her; she only wished that she could think of such wonderful things with which to drive his troubles away.

A waste of magic or not, Belle had to bite back a moan when she felt him return to being naked, behind her. His hands abandoned her a final time, to take up more of the oil and then to put the stoppered bottle out of harm's way on her dresser. Belle crawled onto the bed, longing to turn and see him, and when she did so, found Rumpelstiltskin sitting quite naked, nervously rubbing his slippery palms together. He had turned and hunched so that she could see little of him, but a nudge with her toe reminded him of his business and he came to kneel between her ankles, eyes downcast while he smoothed oil from her feet up past her knees.

"I so like to see you," Belle told him, trying to keep her sadness from spoiling the pleasure of being pampered; of seeing him as she wished to see him. "Please, don't fret about it." Propped on her elbows, she drew up her knees, exposing herself in a fashion that, even now, made her alarmingly uncomfortable. But what of it? He flinched so merely to show her his chest, or a hasty glimpse beneath his nightgown. She would flinch too, if it meant that he grew more at ease because of it. Rumpelstiltskin's lips parted, his shoulders rising and falling in not quite a gasp, but a startled breath. He swallowed, thumbs pressing into her inner thighs, and stole a glimpse of her face, her eyes, that seemed to melt his haunted expression. Belle gave him a hopeful smile.

"Too kind for an old monster," he murmured, bending and beginning to kiss his way from her right knee, slowly and thoroughly upwards towards the apex of her thighs. Belle watched him, curiosity mingling with the quivering anticipation of his mouth, _there_. She managed to keep her balance while freeing one hand so that she could caress his hair, and remembered how he had trembled when she kissed his cock. She still felt that she ought to be shocked by the entire business, but where pleasure followed so easily for either one of them, she could find no wrong. Letting her head fall back, when his mouth finally reached her and his hot tongue stroked her folds, Belle tried to concentrate; to remember how he used his mouth on her, so that she might try to please him better the next time. It was an impossible task, once his thumb parted her folds of flesh to allow him to tease her deep down; she could only surrender to the experience, and listen with flushed delight to the greedy sounds he made down there, like a man feasting on wonders.

Belle fell limply against the bedclothes when the most delicate climax shook her; Rumpelstiltskin sucked at the little bud, fingers going inside her and drawing out the pleasure until she could hardly bear it. She could make no sound until the sharp pulses of inner heat subsided, and then covered her mouth with her hand to keep from making them while she panted for breath. Before she could recover herself at all, Rumpelstiltskin resumed his upward journey, kissing her tight nest of curls, her twitching belly, her ribs and finally stopping to indulge himself thoroughly at her breasts, suckling the left as he squeezed and rubbed the right.

His cock was fully erect, pressed between his belly and her thigh; she rubbed his head, watching him while her head continued to spin from the tight little shocks of sensation that he coaxed from deep within, merely by rubbing or suckling a nipple. Belle commanded herself to be patient, to allow him to take her as he wished, this time. There was no need to pull and demand and grind herself against him as though she would never again know such pleasures. She would know them often, just as Rumpelstiltskin would, and she was beginning to comprehend that the burning need inside was a sort of pleasure in itself - a promise of later completion.

Raising his head, Rumpelstiltskin looked as flustered and dreamy as Belle felt herself. She smiled, offering her arms, and he gave her his mouth willingly for a few, heated strokes. His tongue brought the taste of the oil, the sweet-salt of her own juices; Belle groaned, running her hands wherever she could reach to feel the heat of his skin, the unique texture of him to combine with the taste of kisses.

"Turn over, my love," he whispered, dragging hot, clumsy kisses towards her temple. His voice shook. _He_ shook. "Turn over for me." Belle complied, once she could remind her limbs of how such a feat might be accomplished; she rolled onto her belly and felt Rumpelstiltskin settle on her back, guiding his cock between her thighs. After a moment of fidgeting he grabbed a pillow and brought it to her, lifting her and tucking it beneath her hips, so that when he sank down above her again, guided his cock again, he had only to push to be in her. "Oh..." he said, as though startled that it had even worked, while Belle tried to adjust to the new sensations - the familiar and the unfamiliar together, not only inside her but where he covered her like a blanket, and when he moved, how the residue of the healing oil made skin glide over skin.

She was lost to it, especially when Rumpelstiltskin covered her hands with his and laced their fingers together; each soft thrust or roll of his hips brought her pleasure - a deep, warm satisfaction this time in place of the shallow shocks that had come before - but did not drive her to the peak. Sensation blurred together, and she need do nothing to earn it; indeed, there was nothing that she could do, pinned so comfortably beneath him, except enjoy the gentle journey.

He would stop to kiss her, sometimes, tucking her hair out of the way to lavish affection upon her temple, her cheek, her neck. Like this, making love seemed to be fondness and intimacy given form. Wonderful. So wonderful.

It seemed to take a very long time, yet pass too quickly, as the best dreams sometimes did. Belle bit her lip when a brisk urgency replaced Rumpelstiltskin's steady patience; she listened to the rhythm of the sounds that they made, falling towards the moment of helpless perfection. The creak of her old bed, the involuntary sighs and groans when they exhaled, and the rustle of the bedclothes. As with such a fleeting dream, everything became vivid just before it broke - before Belle could be still no longer, her toes and palms pushing frantically against the mattress when the peak came, her convulsions accompanied by Rumpelstiltskin's faltering thrusts, and his long groan of satisfaction.

They managed to fumble their way to proper kisses, side by side and both still trembling. Belle wanted to cling to him, to hold him so tightly that she could barely breathe, but her limbs were weak. Her thoughts had flown, and she blinked foolishly at her husband, who looked as shaken as she felt. Stroking hands soothed for a long while, between kisses that left urgency behind and grew shallow and quiet.

Finally, a lock of his hair curled around her finger, Belle coaxed Rumpelstiltskin's head to her shoulder and felt his contented sigh as he settled there, one hand finding its way to her breast as though it belonged there.

It was only when time had calmed her, and the air had begun to feel uncomfortably cool, that she regained her senses enough to think on it, and to realise that her husband, now drowsing in her embrace, had called her his love. Belle put her hand to her mouth, not trusting herself to be silent in the thrill of the revelation, but it was only a smile that she smothered. Only a girlish giggle of heartfelt wonder.

His _love_.


	59. The Old Life and the New

It was mid-morning before Belle emerged from her room. She felt lighthearted, and light-headed as well, and was preoccupied with the thought that, had they been at home, she and Rumpelstiltskin would still be abed.

It was a pleasant thought, if a guilty one, and Belle had to fight to hide her smiles as she moved through the castle. She had longed since girlhood for adventure of all kinds, and had never expected marriage - _that_ aspect of marriage - to provide one, without any need to leave her own bed.

If this was no longer her home then she was a guest, and a guest could not lock herself away in her room, regardless of the temptations put in her path by a self-satisfied and quietly smiling husband. Belle needed to see her father, and to make arrangements for the things that she would take back with her to the Dark Castle, and wished to at least _see_ market day before they left.

She felt no pang of grief about the prospect of leaving, now. The wounds of mistrust and disappointment were fresher than her sense of loss. Were it not for her father, ailing and alone, Belle thought that she would not look back again with sorrow. In saving her people, she had alienated them, and if that was the price of her happiness with Rumpelstiltskin then so be it.

So be it.

"Belle!" She had been making her way, distractedly, towards her father's study in the hope of finding him - his voice from behind brought her up short, and she turned, smiling in greeting, to see him hurrying to catch up with her. "Should you be up and about, petal?" He put a hand on her shoulder, watching her face with worried eyes. "Lotte said you were burned, somehow," he added, gesturing to her face.

"It's nothing," Belle said, frowning. "What else has Lotte been saying?" She took Sir Maurice by the arm and drew him aside, as the steward passed by in conversation with a maid. "Papa, you don't have her spying on me?"

"Spying?" Expression twisting in confusion, her father shook his head. "Is it spying to know how my daughter fares?" he demanded, but without fire. He sounded tired and looked unhappy.

"I don't want to share private things with Lotte if she brings them straight to you," Belle said, trying to soothe with her tone - her own frustration as much as her father's. "I'm not sure she knows the difference, or much about... well... about marriage." She blushed.

So did Sir Maurice.

"I suppose not," he agreed, and cleared his throat. "I don't have her listening at doors, Belle."

"That's just as well," Belle said, before she could stop herself, and thought of how very recently she and Rumpelstiltskin had been vocal in their enjoyment of one another. Her blush deepened, remembering how even a kiss had seemed scandalous, under this roof, but a few days ago. "I was coming to look for you," she went on, striking out for firmer ground. "Are you busy?"

"Never too busy for you, girl," Maurice assured her. "The King left my castle in chaos, and didn't forget to take his taxes with him when he left, such as they are. It's market day and a lot of the traders are new here. I was about to go and hide in my study, to be quite honest with you."

Belle laughed.

"Who manages the servants and the stores now that I'm gone?" She took his arm as they walked - probably a ghastly impropriety in a married woman, but Belle couldn't bring herself to care, after all that had happened.

"Lowland, for the most part," Maurice said, sounding as relieved as Belle felt about the change of topic. "I think it's gone to his head."

"It would!" Belle frowned. The steward was a solid man, reliable, but prideful and ambitious. He was not a man in whom she would put her trust when it came to bookkeeping, or the dull task of maintaining an inventory. "You must have a wife, Papa. The accounts cannot be left to the steward, and you must think of your health."

Even now, a stack of correspondence and ledgers awaited her father's attention, at the centre of his makeshift desk. Belle closed the door behind them, hearing her father's heavy sigh.

"I don't want a new wife, you know." He sat down and sorted through the papers, pulling out a document of creamy vellum. "And this will mean that I don't even have a daughter," he added, pushing it across the table for Belle to see, before leaning back in his chair, hands limp on the arm rests.

"You'll _always_ have a daughter," Belle said, scolding a little because his bleak mood frightened her, almost as much as did his weak heart. "Just nobody to inherit. "I'm sure there must be widows who don't particularly want a new husband," she went on, taking the document and drawing up a chair to sit and read it. "But need one anyway. Perhaps she will have sons already? Half a dozen of them?"

Maurice smiled, shaking his head at her.

"Getting married - children," he said, while Belle read. "It's for people your age, petal, not for old men."

"I think my husband agrees with you," she said, absently, as she untangled the wording of the royal clerks. "But he's a great deal older than you, Papa, and he seems to manage to make the best of it."

It was not until she had reached the bottom of the document that would sever her from her inheritance that she realised how off-handedly she had spoken, and glanced up in apology. "I only mean that there's someone for everyone," she said, and saw her father's wry smile return.

"If there's someone for the Spinner, perhaps you're right," Maurice conceded. "The Prince mentioned Lady Marcelle has been alone since the first battle at the mountain pass," he said, with slow reluctance. "Alphonse was taken by a fever before he ever saw an ogre." Clearing his throat again, Maurice shifted in his chair. "He left three sons and four daughters, all younger than you are."

"Lady Marcelle is a very shrewd woman," Belle said, taming her own smile with care, thinking of Prince James and his refreshing directness. "And quite lovely, I seem to recall. Her father was a sea captain, her mother's father a grain merchant."

"She's half my age!" Maurice protested, but it was a half-hearted protest at best.

"I should think it must be very hard for her, with so many children," Belle said, with contrived innocence, as she reached for quill and ink. "Sir Alphonse was not a wealthy man, was he?"

"No," her father said. "No, he wasn't."

"Seven children," Belle mused, as she signed her name to the document. She felt nothing but relief. "Their house wasn't very big."

Quietly, Belle pushed the document back to her father's side of the table. He looked at the document for a long time, then set it aside, pale and sober.

"You think that I should approach her?" he asked, less certain than she had ever known.

"I think that Prince James is quite a good judge of people," Belle answered. "And there's always the possibility that he was speaking for the King. Indirectly, of course. He seems quite good at all the sneaky politics, as well."

"I don't know about any of it," Maurice muttered, but then gave her his full attention in a way that made Belle feel that she must have done something wrong. "Is this how you felt about my sending you off with Gaston? Like meat at a market?" He picked up a quill, then dropped it again, impatiently. "You didn't want to go with him, did you?"

"No," Belle said, taken aback. "I didn't." She bit her lip, looking at her hands in her lap. "Not because you chose poorly, but because the choice was yours, and the Duke's. I don't think Gaston would have chosen me, either." She hesitated, collecting her courage to ask the question that had come to her so quietly as she spoke. "Would you have chosen Mama?"

"No," her father said, hoarsely, and when Belle looked up in shock, held up a placating hand. "She loved another, and her father wouldn't allow it. She was a good wife, but not a happy one. In you, now, I can see..." He looked away, too late to hide the dampness of his eyes. "If the choice had been mine, she would have married for love. So would I. And so would you. It isn't how the world works."

"I know." Belle went to stand behind his chair, putting her hands on his shoulders and bending to kiss the top of his head. "That's why I'm lucky."

Sniffing, nodding, Maurice straightened his back.

"And why I must proposition some harassed war widow to accept a man old enough to be her father," he agreed.

"There are other widows," Belle smiled, squeezing his shoulders. "I think you can find an agreeable one if you look. Any woman would be blessed to have you as her husband. You only have to find one sensible enough to see that."

Nodding, Sir Maurice reached for the pile of papers and ledgers.

"The King was kind enough to mention that we can all take heart, from your marriage," he said, gruffly. "If Rumpelstiltskin can win the heart of the most beautiful in the land, there's hope for all of us."

Belle laughed, some childish part of her breaking free from the restraints of adulthood. She had missed Papa's dour humour, and missed his praise as well. Besides, this morning, she _felt_ beautiful - even knowing that, beneath her sensible blue dress and long woollen sleeves, she was mottled all over. The sting of it was only very slight, and her husband found her beautiful in spite of her cooked appearance. He had called her his love. He had made her feel that she could fly, and that felt like beauty on the inside, where it mattered.

"His Majesty has but one son," she said, perching herself on the edge of Maurice's desk while he broke the seal on a letter. "Why is Prince James unmarried?"

"The highest in the land can afford to wait for love, it seems."

"Not if they plan to slay dragons," Belle said, her burst of joy settling somewhat at the sudden vision of James battling a fire-breathing monster. "And might leave a kingdom without an heir." She couldn't help smiling at a new thought, as dark as its predecessor had been. "Lotte would marry him."

Sir Maurice gave her an exasperated look.

"I'm glad you're in good spirits, my girl," he said. "I was sure you were going to your grave, the other night."

"I'm sorry, Papa." With the childish lightness of spirit came the memory of how it felt to be chastised as a little girl, when her father's approval had meant the world to her. Had _been_ the world to her.

She watched him read the first of the letters, then set it aside with the document that she had signed. His eyes lingered on it before he dropped the new paper to cover it.

"Is it very important to a man, to have an heir?"

"A daughter was always enough for me. You know that." He took another letter, breaking the seal with unsteady hands. "But I should have seen to it sooner. Got you a brother, made our lands safe. You could've married for love, then."

"I think it's all right if love comes afterwards," Belle said, feeling shy and turning her face away so that he wouldn't see her expression. "And the ogres would still have come, Papa. Don't forget that."

He put his hand on her leg - a startling, strange intimacy that she had thought long gone with her girlhood. She put her own hand on top of his.

"You're right." Maurice sighed, heavily. "I hate that you were his price, that's all. That I couldn't protect you."

He looked so old. She had wondered if it had happened since she left, a sign of his grief, but now she understood - she had come home with fresh eyes, and found him without the stoic sense of purpose that had carried them all through the last days of the war.

"It turned out for the best," she said, her voice husky with emotion - tenderness, sadness. "Please - try to be happy for me. I don't want to think of you worrying when I'm not here. There's no need."

Taking her hand between both of his, Maurice nodded. He couldn't look at her.

"The stories say he has no heart," he said, his voice as unsteady as hers. "The clerics that he has no soul. You say that he's a proper husband and makes you happy." He shook his head, swallowing. "I don't know what to think, my darling girl. I don't."

"He has a heart." Belle squeezed his hands in both of her own, tucking them into her lap. "It beats faster than mine, but he has one. I promise."

They were silent a while, clutching one another's hands and lost in their own thoughts. Belle collected herself first and brought out a leather pouch from her sleeve, offering it to her father. "More of your medicine," she said, and watched her father take it, struggling to school his expression.

"Give him my thanks," he managed, nodding firmly.

Belle smiled.

"I will."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes." There was a stab of hurt in her breast, but it was subdued. There had been too many other hurts, and too little time to heal them. "I think it's best. Our people must trust you. They can no longer trust me."

"Belle..."

"You know I'm right. Bewitched or not, I must be loyal to my husband, first." Slipping from the table, Belle made a show of straightening her skirts. She had promised herself that there would be no tears. "Perhaps you'll visit me, next time?" She smiled, hesitantly. "I don't think he'd refuse me that, and I'd so like to see the expression on his face when you bring a new wife and seven children."

Pushing back his chair, Sir Maurice stood and looked down at her until the silence grew too long.

"I miss you, petal," he said, nothing but a rough whisper, and grasped her shoulders, pulling her against his big chest and embracing her too tightly. "I missed you so much."

No tears, Belle commanded herself, but it was a battle to keep that small promise as she clung to her father, and remembered that, once, his embrace had driven away all fear. All doubt. All sorrow. Now, it was the arms of another that brought such precious comforts, and in her father's arms there was only a desperate, childlike love. His arms, his love, had been her world. Now, they were but a part of it, struggling to find their place like any other.

They stared at one another when they parted, neither knowing what to say.

"Tell me I've not driven you away?" Papa begged, just as Belle began to turn, to go.

"Not you," Belle managed, her voice shaking. "All of it. Everything that's happened. The way they look at me, the way they were so ready to believe the clerics. All of it." Papa nodded, bravely. "It's not forever."

"Of course not."

"I'll come back for your wedding," Belle went on, as desperate to draw out the moment as she was to have it end. Her voice rose in pitch with the effort of keeping back her tears. "If the bride will welcome us."

"Yes." Sir Maurice squared his shoulders, straightened his back and came to escort her to the door. "I'll marry no woman who'd shut you out," he said, and spoke as if he had found some purpose, some confidence, in that declaration. "You'll be at my wedding, petal, and your husband with you." He hesitated, and his mouth softened with the hint of a smile. "If he promises not to talk to the bride before the wedding night."

Belle barely caught a snigger in the palm of her hand, and looked at her father over the top of it, wide-eyed with shock.

"I think I can secure his word on that," she managed, appalled at herself, and at Rumpelstiltskin too for making her look at the world in such a new light. Even her poor father, who didn't even _want_ a wife, or a wedding night. "I'd like to take my saddle," she added, remembering her sudden, whimsical plan while she had been out riding. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Maurice said, his smile broadening, quite probably in the renewed hope that Belle might, one day, see the virtues of horses and their breeding as something more than a means of transport. "You're not to use it once you get with child," he added, with the same stern confidence that had underpinned all Belle's lessons in horsemanship. "You're not to ride at all."

"Yes, Papa," she said, obediently - and glad of an opportunity to _be_ obedient to him, after so much conflict.

"Good girl."

"I'll see you before we leave, then," Belle promised, and made herself turn and go without a single tear falling.

~+~

Lotte might have been damp-eyed and blotchy at the prospect of her mistress leaving, but that did not prevent her from organising Belle's belongings with a champion efficiency.

Rumpelstiltskin made himself scarce before maids descended upon Belle's room, and upon the boxes of clothes that had been stored for her some weeks earlier, making everything ready for the road. Belle had thought that it might take until the following morning to make ready, and tried not to believe that the efficient haste of the servants was, at least in part, motivated by a desire to see the back of Rumpelstiltskin just as soon as possible. And of Rumpelstiltskin's wife.

This time, Belle felt that she was truly flying the nest; all of her belongings went into her trunk or one of the crates that held the rest of her clothing. Books, soaps, lotions, letters, trinkets and her new cloth from the market - all of it packed away, leaving her room unhappily bare save for the leather sacks containing the contents of Rumpelstiltskin's makeshift laboratory. No maid had touched those, and Belle had spent long minutes emptying the table with fingertip care, grateful that nothing liquid had been left for her to deal with. Nothing magical, she guessed, and of the iron pot with its heavy leather straps, there was no sign. No sign, either, of the two cloaks that had been sacrificed to Rumpelstiltskin's experiments.

All was ready before mid-afternoon, and, with Rumpelstiltskin still absent, Belle retrieved her purse from Lotte - now considerably lighter thanks to the purchase of silks - and ventured out to see the market, a basket over her arm. Wary recognition did not prevent the stallholders from taking her money with a smile, or filling her basket with a fresh loaf, a soft cheese and a stone flask of elderberry wine. Lastly, wanting to take a gift for Wren, Belle wandered the stalls belonging to the craftspeople, choosing an embroidered white handkerchief with edges decorated in soft lace. It was too small a present, for the one person to welcome her in Odstone, but Belle doubted that Wren would accept anything of greater value.

When she made her way back to the castle gates, Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin's carriage waiting there, the impassive coachman up on the box. As badly as she wanted to leave, the reality of it made her heart pound and her throat tighten. When she had left, after that perfunctory wedding ceremony, she had been too afraid to think of very much - just of placing one foot in front of the other as Rumpelstiltskin guided her to the carriage, of not disgracing herself or her father. This time, her feelings were all over the place, from grief to resentment to a profound and guilty sense of relief.

Much to her surprise, Belle found Rumpelstiltskin just inside the castle, speaking quietly with Sir Maurice and watched, wide-eyed, by Lotte. Belle's saddle was over her father's arm, gleaming, while Lotte had Belle's travelling basket at her feet, packed with books, water and, if Lotte had remembered, a handful of the bark pills to ward off headache.

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin broke from the small party to greet her.  He wore his own furred travelling cloak and held hers ready, wrapping her in it and fastening the gold clasp at her chest.  "All is ready." It was almost a question, made so by the lifting of his eyebrows, visible only to Belle. She nodded, after the barest pause, changing her basket from one hand to the other to slip her arms into the wide velvet sleeves.

"Ready," she said, almost steadily. Rumpelstiltskin reached around her waist and stood with her, as she faced her father.

"We... we were talking about the sort of horse that suits you best, petal," Papa said, raising the saddle to show her. He was struggling as much as she to restrain his emotions, and among them was surprise, no doubt at finding Rumpelstiltskin capable of civil conversation.

"It's best to take the advice of an expert in such matters," her husband said, and allowed Maurice to put the saddle over his arm. "I will find her a suitable mount, Sir Maurice. Fear not." He tightened his hold on Belle's waist a little. "We want no harm to come to the lady."

Although discomfited, her father looked gratified as well. Not to mention relieved.

"Lotte?" Belle took a deep breath, praying that her maid would not dissolve into tears, and not only because it irritated Rumpelstiltskin so. She feared that the sight of Lotte's tears would encourage her own.

Rumpelstiltskin chose that moment to make a curt bow to Sir Maurice, spin on his heel and stride off towards the waiting carriage. Belle put down her basket and offered her arms to Lotte, who snuffled unhappily as they embraced, but managed not to cry.

"You have the silk for your gown?" she asked, knowing perfectly well that Lotte did, for she had joined the maids in admiring it just hours earlier. "See that it's made well for you. It's too fine for the likes of us to sew."

"Yes, my Lady," Lotte said, unable to be completely miserable when reminded of her gift. "Thank you for it, my Lady. I'll think of you when I wear it."

"And I'll think of you when your lotions and potions keep my hair from looking like a bird's nest every morning," Belle promised, earning a more confident smile from her maid. "I'll write to you soon. And you're to see that my Papa looks after himself, even if he doesn't like it," she added, and turned her head in time to see Maurice roll his eyes to the heavens in a prayer for patience.

"Don't worry about me, my girl," he said, taking her by the hand and leaving Lotte to follow them, carrying the baskets the short distance to the waiting carriage. "Remember what I said. Keep your eyes open for danger."

"I will, Papa." Belle clutched his hand as tightly as she could, seeing the people milling about near the carriage. Not a crowd, not lining the way as they had when Rumpelstiltskin took her away the last time, but still come to see her go. "Please write to me," she begged, feeling time running away from them, and too much left unsettled between them. "I promise that I'll write more often."

"Good girl," Sir Maurice managed, squeezing her hand almost as tightly in return. "Have a safe journey, now." Belle heard him swallow as he released her at the carriage. Lotte dodged past Rumpelstiltskin, timidly, to place the baskets into the carriage, and Rumpelstiltskin watched her with a small, unreadable smile.

"Thank you, Lotte," he said, with a silken softness that ought to have sounded gentle, but did not. Lotte dropped a frantic curtsey towards him, gave Belle one last, hopeless look, then scurried towards the castle before her tears began. "She's learning," Rumpelstiltskin said, under his breath.

"Goodbye then," Belle said, too quickly, afraid that she would cry herself if she lingered any longer. Rumpelstiltskin lifted her to the step, hands at her waist, and followed her into the carriage a moment later.

"Safe journey," her father said, closing the door and raising a hand in a weak wave when Belle peeked from behind the little curtain.

"Don't look back, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin urged, as the carriage lurched into motion. He moved across to sit close beside her, their backs to the horses, and slipped his arm behind her. "Best not to look back."

Belle nodded, and set her jaw as bravely as she could. He was right - she would only make herself weep if she watched her old home and her old life vanishing away, or tried to see her Papa standing, forlorn, outside the castle. She sat upright and stared at the opposite seat until the wheels were no longer on cobbles, and then looked at her husband, who was scowling intently at his free hand, resting upon his knee.

"I'm all right," she said, quietly. "You were right. Not looking back, that's the way." Rumpelstiltskin nodded, accommodating her without a word when she leaned in to his side, wriggling down so that her head could rest upon his shoulder. The fur trim of his hood made an excellent pillow, and she was sure that without the comfort of his arm about her, she would be weeping.

"We'll travel more slowly," Rumpelstiltskin said, speaking cautiously, as though he feared that the wrong word might start the flood. "A different inn, tonight. Unless you wish to be home for any urgent reason?"

"No," Belle said, finding a sort of inner calm in quiet honesty. "Just away from there. Wherever you are. That's all."

He squeezed her, gently, and made a contented little sound when she put her arms around him, burrowing beneath his cloak to find a place for her hands. The knot of pain in her throat began to loosen, then to dissolve entirely when Rumpelstiltskin reached up to pet her hair. She had tied it too carelessly in the midst of all the hasty preparation, but had remembered his request for a ribbon. A black velvet one and a fine, pale blue silk one twined together to keep two plaits fastened at the back of her head, restraining the rest of her hair from falling into her face. Rumpelstiltskin found them with his fingers, exploring them with a high-pitched sound of pleasure, but leaving them as they were. For later, Belle realised, and the warmth of the thought soothed her grief into something less sharp, less distracting.

Even so, it hurt to think of her father - his expression as they parted, so lost, so helpless.

"My old life and my new life," she said, making a fist around the silk of his shirt and appreciating, just distantly, that he had dispensed with the hard leather jerkin and his stiff waistcoats. She wondered if he meant it for his own comfort as they travelled, or hers. "I feel like I'm being torn in two."

Perhaps one, small tear escaped her then, but it was soon enough lost in his fur collar that she could pretend that it had not.

"I know," Rumpelstiltskin said, and there was something leaden in his voice that made her nestle nearer to him, offering comfort as much as receiving it. He pulled her more tightly against him, in return. "Believe me, treasure, I know the feeling well."


	60. Unique

He read to her, during the long afternoon hours, from a book of childhood favourite stories that Belle had slipped into her basket among the more serious tomes from Rumpelstiltskin's library.

To Belle's giggling delight, he took to performing the various voices and adding comical mannerisms, and then to supplying his own little asides and insights into the tales that she knew so well. Rumpelstiltskin was showing off, of course, but she could easily forgive him that. He was so wickedly good at it. When he came to the end of the fourth tale, and tucked her goose feather bookmark between the pages, Belle realised that she had been smiling for so long that her face ached.

Outside the carriage, a driving rain had turned to hail. She hadn't even noticed, until Rumpelstiltskin stopped reading to her.

"You're wonderful," she told him, stretching her arms and then her legs in as ladylike a manner as she could find, tucked into the corner of a carriage. "I could listen to you forever."

Beside her, Rumpelstiltskin ducked his head at her praise, and made a careful study of the worn cover of her book.

"You're too kind, my dear," he murmured, as Belle yawned and wriggled to encourage the blood to remember its way to her feet. "You're not too uncomfortable?"

"Oh... no." Belle turned herself to face him, smiling gently. "Perhaps I'm getting used to the magic."

"You're rather pale. You endured much, these past days." Rumpelstiltskin looked up, eyes full of worry and tenderness. "So brave," he said, with a sad smile, and touched her chin with his knuckles. "Your husband will take better care of you, little wife."

Belle edged herself nearer to him, taking his hand.

"When we get back," she began, trying not to get tangled up in her nervousness, "I'd like to share rooms with you. I'd miss you," she explained, seeing his eyes widen. "And you wanted to find me warmer quarters. Couldn't we share?"

Opening his mouth to speak, Rumpelstiltskin soon closed it again, defeated. His brows drew together in puzzlement.

"You ought to have something of your own," he ventured, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. "Your own place."

"That's my kitchen," Belle declared, confidently. "That's all mine." She leaned nearer to him, smirking. "Enter at your peril, husband."

"I see." He was doing his very best not to smile at her boldness. Belle was doing her best not to kiss him and allow him to escape her suggestion. "I confess," Rumpelstiltskin said, taking her by the elbows and drawing her closer still, "that sleep appeals more to me, in your company."

"I'm glad."

"Particularly when you take pains to wear me out, first." He flashed a smile, then kissed her before she could reply, the kiss as naughty as his smile, all tongues and appreciative murmurs between them. Uncertain as to whether or not she had persuaded him, Belle tried to hold on to the thought, the sense of purpose, but it slipped away as Rumpelstiltskin lifted her across his lap, his arms snaking beneath her heavy cloak to hold her securely against the rocking of the carriage.

Hands behind his neck, Belle kissed him again, closing her eyes to concentrate on the pure sensation; on the familiar taste of him, of kisses. There was no sense of urgency in it, which warmed her in ways other than their usual kisses. To nestle with him, to kiss him and to toy with his hair while their mouths teased - it was enough to make a perfect moment between them, one that needed no addition to be complete.

Belle knew that she was smiling, foolishly, by the time they broke apart and rested, forehead to forehead, surrounded by the battering of the hail storm.

"Are you more difficult to wear out than other men?" she asked, giddy with the small wonder of the shared moment.

"Oh, yes," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, promptly, if insincerely. "Much more."

"Then I'm a very fortunate wife indeed." She touched her lips to his, stealing the briefest of kisses. "That wearing out my husband is no chore."

"I'm glad of it," he whispered, tucking her close against him, their cheeks together. "I've never known such pleasures."

"Never?" Startled, Belle drew back - just far enough to see his face, his expression. He made a face and avoided her eyes, unhappy with the scrutiny, but shook his head in answer. She fidgeted with his hair, and remembered what he had said, once, about the business being all elbows and dashed hopes. "Oh."

"I was no prize as a mortal man," he said, diffidently. "And then this." Extracting his right hand from beneath her cloak, he held it up between them. "Not a great help in finding a willing woman."

"Did you look?"

"What?"

Belle settled herself more securely across his knees, letting herself sway with the motion of the carriage. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance, and watched him.

"Did you ever look, before you came for me? For a woman who was willing?"

"...no." He looked almost appalled at the thought, then rallied, squaring his shoulders and straightening on the seat. "You underestimate your uniqueness, my dear."

"Hmm." Belle touched his nose, where the skin grew coarser at the tip. "I may be strange," she said, pulling her hand away when he tried to kiss it, "but hardly unique."

"Unique," he insisted. "As are all true treasures."

Flattered, Belle conceded defeat - for the moment. She slipped from his knees and arranged herself on the opposite seat, pulling her cloak more securely about her to keep out the chill.

"Everything in your collection is strange," she smiled, seeing how he watched her; soft eyed with wonder and hope. "At least I'm in good company."

Rumpelstiltskin seemed speechless, watching her with that open expression that mingled disbelief with gratitude, desire with confusion, warmth with fear. Had that fear kept him from even looking for love, since the loss of his first wife? Belle could not imagine a life spent turned away from the world - not the length and tedium of it, or the loneliness. Better pain and loss than to simply be _alone_ in the world, surely?

"Will you tell me about her?" she asked, uncertainly. "Your wife?"

The soft expression closed in upon itself, leaving Rumpelstiltskin's lips a thin line of distaste and his jaw hard. He looked down at the space between them, at Belle's knees, and arranged his hands in his lap with studious care. When he opened the left, her white satin cord was there, coiled in his palm.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked, making an effort to soften a grudging tone of voice to something more civil.

"How she failed to see what I see, I suppose," Belle sighed. She would not press him to speak of things that hurt him so, promise or no promise. It was only difficult to be compared and contrasted, always, with a woman whose rejection had scarred Rumpelstiltskin so; taught him to expect nothing but rejection and abandonment. "Papa... he said..." Frowning, Belle paused to organise her thoughts before she spoke them. This was too delicate. She could not simply blunder in. "He told me, today, that Mama loved another. That she was unhappy, as his wife. She was loyal," Belle said, quickly, with an anxious glance at Rumpelstiltskin's face. His eyes were on the coil of satin in his palm. "I didn't know. Their marriage was arranged, I knew that, but..." She shook her head. "Everything reminds me how lucky I've been, to find you."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drew the cord between his fingertips, straightening and smoothing it.

"She wanted a better life than I could give her," he said, eventually. Belle had to strain to hear him over the rattle of the carriage, the wheels upon the road, and the hammering of the hail. "A better man than I was. We had... something." He wound the white satin around and around his left index finger. "But not passion." He tilted his head, face contorting as he battled with himself - with a bitterness that, she could see, ran like a poison. "I looked only for comfort in a hard life, Belle. Truly. Companionship. Warmth at night. Someone to..." He shook his head, straightening. "Small dreams for small men," he said, his voice harder and louder. "And then I went to war, and I wasn't a hero. Just a small man who didn't want to die there in the mud and the smoke, and never hear his child's cry."

Aching for him, Belle would have stopped him - gone back to his side, distracted him from the memories that she had dredged up, but Rumpelstiltskin had begun to weave the cat's cradle. He spoke with a calm and quiet absorption, his brow furrowed.

"I ran away." He snorted, baring his teeth in a bitter, dark smile. "A coward."

"But you lived to see your son," Belle said, weakly. "To be a father to him. Is that how you were wounded? Your foot? In the battle?"

"You might say that." Abruptly, Rumpelstiltskin pulled the cord from his fingers and balled it up in his right fist. He sat back and stared at her, eyes narrowed with near-hostility. "I did that to myself. To be sent home with the wounded while others fought and died. What do you say to that, mistress?"

Shaking her head, Belle dropped her hands into her lap. What _could_ she say to that?

"And... that's why she left you?"

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, too slowly and deliberately to be anything but a taunt. He expected her to show scorn - expected it so sincerely that he almost _wanted_ it.

"A cripple. A coward. A man she never desired. Why not?"

"Because you were her husband," Belle croaked, and leaned across to seize both his hands, gazing up at him. It felt as though her heart was laid bare, between them - all her hopes and fears. "Now you're mine, and I desire you, Rumpelstiltskin. You don't need to treat me as an enemy when you tell me of your past. It's _now_ that matters, to me."

He held her hands, gently, and searched in her eyes for... something. Something that he expected to find and did not.

"And the future?" he enquired, softly, leaning closer.

"Yes. Of course. Our future, together." Did he wish to be reassured that there would _be_ such a future? That she was sincere in hoping for one? Belle could not understand his expression, so hungry and, somehow, though it was not unkind, mocking. Mocking her, or himself? Perhaps he mocked the entire world.

Before Belle could become afraid of what she saw in his eyes, Rumpelstiltskin blinked and looked down at their joined hands. He tickled the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

"I did care for her," he said, quickly, as though needing to be rid of the words. Belle nodded. "I was a poor husband, but devoted. Faithful." A smile twisted his mouth upwards at one corner. "For what that's worth when no-one else would want me."

"I value it," Belle promised, quietly. It was true. She could not imagine the pain of a betrayal - of knowing that the intimacies they shared were not theirs alone. "One day you'll believe me," she added, smiling as she decided on it. "I wanted challenge, and adventure." A small quest, perhaps, but an important one - to find her husband's trust, and keep it safe. "You're an adventure all by yourself, husband."

To her relief, Rumpelstiltskin looked pleased by such a judgement. There was something cocksure in his answering smile. "But what I wanted to know," Belle said, slowly, because she wasn't sure that she dared to say it aloud, "was how you learned to be such a wonderful lover, if no-one ever let you... practise."

The astonished widening of his eyes was worth _any_ amount of blushes. Releasing her, he sat back as far as his seat would allow, trying to keep his composure in the face of hers, which was entirely feigned.

"You know what they say, my dear," he managed, on a breathless laugh. "Failure is the best teacher."

"I don't believe you," Belle laughed.

"I have a terribly good imagination?" Rumpelstiltskin tried, with a grin.

"So do I," she retorted, "but it doesn't let me think up _that_ sort of thing, let alone be any good at it." She prodded him with her toe. "I wish that I could. Or do you still like my innocence too much to tell me the truth?"

"Far too much," he assured her. "What little there is left of it." He wore a pleased little smile, watching her laugh gently at that. "We learn together," he added, and returned to his cat's cradle, flustered and - Belle thought - happy.

Well after dark, when Belle's eyes were growing heavy and her stomach beginning to protest at the constant motion of the carriage, they drew up outside a coaching inn. From the window of the carriage, Belle could see that it was far smaller than the place where they had spent their wedding night, comprising little more than a huge clearing by the roadside with stables and a square, stone box of a building, roofed with slate. Torches blazed everywhere and the courtyard was busy - one coach was being readied to depart while another seemed to be under repair.

"I hope they have a room for us," Belle said, letting the curtain fall back and stretching her arms and legs to ease the tingling. "I'm tired."

"Have no fear, little wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, brightly, opening the door and jumping down into the torchlight. Belle wobbled on her feet when he lifted her down, and clutched at his arms until her body had remembered how to stand upright and her head stopped spinning. "Why do you not tell me that you need to rest, treasure?" he asked, his voice a pained whine of anxious concern. "Come." Lifting her hood about her face, Rumpelstiltskin tucked her securely against his side, his arm across her back, and led her towards the iron-studded door.

Belle was grateful for his nearness when he opened the door onto a blast of warmth, light and noise. It made her dizzy again, her stomach roiling, and as she stumbled inside with him, Belle wondered how practical it was to be an adventuress or a hero if one's stomach didn't take to speedy travel.

She could not decide whether Rumpelstiltskin was met with recognition or a more generalised suspicion. While she, herself, had long since ceased to find his appearance disturbing, she could make herself remember her initial shock. It was not merely the grey-green hue of his skin or the inhuman eyes, she recalled; the way he moved had alarmed her more. The way he spoke, dripping certainty and scorn. He frightened people, and only a part of that was his living legend. Belle gripped the back of his cloak, tightly, and tried to pull herself together.

A tall woman, grey haired and with arms made strong by heavy work, wiped her hands on a rag and emerged from behind the polished oak bar. She threaded her way through drinkers, diners and hangers-on and greeted Rumpelstiltskin with a wary nod.

"Sir."

"A room," he said, and it was neither a request nor a demand, but a statement of what was going to transpire very shortly. "My lady is weary from our journey." Before his arrogance could produce outrage and refusal, Rumpelstiltskin proffered a large, gold coin. "If she rests well tonight and enjoys a good meal, you will find yourself a great deal richer when we leave."

Astonished, the woman looked at Belle, trying to see her face in the shadows of the wide hood, then back at Rumpelstiltskin.

"We've a room, sir," she said, cautiously taking the gold coin from his black-nailed fingers. Belle saw her trying not to stare at them. "Not fancy enough for gold, though."

"Gold is all I have," Rumpelstiltskin said, palm to his chest as he made a slight bow of apology. "We'll both have to make do, won't we?"

Nodding, the aspect of a businesswoman mastering her bewilderment, the woman ushered them towards an inner door, while conversation began to rise again in the room, refreshed by curiosity.

They climbed one flight of stairs and turned left along a short corridor, past heavily shuttered windows that kept out the worst of the night's chill. Belle shivered anyway, hearing the wind howling about the building, and hoped that their room had a fireplace.

"Sir," the grey haired woman said, indicating the next door and offering him a small key. The lock would not have kept out a determined man with a weapon, Belle noted, but would be sufficient to stop a drunkard blundering into a room belonging to another. "We've hot food the clock around, downstairs, and good ale. We'll see to your horses."

"No need," Rumpelstiltskin said, and while he couched it as gallantry, he oozed enjoyment of her confusion. "A good night to you, then." He unlocked the door, and Belle surmised, from the older woman's stern look in her direction, that 'my Lady' had not been taken to mean 'my wife'. Oh dear!

"I thought everyone knew of you," Belle said, lowering her hood as Rumpelstiltskin took a candle from a sconce in the passage to light her way into the room. It was small and very simple, but it both looked and smelled clean. When Rumpelstiltskin lit the candelabra on a small table beside the bed, Belle could see that there were white linens, soft with age but of good quality, and well cared for.

"Most know of me," he mused, opening his hand and causing the borrowed candle to vanish - hopefully back to its original home. "Reputation and rumour are useful allies."

"And fear is power," Belle nodded, tiredly. "Yes. I know." She sank down at the edge of the bed and huddled into the folds of her cloak. "I'm cold," she said, remembering that he had complained, outside, that she did not speak of her discomfort.

There was no fireplace, the room patently having been partitioned from a larger one to create a space suitable for sleep alone. Rumpelstiltskin had not tried to force her trunk into the small space that was not taken up by the bed, and Belle found that she missed the convenience of having it arrive before she did at her destination.

Frowning, Rumpelstiltskin conjured more candles to supplement the pitiful light from those provided. The new ones occupied the little iron and glass lanterns that decorated his private room at the other inn - two on the floor by the wall, another beside the candelabra on the tiny table next to the bed. In the better light, he sat beside her and watched her face with gentle concern.

"What else?"

"I feel sick," Belle admitted, absurdly ashamed of it. No-one could be blamed for finding the motion of a carriage or a ship unsettling, yet... "I don't think I would have been very good at having adventures," she sighed, small-voiced. "I don't even like riding very much."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, at that. The room was already growing warmer, no doubt in answer to his magic rather than to the pitiful flame of a few candles, but he put his arm around her and tucked her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

"Yet you want a horse?" He sounded amused.

"I would like one," Belle said. "It was nice to ride out, the other day. Did my father tell you that he had the saddle made for me, as a birthday gift?"

"He did."

"He's always been a bit disappointed that I don't share his love of horses," Belle confided, relaxing as she began to warm through. "It would be nice to have one to look after."

"Scullery maid, laundress, cook, parlour maid and... stable hand?" His gentle voice humoured her too much, but Belle was enjoying his close attention too much to mind.

"Why not?" She settled contentedly against him, reaching beneath his cloak to rub her hand against his silk-clad chest. "Don't forget wife."

"As you wish, treasure. Your father specifies a gelding of gentle temperament." Belle nodded - as much as Sir Maurice trusted her to manage any horse, he preferred that she ride a steady beast. "Is that what he was looking for in your husband, as well?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, playfully, and gripped her tightly when she laughed and pinched him beneath the ribs.

"If you hadn't come along, I might not have complained if he did," Belle told him, only half joking. Every now and again she thought of Gaston - big, muscular Gaston with his big, definite gestures and simple trains of thought, and wondered how it would have been to share her wedding night with him. "Thank you," she said, patting his chest and straightening, reaching for the clasp of her cloak. "I feel much better now that I'm warm."

"I'll fetch you a meal, then." 

"Oh, no," Belle protested, quickly, the queasy feeling returning far too easily at the thought of food. "If you fetch my baskets, there's plenty to eat if we get hungry in the night. I want to go to bed."

"Very well." Standing, Rumpelstiltskin drew her up as well. When she turned, her two baskets and both her silk nightgowns were on the bed, ready for her.

Belle smiled her thanks, and saw his worry before he could conceal it.

"I'm not a very good travelling companion, am I?" she apologised, letting her cloak fall to the bed and beginning to unlace herself.

"I'd take no other," he said, uneasily. "We must discover whether it's the road you object to, or the magic."

"Yes?" Belle mustered an expression of polite curiosity, while wriggling out of her clothes. A less alluring display there had surely never been, but Rumpelstiltskin nevertheless looked away, flustered, when her bodice and skirts lay upon the bed. She wondered if she still resembled a boiled lobster.

"You react strongly to magic," he mused. "Not only to mine. It can be turned to your advantage rather than merely making you uncomfortable." Pacing as far from her as the cramped room would allow, Rumpelstiltskin faced the wall while Belle shed her underthings.

"You mean... use magic?" she asked, nervously. She chose the cream nightgown and tugged it on without her usual pause to enjoy the freshness and luxury of the silk. That done, she put the baskets on the floor, draped her clothing over the top of them, and tugged back the heavy bedclothes. "I don't think I'd like that."

"If you can sense it then you can defend against it," Rumpelstiltskin said, thoughtfully.

"You don't have to turn your back," Belle said, rather too late, when she finished plumping the two rather meagre pillows. The bed was smaller than the one they had recently been sharing, but had room enough for two to nestle close and hold on tightly.

"I do if you mean to sleep, dear," Rumpelstiltskin answered, absently. Frowning, curious, Belle went to him and slipped her arms about his waist, feeling him tense as though her touch were unwelcome. Or... no, she thought, feeling his breathing quicken. _Too_ welcome, and he thought that she would not want to trouble herself with his pleasure, tonight. Smiling, feeling naughty, Belle slid her hands down his belly and covered his warm crotch with her palms. He hadn't been hard, before she touched him, but began to be so at her first, uncertain squeeze.

Not certain that she would like it if he, without warning or preamble, stuck his hand between her legs, Belle listened to his breathing - tried to notice how his body signalled his reaction to her bold advance.

"I mean to sleep," she said, more timidly than she'd hoped. "But not with my husband wanting."

"Belle..." he protested, but wretchedly, his hands rubbing her forearms. "Not when you're ill."

"I'm not ill," she laughed, relieved that she had not done wrong. "Only tired, and bounced about and addled by your magic coach that has to go everywhere in such a hurry. Come to bed." Emphasising her encouragement with a slow rub over the hardening bulge, Belle released him and stepped backwards, watching to see if he would follow.

He did follow. Of course he did, with his face a confusion of apology, surprise, lust and fondness. Belle wriggled into the bed and lay waiting for him, as the candles snuffed out all at once. The strange bed, the sudden darkness, his nervousness - even her own discomforts reminded her of that first night, their wedding night, and filled her with shivers that had nothing to do with the howling wind around the eaves.

To Belle's secret delight, Rumpelstiltskin got in beside her and lay quite still, flat on his back, waiting for her to touch him first. She draped herself over him, cuddling up to rich silk and body warmth, and pulled up the hem of his nightgown in little tugs, listening to his heartbeat quicken in anticipation. It was too easy to forget about her weariness, in the face of such an opportunity. Her husband was unsure of her intentions, unwilling to impose, yet obviously he desired her. The power to please him or to deny him was thrill enough to satisfy her, for the moment, and she had learned that he spoke truly when he said that a man's pleasure was less elusive than her own. It would not take long, with her hand, if he was already eager.

"Do you want me?" she asked, teasing his chest with her fingertips. She wanted to hear him say that he did.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice throaty and intimate. Belle propped herself up enough to give him a kiss, clumsy in the darkness, and he held the back of her head, guiding and steadying her. "What will you do to me?" he asked, kissing hungrily at her cheek and her jaw when she turned her face away to catch her breath. Very much of that, and her own desires would be stirred; Belle feared that they would not sit well with a queasy stomach, and did not try to kiss him again.

"Teach me how to please you," she said, plucking at the bundled fabric that now covered his cock. "With my hand. Show me how to do it just as you'd like."

After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his hair tickling her hand.

"Yes," he said, again, and swallowed convulsively as he turned his back to her, reaching back to draw her up close against him. Reaching over him, Belle thought that it would have been better had she lain at his other side, so that her right hand, her stronger hand, would be free for the task. He seemed content as they were and, taking her hand from where it rested on his hip, guided her beneath the bunched up silk.

Fidgeting to be comfortable, Belle thought of how he had thrust his hand into play to guide her whenever she had tried to touch him, as though her inexpert caresses did not offer satisfaction. Equally, he had urged her to guide him in discovering her pleasures - had learned from her movements that her little mound was more sensitive to the right than to the left; to be a little less firm in touching her there, if she had already come, and just when to bury his fingers deeper and tease her at her entrance before pushing the fingers inside her. It all seemed terribly complicated and unlearnable, when viewed like that. As Rumpelstiltskin guided her hand, palm open, across his belly, Belle wondered if he had learned by failure, just as he said. How awful, if that had been no jest - if he had never found a way to give his other wife, his first wife, the satisfaction that he now shared with Belle.

Moved by the thought, and confident that she could remember how to caress his soft and twitching belly, Belle kissed between his shoulders for a while, growing comfortable in the dip they made in an over-soft mattress.

A thought occurred to her, the first time Rumpelstiltskin guided her hand lower, to take the half-hard thing in hand. It was the thought, and not the forthright handling of his cock, that brought a heated flush to Belle's cheeks; she bit her lip and battled with herself as to whether or not she should voice it. Modesty said no, but his manhood was in her hand, and his hand was tightening around hers to show her how best to stroke it for him, and modesty looked rather a fool, in that light.

"Do you..." she began, and her blush flared at the realisation that she had not the words. "Touch it. Yourself," she managed, and his fingers clenched around hers, his breathing growing shallow. "I... when you had me show you," she went on, because it was too late to take back what she had said, "I knew because I'd touched. There. Is that how you know?"

His cock seemed to jerk in her hand and he made a weak sound in his throat, holding his breath for a few moments and then exhaling with slow, careful control.

"Yes," he said, more steadily than she had expected. "Yes, I do." Rumpelstiltskin moved her hand in a long, up and down sweeping motion; his fingers were almost crushing hers, urging a firm grasp that she would not have dared without his guidance, lest she hurt him. Hurt him _there_ , where even he had to be a _little_ vulnerable to harm.

Keeping their hands still, he licked his lips. She could hear it - the way his breathing changed as he did so, and how he settled again afterwards, swallowing.

"When I miss you," she confessed, cautiously following where he led, "I think of you, and touch."

His hand trembled and he moved them again, less slowly, and didn't stop. Belle thought of the rhythm when he thrust it into her, but this was faster, more greedy somehow. He sought only his own pleasure, now.

"I didn't know," he said, almost stammering. They were both perspiring, the room seeming too warm now, and Belle decided that her confession, far from offending him, was adding to his excitement. He moved her hand, their hands, but seemed frozen beyond that. Frozen by mere words. Belle kissed his shoulder.

"I thought you might be angry," she confessed, exaggerating a little. She had thought he might be displeased, or afraid that he had failed to satisfy his wife, and she had enjoyed having something secret and hers. She enjoyed sharing it more - feeling how it took him, his whole body almost quivering against hers as she stroked him closer to his release.

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breathless chuckle, arching his back when she dared to tease the soft head of his cock with her thumb. He panted for a moment, holding her hand quite still again.

"Tell me," he begged, when he moved their hands again. "Tell me when. Where. Please, Belle."

"I..." The blush came back in full force. Belle wasn't certain that she could, yet... "In bed," she began, hesitantly. "When I was hurt, when you wouldn't stay with me. I wanted..." She pressed her face into his shoulder, too embarrassed, and felt him writhe at even that additional touch. "In the kitchen once," she managed, her fingers aching where he clutched her, moving her hand in sharp, almost vicious little jerks now. "By the fire. I thought of how you'd touched me and I couldn't wait."

"Oh..." She was sure that he bit back some profanity as his seed pulsed out and his limbs shook. He held his breath, straining and shivering, and she kissed his shoulder, too moved by his pleasure to be still and do nothing.

Belle tried to take her slippery hand away, but he held it there, teasing his cock as it softened and spreading his seed with lazy pleasure. His sigh was heartfelt - satisfaction, relief, relaxation that washed the alertness out of him and left him sleepy and pliant beside her.

"We shall have to discuss this at more length," he said, turning onto his back and dislodging her hand, wiping his own on his gown. Belle arranged herself beside him, longing for more play but too tired, and too startled at herself to dare anything further, in any case. "I'd like that very much," he added, hopefully, and Belle nodded.

"Yes," she said, kissing his chest quickly before she pillowed her head there. She thought of how it excited her when he spoke wicked words, and smiled. "If you like."

Rumpelstiltskin grunted his approval and squeezed her close for a moment, then twirled some of her hair around his fingers and played with it while their sweat cooled.

Before Belle slept, she smiled to feel her ribbons being tugged loose from their bow and, very gently, slid from her hair. Two more ribbons for his collection of treasures.

She was going to need to buy some more.


	61. A Virtue

If Belle wanted adventure, then she had one in the dark pre-dawn hours when, discovering that their room featured no chamberpot, she crept out to find the privy. Carelessly dressed and wrapped up in her velvet cloak, she was grateful to discover that she need not pass through the main bar to exit the building. Even at this hour, a low chatter went on in there, with people readying themselves to depart as soon as there was light enough to see the road.

A chilly passage beyond the kitchen stairs led outside to a garden, of sorts, and the well-trodden mud path to the wooden shed was lit with two lanterns hanging on iron hooks. Her growing shivers had little to do with the night air or the biting, gusting wind, and Belle wished that she had swallowed her pride and woken Rumpelstiltskin. Pride had told her, very firmly, that a would-be adventuress should _not_ require her husband to hold her hand on the journey to the privy in an unfamiliar place. When Belle saw that a man was leaning against the wall of the inn and smoking a pipe, watching her with the interest of one who'd had nothing else to look at for some time, she hurried her steps and completed her errand as quickly as she could, eager to scurry back to their tiny room and curl up beside her husband again, protected and warm.

The pipe-smoker meant her no harm, Belle was sure - he had watched her merely because she was moving - but her heart pounded with fright when she emerged from the rather noisome shed and saw that he was still there, halfway between her and the welcome light of the doorway. His mere presence made her acutely aware of her vulnerability, as a woman alone in a strange place.

Adventuresses in story books never had to worry about that sort of thing! She all but ran back inside, feeling foolish for being so frightened, yet foolish also for not thinking of her safety when she set out. Rumpelstiltskin would only have teased her a little, had she asked him to accompany her, or to conjure up a useful pot!

Belle's shivers were in earnest by the time she slipped back into their room. The air within was still warmer than the rest of the building, and one of the candle lanterns remained alight, tucked against the wall. Rumpelstiltskin, awake and sitting up with the meagre pillows wedged behind him, watched her as she began to shed the layers that she'd added on top of her nightdress. When she went near to the bed, Belle could see that her two ribbons, one dark velvet, one pale silk, were in his hands, woven between his fingers.

"We must discuss your safety," he said, too quietly. "Best not to go wandering, mistress, while I am sleeping unawares."

She resisted her first, thoughtless urge to dismiss the suggestion as foolishness. She had been frightened, and had already drawn the same conclusion that Rumpelstiltskin had. He enjoyed her independence of spirit, but not to the extent that she endangered herself. He was right to disapprove.

"Yes," she said, meekly. "I'm sorry. I was too shy. That's silly."

"Extremely." Rumpelstiltskin patted his thighs. Leaving the last of her things atop the baskets, Belle perched herself there, legs dangling over the side of the bed, and clasped her hands behind his head. "Bladders are hardly the world's best kept secret."

"I'm sorry." She offered him a kiss, although it seemed too much like a bribe, under the circumstances. Rumpelstiltskin touched his lips to hers, gently, and allowed her to lift his ribbon-tangled hand for closer inspection. After a moment, Belle kissed his knuckles.

"I'm jealous of my treasures," he said, but self-effacingly, diluting any menace that he had intended the words to carry. "I'd hate to have to lock you away in my castle after all, little wife."

"I think I might not mind," Belle admitted, swinging her legs. "For a while. I don't think I'd enjoy the life of travel and adventure, if the road makes me queasy and I get frightened visiting the privy in the night."

He laughed, one of his deep, warm laughs that contrived to be infinitely more wicked than his playful giggle.

"Shall I shut you away, then? Keep you pinned to your bed and ravish you cruelly, until rescue arrives?"

"Who'd rescue me?" she laughed, and saw him pull his smiling features into a wounded pout.

"Me."

"In that case, I wouldn't mind. For a little while. Then maybe I'd like an adventure."

Rumpelstiltskin watched her, smiling and shaking his head slightly.

"When you grow used to magic, I can take you anywhere," he said, wistfully, lifting his ribbon-decorated hand to the collar of her nightgown and trailing a fingertip just above it, shoulder to shoulder. "Oceans. Deserts. Forests. Mountains that spew fire." He returned the questing fingertip to the bow that tied her gown. "Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes," Belle sighed. "To see the world. Understand it. I'd like that so much." She made a face, thinking of her miserable journeys in his carriage. "A desert or a fire mountain might be worth the headache and the upset stomach. The ocean would probably make things quite a bit worse."

"Be patient." Rumpelstiltskin drew the silk away from her skin with a hooked fingertip, as far as it would go, then released it to pop back again. "Your reaction to magic is unfortunate, but it will pass. One grows used to it." His expression shifted to one of distaste, discomfort. "When I received my power - so much, all at once... it was not the most _pleasant_ of nights." He spoke so lightly, with such contrived coolness, that Belle knew it was gross understatement. As always, the butterflies fluttered in her chest at his unhappiness, and her imagination attempted to furnish her with horrible visions of Rumpelstiltskin - the soft-eyed and gaunt man he was, before - writhing in agony as the magic transformed him into its vessel. "Magic always changes those it touches, Belle. Trust no-one who tells you otherwise, but surely change is not, in itself, to be feared?"

She nodded, still troubled by her cruel imagination. If a spell gave her a light sunburn, or a headache, or made her drowsy, what would it be like to be flooded with ultimate power - dark power, the way he described? And with memories, as well. He spoke of remembering the others who bore the power before him. It sounded like a path to madness, to Belle. Was that why he imposed his own, idiosyncratic order upon the world in his deals, his contracts and his mocking games? Creating sense and order where there was none, for sanity's sake?

"Going more slowly today didn't help as much as you thought it might," she said. "Can't you just take us home. Poof?" She gestured with her hands, expansively, and was jiggled on his legs as he laughed again.

"Where's patience, mistress?" he asked, hands finding the sensitive places beneath her ribs and tickling until Belle squealed. His nimble, strong fingers were far too skilled at tickling, and she didn't want to wake their neighbours. "King George lauded your _patience_ ," Rumpelstiltskin pressed, assaulting her sides anew just as she'd begun to lower her guard. Belle tried to bury her laughter in her cupped hands, but that meant muffling her own pleas for mercy as well.

"Stop," she begged, realising that she could probably be heard by the occupants of every surrounding room. "I'll be patient, I promise!"

Relenting, grinning, Rumpelstiltskin let his tickling hands become a caress, instead. Feeble from laughter, Belle wiped her cheeks dry and, reaching past him to pull back the bedclothes, made as if to get back into the bed beside him. His hands at her waist held her where she was, and Belle looked up at his face, questioning, to see that the grin had gone.

"Your husband has an appetite, mistress," he said, thumbs stroking where his fingers had so recently teased.

"Oh?" Interested, still close to giggles, Belle turned herself enough to loop her arms behind his neck. "Now who's insatiable?" Hitching up her nightgown enough to let her straddle his legs, Belle settled there, her buttocks on her heels, facing him and watching his expression. "I'm to do my duty again, am I?"

"If it isn't too much trouble," he answered, less amused than she by the pretence. Belle leaned forward to kiss him before he could think on it, afraid that he'd convince himself, given half the chance, that her feigned reluctance had a grain of truth to it. Perhaps that was a game that touched too closely on the truth, for him. She made sure that her kiss left him in no doubt of her willingness, lowering her right hand to delve beneath the bedclothes and locate his cock.

It startled her more than a little to find him soft, unready, and she realised that she had associated his _appetite_ with the undeniable evidence of a hardened cock. The touch seemed to please him no less, in this state, Rumpelstiltskin opening his mouth to her kisses and bringing both hands up to fondle her breasts, softly, through the silk of her gown. Perhaps it was the lingering, mild burn on her skin from the spells, but she felt the familiar touch like a new shock.

Belle's breath caught, her lips catching against his lower lip, and she felt him smile - first a little smirk, then a wide leer when a fingertip, pressed to each of her tender nipples, elicited a shiver.

"Nice?" he asked, his mock-snideness causing Belle to swat his shoulder with her free hand, and to tighten the full one considerably. "Ouch," he said, with such sticky insincerity that Belle swatted him again, but loosened her grip on his stirring cock as she did so. It continued to fill and lengthen in her fist, responsive to every little shift of her hand, and to Rumpelstiltskin's greedy handling of her breasts. It was nice, in a frustrating sort of a way. It was as though his touches there caused her body to remember the inner pleasure - as though his squeezes and rubs pulled on invisible puppet strings, bringing her want alive. Such subtleties had been lost to her, since those very first caresses after their wedding - drowned out by the clamour of other, more demanding regions of her body.

Slowly, conscious that it would give him pleasure to watch, Belle untied the bow that fastened the gown at her neck, and began to unlace the ribbon. Rumpelstiltskin stared, hands drifting to her hips as he became absorbed with watching her expose half an inch more of skin with each pull at the ribbon. He swallowed, when she was halfway down.

"Touch them," Belle whispered, not sure whether she requested or commanded. It seemed right, to prolong the teasing, when she had him so entranced. Rumpelstiltskin needed no persuasion, tongue between his teeth as he cupped her breasts, supporting their slight weight when she leaned forward to steal a kiss. When his thumbs brushed across her hard nipples, both at once, she moaned into his mouth, startled and excited. He didn't tease her, this time, but plunged his tongue into her mouth with hungry abandon, apparently more aroused by her response than was Belle herself.

Her pleasure, she thought, trying to keep her mind on the tiny thrills that his every touch to her nipples gave; he loved to play with her breasts, to kiss them, to mouth at them, to suckle there like a babe, but more than any of those things - more than any physical act they'd explored together - Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed witnessing and causing her pleasure. For the first time, Belle considered that trying to be ladylike - or at least quiet - in their lovemaking was to do him a disservice. He had given her so much pleasure, even those few times before she learned where it wanted to lead. Did he _know?_

It made her shy, to think of making any deliberate effort to demonstrate her enjoyment; to think of those sounds being overheard in the adjoining rooms, as her laughter must have been. It seemed false, in any case, to make such a display because she _chose_ to. She blushed, just thinking of it, and settled back on her heels again, catching her husband's hands and moving them away from her breasts, down to her thighs, where he continued to rub and squeeze.

Slowly, her eyes downcast, Belle unlaced the last three turns of the ribbon and left it dangling, the neck of the gown falling open by itself to the right, almost enough to reveal the breast. Almost. She looked up and saw Rumpelstiltskin gazing at the exposed flesh, tongue flashing across his lips in his eagerness. He was enjoying being teased and commanded - the most powerful man in the world. He _enjoyed_ being made to wait, to follow her whims wherever they led her.

After a month of having him satisfy her, as often and as hastily as she demanded, Belle now wondered if she had been denying them both a greater pleasure, in her enthusiasm for all that was new and wonderful to her. Rumpelstiltskin was as enraptured by the teasing glimpse of bare flesh as he had ever been, gazing at her bared for him.

Patience, he said, and he was right. King George himself had praised her for the virtue, yet she had not been a patient woman in the days since then.

"You're smiling, missy," Rumpelstiltskin observed, happily. "I'd go so far as to say _smirking_."

"I'm enjoying myself," Belle declared, as airily as she could manage. "Being patient."

"Ah." Chuckling again, soft and deep, Rumpelstiltskin plucked at the silk where her nightgown was taut across her lap. "Yes. Patience."

"As my husband demanded," she said, primly. "I mean to be a good wife. I told you that."

"So you did. Back when you were an innocent child, quaking at my approach." He wriggled beneath her, though whether to make himself more comfortable or to be suggestive, she could not have said.

"So did you," Belle reminded him, softly. At his soft, 'hmm?' she added, "Quake." She sought his left hand and lifted it to her breast again, and began to unweave the stolen ribbons from between his fingers. "I didn't know that husbands quaked, too." When she had the ribbons free, Belle smoothed them both out together and then tied them around his wrist, finishing with a large and secure bow. Rumpelstiltskin watched her, intrigued, and rubbed her breast when she released his newly decorated hand. Belle closed her eyes and tried to dwell on that sensation; his hand upon her breast, with the dangling ribbon tickling her below it. The warmth of his palm, the little digs of his long, hard nails when he tightened his hand around the whole breast; the shocking little jolt that went right through her when he flicked or nudged the near-aching nipple. It was a hundred times removed from a touch down below, yet the same, calling forth the very same urges. She tingled between her legs and felt restless, when his nail circled the nipple, so gently. The lighter the caress, the more she felt the heat inside her grow in response to it. Patience, indeed - and patience rewarded. "The other," she murmured, then swayed slowly in her selfish trance of concentration as Rumpelstiltskin obeyed her, bringing all the same sensations to bear on her left side.

Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find him staring not at her chest, but her face. Sheepish, she reached up with both hands to pull her hair back behind her ears, and to scoop stray strands back away from her face. She was getting quite hot and bothered - impatient for more than this sweet teasing, yet enjoying it too much to surrender it, at the same time.

Watching his eyes, Belle drew down the loose fabric of her collar and hooked it beneath her right breast. She smiled as his gaze dropped, only to fly back to her face, his expression turning guilty and a little hunted, as though she had meant to catch him out.

"I don't mind," she promised. "I'm pleased to have something you enjoy so much."

"Every inch of you," Rumpelstiltskin sighed, but his gaze returned happily to the exposed breast with its puckered nipple. He raised a hand, hesitantly, and raked his black nails against her breast, so lightly that he raised goosebumps. Belle heard the flutter of his strange giggle, but far more muted than usual. "So beautiful," he breathed, just as quietly, "Too much to treasure all at once." Sighing, he dropped his hands to his sides and allowed his eyes to roam instead. Belle's breath quickened - such a look was as intimate, as demanding, as a caress. She could have sworn that her skin was left tingling in its wake.

"You flatter me," she said, leaning forward and lacing her fingers with his on the bed, "but won't let me flatter you."

"What's to flatter?" Rumpelstiltskin protested, anxiety darting behind his easy charm. "An old beast, flesh corrupted by black magic. I look like something that belongs in a swamp, and you know it."

"My _husband_ ," Belle said, firmly. A determined wriggle took her higher up on his thighs, the tangle of blankets and gowns keeping them tantalisingly separate as she settled down. Gently, she lifted his hands to her chest again, holding them there until he began to rub and knead, soothing himself. "That's all I see, when I look at you." She shrugged, slowing the movement when it pulled her breasts against his pressing palms, and felt pleasantly different. "What's wrong with things that belong in swamps, anyway?" she asked, mildly indignant on behalf of all such creatures, who were only living according to their nature.

"What's wrong," Rumpelstiltskin said, pinching her nipples for emphasis, "is that they don't spend their nights in bed with the likes of you." He paused, making a comical face that was largely lost to her in the candlelight. "Or, if they do, someone makes a hell of a fuss about it." He grinned.

It wasn't very amusing, not when she wanted to speak of tender things instead, but Belle smiled because Rumpelstiltskin, who could silence her in any cruel or gruesome way he chose, instead chose japes and jests when he wished to avoid her conversation. Her flattery. Her love.

"If you let me under the bedclothes," she said, slowly, "it would be warm enough to take off our gowns. If we wanted to," she concluded, without any sincere effort at feigning disinterest. Her feet were getting cold, and if she could not speak of her affection, she could demonstrate it in ways that her husband was less inclined to doubt.

Rumpelstiltskin made a far better show than she could at weighing up her suggestion, casually, before smiling and reaching for the hem of her nightdress with unabashed haste. Laughing quietly as she struggled free of the silk, Belle was too chilly to let him look for more than a moment. She tugged back the bedclothes beside him, pushing herself into the unpleasantly cool spot. She would have reached for his warmth at once, but meant to have all of him - every inch of his skin to explore, with her hands and lips if not with her eyes. Shivering, she plucked insistently at the front of his black nightgown, and laughed again as it vanished, leaving her empty grasp tingling with fading magic.

Sliding down beside her, under the bedclothes, Rumpelstiltskin grunted with approval when Belle wrapped herself around him, half on top of him to get away from the cool linens, and kissed his shoulder. She remained bashful, kissing any part of him that was not his lips; she hardly knew what she was doing, after all, while he seemed so _definite_ whenever his mouth explored her flesh.

Not that Rumpelstiltskin appeared to have any objection to her uncertain attempts; when she moved from his shoulder to his throat, exploring how the texture of his skin changed, from the softness behind his ear to the bumpy, uneven place at the tip of his chin, he stroked her back in slow sweeps, and stretched his neck to give her more skin to explore.

Reaching his mouth, straddling him again and planting her hands in the pillows on either side of his head, Belle tried to show with a kiss what he would not allow her to put into words. She wanted no other, whatever Rumpelstiltskin thought of his appearance. She wanted only the one who had introduced her, gently and nervously, to the gifts of marriage. She had found beauty in that, in his kindness and his caution, and had forgotten that she was ever startled by eyes that were too large and never blinked enough; forgotten that she ever expected his skin to be clammy and cold to the touch; forgotten that she'd expected his ugly teeth to make his kisses foul. It was appearance, all of it - the cruel opposite of a beguiling glamour - and even when she had glimpsed the ordinary man beneath it all, she had missed the Rumpelstiltskin she knew.

"There's all the flattery I need, little wife," he sighed, when she draw back from him, to let herself catch a breath. "That you hunger for this." He scooped the hair back from her face with both hands, shivering when Belle turned her head and kissed the soft insides of his wrists, lingering a long moment with each. "For me."

Although he spoke softly, voice deep and intimate, there was yet a question in the words, quavering with hope. What more could she _do_ , to answer it?

 _Patience,_ Belle thought, once more sitting back on her heels, but careful to keep the sheet across her shoulders for warmth. All she could do was to have patience with Rumpelstiltskin's doubts, and trust that enough time would soothe them away, as his hesitancy and his shame had been soothed. She coaxed his hands back to her breasts, mirroring his movements with her own hands against his chest, her hair tumbling like a silken curtain to tickle their arms with every slight shift. His small nipples tightened at her touch, his eyes closing at her teasing. When she raked with her nails, as he did, his body all but arched beneath her, and he hissed in surprise, hands dropping to her waist and clutching there, momentarily weak.

"Have we been patient enough, husband?" Belle asked, innocently, and responded to the wordless tug that brought her over him, urged her to rub her slippery heat against his dry, hard length. She caught her lip between her teeth, straining to master her eagerness and move only when his hands guided her to do so. He grasped her tightly enough that her tender skin felt sore, and somehow even the soreness fed her desire - she craved even _that_ of him.

"Patient enough, treasure," he whispered, after guiding her once more in a slow, wet grind that made them both falter in their breathing. "But slowly, now. Use your old husband gently, hmm?"

Becoming overwrought with the effort of denying her body, Belle almost laughed at the idea. Yet, when she once more gained control of herself with a steadying breath and settled herself more comfortably across his hips, she decided that he had not been teasing her; he did, indeed, wish her to be gentle. Had she asked too much of him, demanding that he become less so, now that she was no quaking maid?

He was already slippery from her; it ought to have been easy to guide his cock inside her, but her body tightened against him - her own excitement working to deny itself. The tightness earned another hiss from Rumpelstiltskin, his hands grasping the sheet beneath them in his effort to be still.

Shaking, more violently than any shivers, Belle swallowed and, holding his cock, lowered herself onto him again. Again her body convulsed, but this time nature took its course and she sank all the way, to their mutual - and vocal - satisfaction. She found herself but a heartbeat, a nudge away from climax, and all but helpless in the grip of such mindless want; she felt almost faint, when Rumpelstiltskin reclaimed her breasts and gave her nipples a pinch each, lifting his hips towards her.

"Oh!" Thought had left her, and left her every inch the wanton that he teased her about becoming. It was pleasure so keen, so raw that it was closer to pain; it clawed in her belly, tightened her body all about him in grasping waves of want, and stiffened her limbs until tendons screamed. "Please," she managed, even her jaw quaking, her teeth near chattering, and she clutched the sides of her own head, fingers clawing in her hair, sobbing with relief when Rumpelstiltskin grasped her hips again and coaxed her to move, up and down, meeting her halfway with a vigorous, upward thrust of the hips. Then again, and again, and the beginnings of a rhythm, and she could hardly bear it!

Belle's cries were utterly beyond her ability to contain herself, to think of anything but the _need_. It broke, shallow little waves of shuddering relief that ached, leaving her weak and still wanting - incapable of doing for her husband any more than paw at him, after he rolled her onto her back and began to thrust, jerkily and too hard. The extra sensation was more than she could bear, but it freed something; a gentler pleasure, warming where the cruel aches and stabs of need had been - opening her to him, to the deep thrusts that forced the breath out of her, and to the deeper, blissful unfurling of a second climax that left her cries and struggles as feeble as her grasping hands.

Just as her toes uncurled, as the tendons of her lower legs stopped trying to snap, Rumpelstiltskin raised himself on his elbows and, panting, lost himself to his own release, his body in the grip of tremors as violent as hers had been. Gulping, trying to catch her breath, Belle heard him stutter a sharp, strained, _"Fuck!"_ , just before he collapsed on her, heaving for every breath and moaning when he exhaled again.

They had little choice but to be still, for a while, Rumpelstiltskin still inside her and his face pressed haphazardly to her temple, smothered in her tangle of hair. When Belle could remember how to use her limbs, she wrapped her arms around him, tightly, yearning to kiss more than she ever had before. After that - after waiting, after patience and teasing and after _that_ \- she wanted to drown in his kisses for the rest of the night, because words couldn't ever be enough. Not for this; for the madness, the fear, the joy, the want. The love.

In a pleasant daze, buried under his full weight and snug, Belle blinked herself towards a more sensible state when Rumpelstiltskin finally lifted himself off her, slipping out of her and leaving her almost sore there, as she was all over from the sunburn. Not pain, just a reminder. It only made her feel completely and wonderfully _alive_ , that he left a little hurt behind him - something that would linger a while, woven with beloved memories.

_Madness._

"D'you think they heard us?" he asked, plainly intending it to be a saucy quip but, instead, sounding as sheepish as Belle, belatedly remembering where they were, began to feel. At last, Rumpelstiltskin kissed her, slack jawed and hesitant. She could see his eyes shining in the feeble candlelight, and how he stared at her, as though hardly believing what he saw there beneath him.

"I... I didn't mean to," Belle managed, feeling oddly frail in the wake of such a dam burst of lust and love.

"Nor I," he said, lips trailing damply against her cheek. "We outdo one another, my treasure. At least no-one came charging to your _rescue._ "

"Or to yours," Belle murmured, finding his lips with hers and pulling his head down. She could not fathom how there could be a parting, after that; how they would ever stop kissing, clinging and whispering to one another in the dark, long enough to resume their journey.

Of course, they _would._ There were a few hours until true daylight, surely? They had a little time, before a cold and separate reality must force its way between them, and leave them struggling once again with inadequate words?

Yes, Belle thought, as they settled side by side, limbs in a tangle, to kiss and caress at their lingering leisure. There was time enough for this.

The waiting world would just have to be patient.


	62. Frogs and Princes

Scarlet-faced beneath her hood, Belle clutched her husband's arm as he led her to an unoccupied table near the inn's vast fireplace. She had confessed to being quite hungry, imagining that they would make a picnic from her travel baskets or that Rumpelstiltskin would conjure her something hot. It hadn't occurred to her for one moment that he might suggest breakfast downstairs!

To her relief, nobody paid them undue attention, being either too busy eating or too preoccupied with their own preparations for travel, but Belle wondered who might have overheard them in the night, and could not cool her blushes. Rumpelstiltskin seemed utterly unconcerned, gesturing lazily to a man who was serving bowls of something hot from an enormous cauldron.

Only the innkeeper watched them - the woman to whom Rumpelstiltskin had promised gold, in return for Belle having a comfortable stay. 

"We travel without magic, today," Rumpelstiltskin said, mistaking her unhappy silence for worry about the journey. "Eat a hearty breakfast, my dear."

"Yes," Belle said, pushing back her hood when two bowls were placed in front of them, steaming with porridge. She ate in silence, noting that, beside her, Rumpelstiltskin did likewise - if not with actual enthusiasm, then in haste to consume the porridge and be on their way. It was worth her discomfort, she decided, if a public table induced her husband to eat a proper meal.

The events of the night had left Belle both thoughtful and somewhat shaken. She applied herself to eating, mechanically, while her thoughts returned again and again to kissing - wonderful, endless kissing with Rumpelstiltskin, warm together beneath the sheets. Sleep had claimed them both, eventually, but Belle's jaw ached from kissing so long. Given the choice, she might never again have left that dark box of a room, or the bed that all but filled it up. The world - the part of it that seemed to matter at all - became very small indeed, while she lay with her husband.

Her blush renewed itself, at that thought, and she stole a sideways glance at Rumpelstiltskin, who had finished his meal and sat staring at his folded hands. He looked no less thoughtful than Belle felt, and she wondered if he shared her sense that the night had been special.

"Ready for the road?" asked Rumpelstiltskin, suddenly turning his head towards her, as though his reverie had never been. "You've a little colour back," he added, giving her right cheek a playful pinch, his eyes alight with laughter.

"You _know_ I'm blushing," Belle said, with rather less good humour. He _liked_ the thought that their enthusiasm had been overheard! "Yes, I'm ready, and I'll never be able to show my face here again!" With that, she pulled up her hood, hiding herself from both her husband and general view. She took his hand, regardless, when he offered it to help her rise from the bench they'd shared, and grasped it, gratefully, when the innkeeper approached them.

"Some say I've had the Spinner in my hostelry," she said, looking at each of them in turn, then facing Rumpelstiltskin squarely. If she feared him, then she did not allow it to show; Belle supposed that a woman would need to be quite fearless, to be the mistress of a place always packed with strangers. "With your vanishing coach and horses, I believe it."

"Rumpelstiltskin," he said, and made a smiling bow, still gripping Belle by the hand. "If you're hoping to deal, madam, be swift."

"And your lady?"

"The Lady Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, eyeing the woman strangely. "My wife."

"It's said that an inn sees no trouble, when you're a patron," she said. "When you retain a room. Is that a deal I can make, sir?"

Belle smiled, in the privacy of her hood. The woman had flint-grey eyes and steel-grey hair, and reminded her a great deal of Wren in her forthright and fearless manner. She had seen a good opportunity and would not let it walk out of the door.

"I pay only in gold," Rumpelstiltskin warned, raising a finger and wagging it from side to side before the woman's face. "I come and go as and when I please, and no other may enter my room in my absence. Not even you."

"Your gold is welcome," the innkeeper nodded, "as are you and your lady. But it's your protection I bargain for, Spinner. There's dark things in these forests and we're far from the King's law."

"It must be a room with a hearth," Rumpelstiltskin said, slipping his arm into the wide sleeve of Belle's cloak and securing it across her back. "My Lady was too cold. A chamberpot, a wash stand and two chairs." He tilted his head to one side in exaggerated contemplation. "And more pillows. I like pillows."

"As you say," the woman agreed, with an uncertain glance at Belle. She looked rather crestfallen, although she made an effort to hide it. "You didn't rest well, my Lady?"

Belle hadn't, save the first few hours of exhausted sleep, but that was hardly the fault of the establishment. Her smile broadening, recalling her husband's promise to make the woman richer, Belle lifted her head. Blushes or no, it was refreshing to speak to someone who was unafraid.

"I did," she said. "And now I've enjoyed a good meal. My husband always keeps his bargains, Mistress...?"

"Fletcher," the innkeeper answered, startled. " _Widow_ Fletcher, if you please," she added, rallying. Belle nodded, apologetic.

Rumpelstiltskin giggled, made a sharp motion towards widow Fletcher with his right hand, and beamed approval when the sharp-witted woman caught the leather pouch that flew towards her face. It sounded heavy with the clink of gold coin.

"Prepare the room, leave it and lock it," he said, wagging his finger at her again. "Always keep one of my coins about you and another in this building, well hidden. I think you'll find that deters most... inconveniences."

For the first time, the innkeeper smiled. Belle wondered how much need she had of the gold, and how much of the protection. Still she showed no fear, and it seemed surprising that anyone who faced Rumpelstiltskin with a cool head would fear the creatures of the forests, however dark or far from the King's law.

"Your room will be kept, sir," Fletcher promised. "Safe journey to you both."

"Goodbye," Belle managed, still caught up in Rumpelstiltskin's arm as he whirled them about and strode towards the outer door.

Their carriage waited at the edge of the cobbled yard, under the watchful eye of various grooms and travellers. Belle wondered if they had seen it appear out of the light morning mist - horses, coachman and all. The thought made her shiver, because while she could accept the idea of Rumpelstiltskin's magical 'pockets' accommodating a coach, she struggled with the thought that living creatures - and people - fitted too.

Rumpelstiltskin hurried her to the step and, as always, lifted her smartly by the waist to deposit her upon it. She knew not whether this was misplaced chivalry or showing off his great strength, but always enjoyed it.

"I wonder what's in the forest that Widow Fletcher fears," she mused, settling herself in the middle of the seat that faced the horses. Cushions had appeared, and a thick knitted blanket of red wool. Her baskets were on the opposite seat, where Rumpelstiltskin sprawled, smiling lazily at her.

"There's all sorts in the forests," he said. "It's mainly stories that frighten people."

"Such as the tale of the lonely hostelry in the dark forest, under the protection of the Spinner?"

"Such as that one, yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, happily. The carriage jerked into motion. For the first time, Belle noted that she heard no crack of the coachman's whip - no urging to the horses. No command passed between driver and master. They simply began to move. "Such places are worth a little protection, and any amount of gold. Information flows along the roads of the kingdoms," he went on, sing-song and making a walking motion with two fingers. "Innkeepers listen, and happy innkeepers are inclined to keep their best patrons informed."

"I hope she's inclined not to tell what was overheard last night," Belle said, and concealed her embarrassment by unfolding the generous blanket in her lap.

"You're bashful about the oddest things, wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, watching her with slightly narrowed eyes, as though trying to solve a complex puzzle. "What husbands and wives do is no secret."

"Private," Belle corrected, firmly. She had yet to understand her own dismay, and did not feel capable of defending it properly. "Ours."

"Ah." His expression lightened with a kind of understanding, and he sat back in his seat, steepling his hands. "You're... jealous!" He pointed a finger as he said it, grinning.

It would not have been her choice of word, but Belle could not deny it. Though she thought of jealousy as an ugly thing, Rumpelstiltskin spoke of it differently. Keeping what was his. Guarding it, as he did her.

"I thought that I'd want to sing from the rooftops," she said, reflectively. "But I don't. I want to keep it all close, here." She pulled both hands to her heart and clasped them, sighing. "So I suppose I am jealous of what's ours." Looking down at the thickly knitted blanket, Belle hid a bashful smile, remembering how she had joked with Elena about a man liking his prowess to be known. Their neighbours of last night must be in no doubt of it. "Am I being childish and silly?"

"You are..." Rumpelstiltskin leaned across the gap, and placed a red rose in her lap. It was a fully open bloom, rich with scent, and still beaded with dew, like jewels among the petals. "Matchless, my Belle. As always."

Belle lifted her eyes, braving the teasing she feared to see in his eyes, and saw only fondness. Relieved, smiling, she picked up the rose. It was cold and damp - a fresh, _real_ rose, the stem cleanly cut at an angle, leaving a moist, green wound. Where in the world had he found a rose to pluck for her?

She brought it to her face to enjoy the sweet scent, closing her eyes.

Where in the world, indeed?

"Thank you," she said, with the petals to her lips - lips that were tender from so much kissing. "It's beautiful."

As ever, her thanks rendered Rumpelstiltskin dumb. He nodded, retreating into his seat, while Belle made herself comfortable with the blanket and the various cushions, feet up on her own seat. The rose she kept in her lap, twirling it slowly to watch the dewdrops roll away. She yawned.

"Still so certain that you wish to share your room with me?" Rumpelstiltskin enquired, innocently. "Prey to your husband's demands at all hours?"

"I'm certain." She managed to match his tone, and conceal her smile. "It's such a big castle. I'm sure we can manage to avoid each other, when we want to. I haven't even set foot in the other wings." A bright, laughing thought came to her, and Belle grinned. "I could have my adventures there. Mount an expedition to the west wing. Survive on my wits and rations."

"There's nothing there," he said, from behind a playful frown. "Unless you itch to do battle with yet more dust."

"Sounds heroic to me. And I shall catalogue the library."

"As you wish, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, rather weakly. Belle wondered, yet again, what he had imagined she would _do_ about the place, when he claimed her as his bride. "I... I must occupy myself with my work, when we return." He sounded hesitant, and Belle turned her head to see his expression, curious.

"Have I been distracting you?" she asked, pleased with the idea that she had enticed him from his magic. "It _was_ our honeymoon."

"So it was." His worried expression warming, Rumpelstiltskin produced the cord of white satin and stretched it between his hands. "A most welcome distraction."

"From the work of lifetimes?"

"What?" His stare became sharp, intense. Uncomfortable, Belle fidgeted.

"That's what you called it," she explained, nervous of the sudden shift in his mood. "When you were ill. The work of lifetimes." In spite of herself, she sounded apologetic.

"Ah." Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin relaxed and began to play with the cord. "So I did."

Belle took out a book from her basket, settling it in her lap with the rose. Rumpelstiltskin was such a stranger to trust. As curious as she was about his work, about his vague allusions to terrible secrets, she sensed that he did not want to be asked. In too many ways, they remained strangers to one another. She could not demand his trust, nor expect it before he was ready to give it. She would have to wait, with patience. And love, of course.

The book of brief stories, so amusing when Rumpelstiltskin read them to her, barely held her interest against the tedium of travel when she tried to read for herself. All too soon, her head began to hurt from the effort and Belle returned the book to the basket with a sigh.

That was another aspect of adventure where stories offered scant information - the crossing of great distances, and how heroes occupied themselves along the way. None of them were ever unwell from the motion of a carriage, or sore after days on horseback, and they were almost never lost on the way.

In that light, the stories in her book seemed too silly. All the stories she had ever loved seemed silly. They took no account of the ways of the world; they dealt only in the nature of people, and even then they looked only for the very best, and the very worst. They made everything simple, and nothing was simple.

Nothing. Especially not love.

Hugging her knees, Belle ran her hands over the soft blanket and stared at her rose, and at nothing at all. The knitted blanket was of the very best springy lambswool, stretchy and wonderfully warm. To pass the time, she considered again how she might use the black silk that Lotte had purchased for her, to make Rumpelstiltskin gifts. She was afraid that he would laugh, or give her one of those uncomprehending looks, if presented with something made by her own hands. To sew silk would be a labour of love indeed, and supposing he _laughed_ at her?

She raised the flower to her face again, brushing the soft, stiff petals against her cheek before inhaling the perfume. The scent was stronger, now that the rose was no longer chilly - it reminded her of formal gardens, of her mother, and the simple times before the war.

"Where do roses grow, at this time of year?" she asked, wistfully. Rose gardens had been turned over to food production, when the ogres began to threaten the kingdom. Cabbages and beans could be ornamental, and lovely in their way, but Belle would have enjoyed a stroll in a rose garden.

Rumpelstiltskin was silent, and Belle turned to see him frowning heavily down at a complex cat's cradle - a pattern that ought not to be possible using only two hands. It made her eyes itch to stare at it. Magic, then. She blinked and looked at his face, until he half-glanced in her direction, lips hesitating at the brink of words.

"It's best that you don't know," he said, nervously. "It was... perhaps... not honestly acquired."

"You told me that you steal nothing," Belle laughed, remembering how indignant he had been on that point.

"Steal would be a harsh choice of words," said Rumpelstiltskin, cheering up considerably. "The owner of the hothouse is in my debt, and could not be said to have come by it honestly, in any case." He beamed. "The magical ones lack something, don't you find?"

"I suppose so," Belle conceded, not sure whether to be annoyed or excited that he had plundered a stranger's hothouse for her, or that he agreed with her about magical roses. "Are there roses in your gardens?"

At last, Rumpelstiltskin turned his head to look at her.

"Oh, yes. Many." His sudden eagerness was somehow childlike - that little bit too anxious to please, but so bundled up with sweetness and sincerity that it was impossible to mind. "They'll bloom in any colours you want, and fill your rooms with scent."

"Actually, I'd just like to walk in the garden," Belle admitted. Cut flowers were a sweet gift that faded quickly, but a garden... a garden was a lasting joy. Even knowing that there were flowering plants buried beneath the snow made her feel happy. She hadn't known what to expect, come the thaw, but had envisaged something sombre and forbidding. "Sit under trees. Build a swing."

"I can see that you're going to be very busy," Rumpelstiltskin said, his smile fading to a soft echo of itself. "I hope you'll still have a little time for your husband."

"When he's not too busy with his secret work," Belle confided, in a loud whisper.

"Yes." With an inaudible sigh, Rumpelstiltskin nodded and returned to his puzzles with the satin cord.

A while later, he delved beneath his seat and brought out his box of straw. Belle was content to watch him spin, as deft with the distaff as he was with a wheel, and equally absorbed. She remembered their first journey to the castle, when he had spun enough gold to make her ring, then bound it up with her blood, with magic. Beneath her blanket, Belle stroked the smooth band of metal, still grateful beyond measure that it had not been stolen from her by the clerics' horrible fairy dust.

When they were home, she would need to see to it that she once again had a suitable dress to wear when royalty made unannounced visits. For this journey, she was grateful to be able to wear her comfortable old things, hidden beneath the velvet cloak as necessary. This time, Belle decided, firmly, the dress would be one that no misplaced magic could dissolve, even if that meant Rumpelstiltskin tolerating seamstresses from Odstone in his castle for a little while.

Trying not to disturb his peaceful concentration, Belle rearranged herself on the seat, stretching out her legs into the well between the seats and wrinkling her nose at an unwelcome grasping sensation in her belly. She sighed to herself, and tried to think back - to count the days since she bled last. Was it time already? The niggling little pain said so, and she frowned, rubbing her belly slowly under the blanket. She had been sore, ever since last night. Rumpelstiltskin had not been gentle, in his passion, and as wonderful as it had been at the time, she ached terribly inside, today. Watching him, head on one side to better see the shine when white thread became gold, Belle wondered if he was sore, too.

"Where do we lodge tonight?" she asked, when even his skill could not keep her thoughts from the tedium of travel.

Rumpelstiltskin looked up, as though startled to find her there, his hands still busy with spindle and thread.

"The inn where we passed our wedding night," he said, shyness making his smile gentle, when he clearly meant it to be wicked. "We'll reach it well after dark."

"No sooner?" Belle stamped down, crossly, on the whine that crept into her voice. She forced herself to sound more pleasant. "I don't think I feel any better for travelling without magic," she said, apologetically. "I'd rather an early night."

He watched her for too long before answering - Belle could imagine that his peculiar gaze allowed him to poke around in her thoughts, so unsettling was it when he stared like that. And then a blink, and Rumpelstiltskin inclined his head, gallantly.

"As you wish."

Feeling, somehow, that she had asked more than was reasonable, Belle did not ask Rumpelstiltskin to read to her. In any case, she was not in the mood for the childish stories, no matter how wonderfully he read them aloud.

Belle toyed with her basket of food, but a few bites turned her stomach. Cold tea went down rather better, and filled her up at least. Impatient with herself, and for reasons that she could not understand, with Rumpelstiltskin too, she curled up in the corner of her seat and buried herself beneath blanket and hood, meaning to daydream the journey away. What a hopeless adventuress she would have made - bored, ill and grumpy too!

She managed to sleep for a while, when magic muffled the harsh sounds of the carriage, the horses and the wheels upon a flinty road. Going faster meant a quieter journey, or at least one with sounds that lulled her instead of keeping her awake, and Belle did not fight the fatigue that crept over her. She had asked to go faster; this was the price. If it made her weary, then she would sleep, and stop bothering her husband - who had been so patient - with her wretched objections to the road. The sooner they were home, the better.

At some point, as the sky began to darken outside, Rumpelstiltskin worked himself behind her and secured her in his arms, keeping her from falling from the seat when true sleep overcame her. Belle's half-dreams became a lot more pleasant, after that, and she awoke to stillness, darkness, and his arms still tightly about her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. She felt warm and safe.

Blinking, trying to make her body obey her, Belle struggled towards wakefulness, but he soothed her, nuzzling her hair and squeezing.

"No hurry," he said. "We've arrived, but I didn't want to wake you."

"Thank you," Belle managed to mumble, too drowsy to fully take in his meaning. "Are we going in?"

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, setting her upright with gentle hands. Belle's arms and legs screamed with the inrush of fresh blood, and she felt horribly dizzy.

Oh, yes. She had asked him to use magic again, to shorten the journey. How long had he been patiently holding her there so that she might sleep?

"It's early yet," Rumpelstiltskin said, untangling her legs from the red blanket, and rescuing her rose when its two neat thorns became entangled in the stitches. He placed it carefully on top of her basket of books. "A meal, before we go up?"

"Oh... no," Belle said, trying to hide her dismay. "Not yet. I don't think I've stopped moving yet. Perhaps later?"

His eerie giggle filled the dark coach, but the sound was brittle with nerves, or frustration. Something that was her fault. Belle's head throbbed, and she couldn't work out what.

"Come, then," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Our bald friend will think we've been fucking all this while."

"Oh!" Belle protested, but was glad to laugh a little. It gave her some energy, and she was able to grasp Rumpelstiltskin's hand and step down from the carriage without stumbling. "In a carriage?"

"I seem to recall that you were eager to try it," her husband said, and kissed her cheek, quickly, as he lifted her hood to hide her face. At Belle's puzzled frown, which she was too scattered to conceal, he said, "Be a mystery, my treasure. My wife ought to be that, don't you think?"

"I... I suppose so," she said, and took his arm for the walk across the cobbles. "I'd be more mysterious if I wasn't always in such a state when I got here," she added, looking down at her crumpled skirts and carefully pulling the velvet cloak closed to conceal them. And there was the grasping pain in her lower belly again; she was probably bleeding into her petticoats, as well.

More a shameful mess than an enticing mystery, really.

The main tavern was far less crowded than on their previous visits, with few lanterns lit against the encroaching evening. Belle waited while Rumpelstiltskin fetched the key from the innkeeper's wife, and spoke to her in hushed tones that were quite unlike him, in a public place. Gold changed hands, curiously bright and obvious in the quiet bar, and Belle noted how it caught every eye. How often had her husband been here? He was known here, whereas his identity had only been suspected at their last lodgings. How long had he paid for a room to be kept, untouched, ready for his unannounced visits? Ready for his wedding night?

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin touched her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. Pulling herself together, Belle nodded to the innkeeper's wife and made her way through the door to the wooden staircase.

She wondered if she would ever be able to climb these stairs without reliving the numb terror of her wedding night, or recalling the expression of absolute horror on the woman's pleasant face, anticipating what was in store for her.

Reaching past her to unlock their door, Rumpelstiltskin guided her inside with a hand at her back. Lanterns lit up all around the room as Belle crossed the threshold, and seeing it happen brought a smile to her face. It seemed such a harmless magic, to make candles come alight. In their faceted lanterns of stained glass, they gave the room a warm and dancing light. If Belle associated the winding staircase with dread and pity, her feelings towards this room were far kinder.

A big fire roared in the grate, and her copper bath awaited, a stack of creamy towels on the chair beside it. Her trunk was at the end of the bed, with her baskets to one side, and her nightgown was already spread out for her, clean and perfect.

Wordlessly, Belle turned. Trapping Rumpelstiltskin in the awkward space between herself and the closing door, she put her arms about his neck and clung tightly.

He patted her through the velvet, grunting with surprise, then embraced her gently when Belle did not let go.

"My dear?"

"I don't like travelling," she declared, fiercely. "I want to go home." Tears that she hadn't known were brewing slid slowly down her cheeks. Rumpelstiltskin half lifted her in a long squeeze, then disentangled himself from her arms and drew back, pushing back her hood. Her tears, as always, seemed to disconcert him. He produced a handkerchief, this one bright red and made of cotton, and dabbed at her cheeks while he fought to keep his expression calm.

"We'll discuss it in the morning, when you're rested," he said, firmly, and Belle felt the words like a little blow. Oh, she had grown so _used_ to his puzzled acquiescences, to his gentle indulgence of her whims! What selfish creature had she become, to feel struck when he denied her something so irrational - something that might harm her? Taking the handkerchief, gratefully, she turned away and blew her nose, trying to pull herself together. What was the _matter_ with her?

"Yes," she said, steadily. "Of course, you're right. I don't even know what I'm saying, really." She sniffed back the threat of fresh tears, determinedly. "Whatever I think of travel, I do like it here," she added, soothed by the relative familiarity of the room, and by the tender memories that it held for her. "Very much."

"You slept very little, last night," Rumpelstiltskin said, tossing his cloak across the back of one of the chairs, then turning her to face him and gently unhooking the clasp of hers. "Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow as well, if you wish. Yes?"

Hardly able to bear his concern, Belle nodded. She felt silly, now, for not arriving at such a simple solution herself. A good night's sleep!

Biting her lip, Belle looked at the bath. The water steamed, as ever. It looked wonderful. Miserable indecision froze her in place, staring at the bathwater. She had coaxed and cajoled her husband to agree to sharing rooms with her, when they got home. Could she send him away, now, and on some pretext, because she needed to check her petticoats for blood? He had already told her where he stood on the subject of bladders. Any dismay he had shown when he witnessed her blood, the last time, had been because he feared he had hurt her. Would he wonder the same, now, if her skirts were soaked through?

Oh well. He would have to know, one way or the other. He had been gallant about it, before.

Perching herself on the curved lid of her trunk, Belle toed off her slippers and spent a few moments rubbing the life back into her feet. Delaying, she realised, and set her jaw, tugging up her skirt and petticoat to her knees. In spite of herself, she glanced towards Rumpelstiltskin, but he had gone to the window and was holding back the curtain, peering out at the dusk.

There was no blood at all. Frowning, for she had expected a dreadful stain, Belle set to work untying her garters. That her monthly bleeding came upon her without warning, all at once and usually at night, had always been rather a blessing. She did not spend days worrying in miserable anticipation, as she knew some girls did, and her days of discomfort ended swiftly too. Lotte had joked that it was a sign of a light heart, that she went so untroubled while other women suffered so.

Well, last night had been almost unbearable in its pleasures. Little wonder, perhaps, that she felt bruised and delicate, now. A bath would ease it, just as it had in the past when her enthusiasm had overreached itself, with Rumpelstiltskin. She could not bear for him to think that he had caused her pain, last night. There had been such tenderness in it, too, and she would not trade the memory of it for anything, least of all for comfort now.

"Did you lock the door?" she called, remembering herself just in time as she finished unlacing her bodice. She had no wish at all to be half dressed if the innkeeper or his wife brought a tray!

"Yes, dear," Rumpelstiltskin replied, without turning. He sounded distant, quiet. "You'll not be disturbed. I'll fetch food later. They boast of a fine chicken broth, tonight."

Shrugging the bodice away, dropping her skirt into a heap when she stood up, Belle went to him, barefoot, and put her hands at his waist. What must he _think_ of her, behaving so awkwardly? Last time they had stayed here, they'd made love before the fire, so joyful together. Lost for an apology that would seem adequate, Belle instead kissed between his shoulders.

"Thank you." She managed a small, self-deprecating smirk. "I don't think anyone would believe me, if I told them how patient you are with me."

"Good," said Rumpelstiltskin, indignantly. "Tell me... tell me that this upset isn't because we left your home?" That was spoken much more quietly. Belle peered around his shoulder, trying to see his reflection in the distorted, bottle-thick glass of the leaded window. She could not. "I can take you back."

"No," she promised. She was certain of that much. Absolutely certain. "Oh, I'll miss Papa, and Lotte, and the smell of the sea. I know I will. But I've missed _home_ ," she stressed, leaning herself against his side. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped his arm across her back. "I miss having you all to myself, and taking tea with you, and our wonderful enormous bed."

Rumpelstiltskin let go of the curtain and turned to face her, taking her by the shoulders.

"It pains me to see you unhappy," he confessed, and Belle thought that the confession pained him almost as much. "If gold or magic could buy your happiness..." He stroked her cheeks with the back of his knuckles, his gaze falling to her lips, and heavy with longing. Belle's own lips parted on a soft, indrawn breath; as weary as she was, and as muddled, something deeper than thought responded to the promise of a kiss.

Their lips touched, a nudge, then brushed together, sweet as their first kisses and just as uncertain. Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, lingering before he drew away and sighing as the moment passed. He shook his head, as though chasing away some unwanted thought.

"Your bath," he said, seeing the gooseflesh on her arms and drawing her towards the fireplace. "I shan't peek."

"You can peek," Belle smiled, remembering their playful splashes together beside a different fire. "I don't mind." Shedding her chemise, she saw him trying to avert his gaze, but he was drawn to her; when she stepped out of her thick petticoat and drawers, Rumpelstiltskin looked. Without a word, he held her hand to steady her as she stepped into the tub, then sank into the chair nearest the door to gaze at her when she'd settled in the water.

"Your skin." Rumpelstiltskin gestured to his own torso. "Still sore?"

"A little." Careful to keep her hair out of the water, hanging over the end of the tub, Belle watched him, the warmth of the fireplace and the water melting away her aches and pains. At least she was a more natural shade of pink, today. "Is there any of Wren's balm left?"

"Yes." Looking down at his left hand, Rumpelstiltskin opened it to show her the bottle. "Here." Setting it on the small table that sat between the two chairs, he leaned back in his seat, head pillowed on their cloaks. "You'd best do it yourself," he said, with a quirk of his mischievous smile. "It's temptation enough just looking at you, and you must _sleep_ tonight."

Although the suggestion disappointed her a little, Belle was forced to agree. Sore and out of sorts as she was, temptation would certainly get the better of her if he played slippery hands all over her, as he had before. Even the memory of it gave her a sweet pang inside, and she lay in the water, recalling how it had felt; the oil, and his unhurried hands. Making love had so many layers to it - secrets within secrets, like the brightly painted nesting dolls that sometimes appeared on the market stalls. How many more layers of marriage had she yet to discover, as well? How many layers of love?

"It pains me when you're unhappy, too," she said, speaking the thought that surfaced from nowhere - from the quiet, comfortable moment. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, bowing his head over his hands. "Do I make you sad?"

"No." He spoke carefully, when she had not. "No, you don't." Still he wore the little smile. Belle thought it a sad smile, even if she was not the cause. "I'm jealous of my treasures because they slip away," he said, with a terrible calm. "All of them. And so will you." He held up a hand as she drew breath to protest. "In time, if not by your choice. I _will_ lose you too. Loss is sad."

"Yes," Belle admitted, sitting up and hugging her knees. Her dry hair clung to her wet shoulders. "Yes, it is." She gazed at the surface of the water as the ripples began to still, sighing. His was not a foolish fear to be dismissed - it was cold reality. He had magic and she did not. Death had shunned him for centuries and likely would for centuries more. Only him. "You truly didn't mean to care for me, did you?" she asked, small-voiced.

"No." Sliding to his knees beside the tub, Rumpelstiltskin waited for Belle to lift her head. It took a long moment for her to find the courage. A strange smile turned up the corners of his mouth, warming his expression, although it was still sad. "Looks like I made a deal I didn't understand, doesn't it?"

"I'm sorry," Belle whispered. She couldn't bear the thought that with every kind word, every loving gesture, every embrace, she had been feeding this unexpressed sorrow of his. That last night, their incredible night of kisses and raw passion, had only served to remind him of what he must lose. "I can't help liking you so much, you know," she added, her tone making a perfectly reasonable statement sound like a child's losing argument. "Wanting to be with you. Make love with you. I didn't understand our deal, either, because the books don't tell you what it's like. Really _like_. Being with someone," she finished, lamely.

"In the stories," Rumpelstiltskin said, placing his hand where her wrists crossed, "you kiss a toad - or is it a frog? - and he turns into a handsome prince."

"I always thought that one was silly," Belle scoffed, unwinding her hands to catch his between both of hers. "If I wanted to kiss a frog, why would I want it to turn into a prince? It's not something I'd do unless I wanted to, no matter how he begged or tricked me. A prince is nothing like a frog - suppose I didn't feel like kissing him any more, once he'd changed? And if I already knew he would change, and kissed him to make it happen, that's cheating."

Staring at her, startled out of his wry amusement into blank-faced surprise, Rumpelstiltskin blinked.

"Did you just liken me to a storybook frog, my dear?" he enquired, with delicate politeness.

"Or a toad," Belle said, sniffing back more foolish tears and clutching at his hand. "And you started it."

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, smiling at her in simple, unguarded wonder.

"It's as well that travel seems to disagree with you, little wife," he said, his voice a tender croon as he brought his other hand up to stroke her cheek. "Think of the stories you'd upset if you got loose in the lands? No handsome prince would be safe from your scorn. One might also worry for the unsuspecting frogs."

Belle's surprised little laugh didn't seem to fit the moment - and yet, it did. It was _their_ sort of moment, misshapen and facing the world the wrong way on. Theirs - an unladylike snigger and a bird-like, twittering giggle, echoing together in a copper bathtub.

Something had eased between them, when Rumpelstiltskin helped her to step out of the tub and draped her shoulders with one of the towels. Belle tried to be glad of it, for she was too tired to question it with any certainty of arriving at an answer. Laughter had always been their ease.

She crouched before the fire to dry herself, after Rumpelstiltskin made the copper tub vanish, and, when her husband left to fetch some food from below, she thought once again to check the cloth for blood as she dried between her legs. There was none, and the hot water had eased away the unwelcome pains, too. Bad enough that her blood should keep them apart for days on end; she did not relish the thought of living in dread of the occurrence. She blew out her cheeks, relieved, as she rubbed herself over quickly with the healing oil, then pulled on her nightgown. Even so, she kept the smaller of the three towels dry, and spread it beneath her as she got into the bed; these were not _her_ sheets, nor her mattress, no matter how handsomely her husband paid to retain the room. Let him tease her for her anxiety, if he liked. Belle thought, somehow, that he would not.

Rumpelstiltskin returned with soup - two bowls - and sat beside her on the bed, cross-legged, to eat with her. Perhaps he had marked what she had said, about missing their afternoon tea together? Belle smiled over the last few spoonfuls of her own broth. Perhaps last night had merely given her husband an unexpected appetite?

He certainly seemed fatigued and ready for sleep, by the time their meal was cleared away - his movements were small, contained, and he said nothing. He joined her wordlessly as well, wearing the black silk that she so favoured, and nestled down beside her with a sigh while Belle still sat, leafing idly through an unread book. She was too tired to read, but it was early, and she had imagined that Rumpelstiltskin would want to be up a while yet.

"Will you sleep tonight?" she asked, leaning over him and arranging his hair, needlessly, while she watched his eyes.

"Not tonight," he said, drawing her down to pillow herself on his chest. "But you must."

"Not even a kiss?" Belle asked, not really minding. They'd kissed a lifetime, before dawn today. She could still feel it - her lips dry, almost bruised. Every living inch of her felt as though it needed a proper rest, and Rumpelstiltskin knew it.

"Wouldn't want me turning into a handsome prince," he pointed out, burying his fingers in her hair and beginning, gently, to sort the tangled tresses across her back. Belle could feel how tense he was, lying still; his body all but quivered with it. She tried a soothing rub, her hand moving the silk over his ribs, but it only made him swallow and sigh. "Belle..." Rumpelstiltskin said, uncertainly. "Those stories. It's not all nonsense." He wound some of her hair about his hand and left it there, as though attempting to curl it with the warmth of his skin. "Have you heard of True Love's Kiss?"

"Yes," she answered, confidently, and then realised that the words were _all_ she had really heard. Words and silly stories, the ones that seemed childish and insultingly impractical to her, now. "It's what turns the frog into the prince." Belle frowned slightly. "Mistress Elena told me that it can break any curse." She snorted. "Or that people _say_ it can."

"It's true." His voice grew soft. Carefully so, Belle thought; he was still taut and unhappy, though whether with the topic or with her, she couldn't tell. "Love is more powerful than any magic in our land. You might say that it's the ultimate magic. The absolute power."

"Because it can't be bought, or coerced, or even got by wishing," Belle said, smoothing her hand across his chest again. "It can't be cheated."

"Yes." She heard the smile in his voice, this time. He approved, when she spoke her thoughts - approved of her _thinking_ about things. Frog or prince, she was sure that few husbands were as generous. "One day, your kiss might steal away my power," Rumpelstiltskin said. "It's power born of a curse. The darkest." He let the hair unwind from his fingers, dropping his arm to the mattress. "It seems I must guard myself against you, little wife, if you insist on trying to love me."

A curse? Trying to blink away her drowsiness, Belle lifted herself and looked down at him, frowning. That made sense of it - the cruelty of it. Power that was its own price. To be ageless, deathless and forever scarred by dark magic...

Rumpelstiltskin hid from her gaze with lowered lashes. He looked miserable.

"You don't _want_ it to end?"

"One day," he said, reaching up to take her shoulders. He couldn't look at her. "Not now."

Belle bowed her head, trying to think. To understand.

"You don't want to be in love with me," she concluded, unable to keep her voice from cracking. "In case..."

"Belle." He gave her the slightest of shakes, snatching her from the brink of tears. When she dared to look at his face, Rumpelstiltskin was looking at her, at last. He shook his head. "It's too late for that. How could I not love you?" Tears glittered, pooling in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. "I do."

Her tears splashed on his cheeks, left then right, and Belle pressed her lips together, trying not to sob. Elena had said it; love need not be _True Love_ , of the sort that shaped the stories. It was what lovers made of it, and, above all, it was _theirs_. For Rumpelstiltskin, it was this shame-faced confession, fraught with fear and tears.

"I love you too," Belle promised, through her own tears. "Frog or prince, I do."

Nodding, trying to school his features and failing, Rumpelstiltskin drew her back to him, over him, and buried his face and his struggling breaths in her hair.

They clung, calming each other with caresses, until Belle stopped trying to chase her thoughts away, in dread of what they might show her. When she slid away from him, to lie beside him again and to touch his hair, Rumpelstiltskin looked exhausted. He would sleep, she was sure of it. Even if he'd meant to lie awake and guard her - or guard against her - he would sleep now, with this burden shared.

"How will we know?" she asked, timid. "Love... _True Love_... how can we know? I mean... if you didn't change, last night, it's not--"

"I don't know." Rumpelstiltskin said it so simply, so honestly, that it stopped her spiralling thoughts in their tracks. "I've studied love," he went on, toying with the ends of her hair. "For more than a century, I've studied the power of it. The magic in it." He smiled weakly, shaking his head and darting a shy glance at Belle's eyes. "And I don't know a damned thing more than you do, treasure. I really don't."

Belle nodded. Hardly daring, so afraid that he would push her away, she bent to offer her lips. Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, caught the back of her neck and pulled her to him for a kiss, clumsy and desperate as their very first ones.

When they parted, sharing embarrassed smiles and damp sniffs, Rumpelstiltskin was every bit the same, staring at her with strange, pinpoint pupils in overlarge, inhuman eyes. Nothing had changed but, at the same time, everything had.

Rumpelstiltskin _loved_ her, and _everything_ had changed.


	63. Lovers

No candles still burned.

Waking in near-darkness, it took Belle some moments to remember where she was sleeping, tonight, and why. That settled in her mind, she reached for her husband, who had been drowsing beside her when she fell asleep. Her hand found pillows, sheet and blankets, but not Rumpelstiltskin.

As her eyes adjusted, and stopped trying to close themselves again without her permission, Belle realised that the depth of darkness was due, in part, to the fact that Rumpelstiltskin was sitting between her and the fire - at the edge of the bed, with his back to her. She wriggled towards him, slipping her arms around his waist and pressing her face into the small of his back, content to have found him. After a moment, he folded his arms over hers and covered her hands with his own.

"What's the matter?" she mumbled, fighting heavy eyelids and a clumsy tongue.

"Sleep is no friend to me," Rumpelstiltskin said, dully. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Come back to bed," Belle urged, tugging him half-heartedly. "Brooding in the dark's no friend to anyone."

She felt his silent quake of laughter, just before she loosened her arms. Rumpelstiltskin waited for her to move aside, then lay down again, facing her and reaching for her. Sleepy as she was, she welcomed his kiss of greeting - just a peck on the lips, but tender, and a reminder of what had been said between them before she slept. Smiling, she squeezed him to her for a long moment. They eased into the pillows together, comfortably tangled side by side. She meant to offer herself, to distract him from whatever had driven him from her bed, but it took only his hand stroking her hair to soothe her back towards sleep, once she was warm in his arms.

When Belle opened her eyes again, it was morning. Bright sunlight leaked around the curtain, and she was alone once more in the bed. Sitting up, rubbing at her eyes, Belle saw that Rumpelstiltskin was sitting beside the fire, in the chair furthest from the window. Had he slept at all?

Belle had slept well, and felt a new life in her bones. Were it not for a call of nature, she would have snuggled back down in the bed, uncaring of the hour or of their journey home.

"Keep your back turned," she requested, nervously, as she fished the chamberpot out from under the bed. How she missed her little bathing room! Rumpelstiltskin raised a hand in an idle wave of assent. She saw that he was still wearing his nightgown, the sleeve slipping to his elbow with the little wave.

Far from teasing her, his disinterest in her activities seemed genuine, very much to Belle's relief. And she had not bled, even a little, in spite of those sharp pains yesterday that warned she might. Relieved on both counts, she went to the window and tugged back the heavy drape, admitting the morning light. The sun was well up in the sky.

"I didn't want to wake you," her husband said. "Do you feel better, my dear?"

"Oh, yes," Belle said, stretching happily before she went to stand before him. "Much better. Thank you." Offering her hands, she watched Rumpelstiltskin take them, holding them like delicate treasures. "Do you get bored, when I'm sleeping?"

"Bored? No. I think." With a tug, he urged her into his lap, where Belle arranged herself, happily. "I plan. I watch you," Rumpelstiltskin concluded, a smile twisting his sombre expression. Resting her hands on his shoulders, Belle curled into his lap, her feet buried beside him in the chair, and wriggled until she was comfortable. Only then did Rumpelstiltskin embrace her, and greet her with a kiss. "And wait," he added, not unhappily. "For you to wake up."

Belle closed her eyes, seeking another kiss while she slid her hands up into his hair. Rumpelstiltskin supported her easily with his left arm across her back, leaving his right hand free to touch her. He toyed with her collar, her sleeve, her knee - he let the kiss be the focus of his affections for a while, though she knew he was eager for far more. His words of love must have seemed wasted on an exhausted wife, almost too tired to comprehend him. She would show him, now, how moved and how glad she felt. How much she loved him, and wished to be allowed to love him better.

"No travel, today?" he asked, settling her more comfortably on his knees. He teased above the collar of her gown with two fingertips, demonstrating what might be possible, were she to grant him his own way. Torn, Belle stole another kiss. She could be home tonight, with a little more magic and discomfort; she could pass tonight in her own bed, _their_ bed, and all would soon be mended. Or she could rest the day, here, and make love, alleviating her husband's worry for her into the bargain.

"A rest would be nice," she admitted, hardly letting their lips part. Another kiss, Rumpelstiltskin's approval clear, and his desire, too. He had been waiting to see what she would decide. "What about your work?" Belle managed, tipping her head back to accept swift, heated kisses to her throat.

"I choose a day with my wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, sliding his other arm beneath her legs and lifting her with him as he rose. "The work of lifetimes can wait one day more."

Belle nodded, pleased, and pulled at the fastening of his gown while he carried her to the bed. She meant to have all of him, once more, even if that meant wriggling out of his reach when he tried to follow her to the bed, his intent to take her there and then clear.

"What happened to patience?" she asked, laughing softly. She had not the least intention of delaying him once he took off his nightgown. Struggling out of her own, the bed too bouncy to let her move easily, Belle arranged herself at the centre and watched Rumpelstiltskin follow her, his gaze all over her like a demanding caress.

"Patience," he said, kneeling by her hip and allowing her to pull at his gown, "is lying awake beside you for the entire night and not simply fucking you in your sleep, dear." He threw his nightgown aside, next to hers, and stretched out on top of her to demand a fresh kiss. "If you want to sleep beside me," he went on, insinuating himself between her knees and nudging her thigh with his hard cock, "you'll need to make some allowances come morning." He nudged her cheek with his nose. "I may not get bored, but I do become... eager."

Revelling in the dry warmth of skin against skin, Belle nodded, and tucked her hair back from her face before he kissed her again. Rumpelstiltskin had always hesitated to _demand_ anything of her, in their bed, or even to ask; he would content himself with her pleasures, her whims. She was curious about his own, and about his liking for a morning coupling - face to face, like this, and playful, but unhurried and gentle too. She had thought it merely a matter of opportunity, when it had happened before, but was this how he wanted her?

To her dismay, the first brush of his fingers between her legs found her still tender, and too dry to accept him. Her pleasure had always preceded these morning encounters, leaving her body as willing as her heart to be taken without any seduction. She could not hide her little flinch of discomfort - far from pain, but unfamiliar in their bed, nonetheless.

"Belle?" Fear and confusion tainted his concern, and she reached to capture his face between her palms, shaking her head while she sought for words to reassure him. She dared not tell him that his roughness had left her sore; whatever she said, however she couched the truth of it, he would hear only that she had been hurt.

"Use the balm," she urged, flushing as she recalled their wedding night, and how awkward it had been to discover how very little she knew. "It works just as well."

"Hardly," protested Rumpelstiltskin, and kissed her again, far more gently than before. He would not hurry her, no matter how fierce his desire. Even so, when they had found the comfortable, teasing rhythm of their kisses, he touched her again with slick fingers, and the stuff was wonderful on her tender flesh, cooling wherever his gentle strokes spread it. Perhaps it healed just as well as it protected?

"Wren doesn't make that too, does she?" Belle asked, suddenly wrenching her mouth from his, mortified by the possibility.

"No," he laughed, fingers stilling at her entrance, and mirth replacing some of the worry in his eyes. "No, mistress, this one's my own. Very..." he teased inside her with a fingertip, "carefully made." Inside, he found slickness of her own, and two fingers glided easily in and out, shortening Belle's breaths. "But never as good as the real thing."

"Oh..." Belle bit her lip, shutting her eyes as tightly as she could. No matter _how_ he made her feel, she was not going to share it with the rest of the inn! She was not in pain, but so sensitive - each slight stroke and twist made her body jerk in near-protest, and then Rumpelstiltskin claimed her breast with his mouth, her left, and she had to cover her own mouth with her hand to keep silent. At least he could not mistake her lack of readiness for a lack of willingness, with her body so eager to betray her desires. He sucked hard at her nipple, then soothed with strokes of his tongue, then kissed her there, burying his face in the soft flesh - all the while sliding two fingers in and out of her, his palm hot against the bud which, like his cock, hardened and swelled with excitement. When he parted her fleshy folds to touch it directly, without the buffer of surrounding, slippery flesh, Belle yelped into her cupped palm.

"Too much," she managed, though her teeth didn't want to part far enough to let her speak. She was losing herself, losing her mind to it, and she had wanted only to pleasure him - to offer a warm welcome to the man who had waited all night, just to let her sleep in peace. "Don't wait," she pleaded, pulling ineffectually at his shoulders. She did not know how much of his fingertip curiosity she could bear, this morning.

Rumpelstiltskin rose to his knees, between hers, and gazed down at her, hands stroking her shins, her thighs. Belle fidgeted against the sheets, feeling persecuted even by _their_ touch, and held out her arms imploringly. He was hard, and she had seldom had a better chance to look at him; his cock jutted upwards, dark compared to the flesh of his lower belly, which was paler than most of him, and very smooth. Likewise the heavy sac, his balls, were paler than most of him, as though the curse that altered his appearance paid less attention to parts that would be seldom seen. He had looked different, when he was but a man - but not so very different.

"Finished looking?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, causing Belle to blink and look up, guiltily, to see his suggestive smile. She swallowed, nodding, and offered her arms again, but Rumpelstiltskin laid himself down beside her and drew her to him, over him, to straddle him as she had the other night. She let him fill her up, gratefully, hearing his throaty moan of enjoyment as she eased him inside her. There was that ache, again, and the sharp little stabs of pain that felt, to Belle, like the flip-side of the violent pleasure she had enjoyed the other night. There was the thrill of being able to see him, sprawled lazily beneath her and plainly expecting to be pleasured rather than take any active part. She could hardly begrudge him that, or anything.

Belle trailed her fingertips across his belly and hips, as she began to rock her weight. Rumpelstiltskin was absorbed for several seconds at a time, his eyes closed, and then seemed to recall the newness of it - of being visible, of confessing his love, of demanding his way - and his eyes would snatch open, watching her with care until he relaxed again, reassured by her smile and her eagerness. Belle's aches passed into the promise of pleasure to come, if she persisted in moving thus; he was deep in her, each slow push with her hips adding only a little to the melting pot of desire. It was savouring where there had always been greed.

Eyes closed once more, Rumpelstiltskin put his left hand behind his head, reaching to touch her with the right. Her arm, at first, then her breast. Her hip, her curls, making Belle catch her breath, but he did not reach between them to tease her. He found her breast again, squeezing it gently in a rhythm that mimicked the rocking of her hips. As much as he had begun to breathe faster, and his face to take on the curious solemnity that accompanied his deepest pleasures, Belle thought that he looked happy, spread out there on their marriage bed and being indulged. The nervous glances ceased, his hands found her hips to urge a little more vigour, and Belle lost her ability to study her husband, or her own actions. The want grew, from a sweet burn where they joined to a pulsing, clenching that ruled her lower half; she had not learned how to resist it, or delay it, and had no wish to do either.

"Are you coming, love?" he murmured, hands returning to her breasts, cupping them and rubbing her rigid nipples with his thumbs. "Tell me when you come, tell me how it feels," he begged, with such longing that Belle tried to master herself and focus again upon his face, his expression. She could only nod, and hope that some facility with words would find her when the time came. The flicks to her nipples were crowning her pleasure, already; a kiss would have been perfection, but she did not want to break the blissful pattern of rock, rock, rock, nor break her silent promise to tell him how she felt. "Use your hand," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, thumbnails momentarily sharp across her nipples, making Belle twitch and gasp. "Hurry. Come for me, treasure. Please."

"Oh..." Intrigued, excited, Belle pushed her right hand between them, one finger pressed alongside the swollen mound and its cushion of slippery flesh. There was an entire world of sensation hidden there, almost too terrifying in its power. She felt that she could unleash only a very little of it at once, and still keep her sanity. "I... it's starting," she managed, her voice sinking to a deep groan; she need do nothing but leave her hand still, her finger _there_ , and continue to move as she had been. "Oh... so nearly... mmm..."

"Yes, tell me." Rumpelstiltskin grabbed her hips, moving her faster.

"H-heat," Belle stammered, as the joyous waves began to peak. "Waves. Oh... oh..."

Words became impossible, but 'oh' and 'ah' seemed to excite Rumpelstiltskin; he pulled her faster, met her rocking - _fucked_ her, Belle thought, just as movement failed her, fingers and toes curling up tight in the throes of passionate release.

She had the presence of mind not to stop moving, once she had some shred of self-control back; began to rise and fall on her knees, to meet his upward thrusts, to watch him, his eyes tight shut. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his cries muffled just before he faltered, as incapable as she had been in the grip of the moment, but quieter. Belle moved when he stopped, earning a sharper cry, and bruising fingers digging into her hips, so she kept doing it until Rumpelstiltskin stopped jerking and shaking beneath her, his mouth become a silent 'o' of amazement.

Such a relief to sink down, chest to chest with him; to find kisses waiting for her, feeble at first, then lazy with slow gratitude, with fondness, with the sharing of their fading bliss. And they could have it again whenever they liked. That was the wonderful part. Man and wife, they could have this - give it, share it, play with it, rejoice in it - and nobody could deny them.

Rumpelstiltskin dislodged her, after a little while, and lay beside her, playing with the strands of hair that tickled Belle's cheeks. He watched his fingers, as he did so, as captivated as when he spun his straw.

"What if we kiss one time, and your curse is broken?" Belle touched his lips with her fingertips, wondering if his felt as tender as hers. He was immune to so much. What a shame, if the little pains of loving were lost to him as well.

"True Love's Kiss." He propped his head up on his left arm, the other hand still toying with her hair, but he met her eyes. "I believe I'm equal to the challenge," he said, and she could not interpret his expression. "Should the need arise."

"When we know each other better, it will." Foolish words, perhaps; a foolish boast, but Belle could not believe that _this_ was not love, between them. "Why do you want to stay as you are?" She ran her hand over his shoulder, down his arm to the elbow, where his skin was almost like scales. "You speak of it with such loathing."

"I must finish my work." Rumpelstiltskin captured her hand. Kissed it. "For that, I must be powerful. Powerful as can be."

"Your work." Belle sighed, turning on to her back to stretch out her stiff legs. "That you don't tell me about, but that means you must stay ageless, and think yourself ugly."

"Yes." He spoke very gently, hushed almost. "Just so." With a soft snort, Rumpelstiltskin returned to playing with her hair. "I'll not ask for your trust. But patience - I have to ask for that."

"More patience?" Belle began to feel the chill of the air upon her skin, and sat up to reach for her gown. "I'll do my best." She threw Rumpelstiltskin's nightgown to him, as well, and saw his searching look as he caught it, without looking at it. He had not expected such easy acquiescence. "I already agreed to stand by your side when I married you," Belle reminded him, pulling the silk over her head and hugging herself as it fell about her, hiding knees and feet from view. Rumpelstiltskin was neater, standing to shake out the silk, which hung to his calves. "That hasn't changed. I assumed then that you had dreadful secrets that I'd be afraid to know. That there was more purpose to you than mocking the world with your power, just because you can. Now I'm sure of it. Nothing's changed."

The bold, blunt words gave her less confidence than she had hoped they would, but it was the truth. Nothing had changed, other than for the better. Her husband loved her, had _confessed_ that he loved her, and that meant she could be certain that he welcomed her love in return. She had not been sure, until last night.

Rumpelstiltskin sat, reaching for her shoulder. When her attempt at a smile faltered, he raised her chin with his fingertips, holding her gaze. His was tender, fearful, hopeful. So very honest.

"In all other things," he said, "I _am_ yours."

His unguarded hope was nearly unbearable to witness. Belle nodded, pushing her worries away. She had said it herself; his admission that his work must take precedence told her nothing that she had not already suspected. It need add no more fear to her life. She could take comfort from this naked sincerity. Rumpelstiltskin offered his heart as one might offer tribute to a great queen, and Belle was never unaware of how he feared rejection.

There were questions she wished to ask, but too many of them. Here, today, in this room where they had become man and wife, Belle could not face them. She rubbed her cheek against his hesitant hand, closing her eyes.

"I'm quite hungry," she confessed, when the caress had reassured her. "Can we eat?"

She opened her eyes when he dropped his hand to her shoulder, and saw that he looked relieved - just as she felt. Really, she thought, love ought to be less difficult. Like breathing, it could hardly be helped. It should not be such a struggle to live alongside it in peace.

"What would you like, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, towards the bright window. "It's neither breakfast nor lunchtime."

"The innkeeper will think very badly of us," Belle said, ruefully.

"He doesn't argue with a purse of gold, dear," her husband said, smugly. "Few men do."

"Tea," Belle said, missing his touch when he rose; missing the cosy intimacy they'd shared thus far when, in a blur of unheeded magic, he dressed himself. It was his long brocade coat over shirt and leathers; elegant and flattering, with a cravat of pale lace. She smiled, missing the hints of bare flesh, yet liking what she now saw instead. "Whatever they have, and some tea."

Belle went to the fireside, while Rumpelstiltskin was gone, bending to add more logs and stir up the embers. She thought vaguely of dressing herself, but the day lacked any sense of urgency, and she decided that she would like a bath first, in any case. Perhaps she would be able to coax Rumpelstiltskin to share it with her, this time joining her at one end of the tub, to kiss and cuddle her in the water. Would more actually be possible? Curling up in the chair nearest the window, and pulling Rumpelstiltskin's cloak from the second chair to cover her knees, Belle gazed at the space where the copper bathtub fit snugly. Possible, she decided, with a firm nod, and then tried very hard to think about something else - in fact, about _anything_ else - until Rumpelstiltskin returned with a large tray.

"Our host asks after your health, my dear," he told her, placing the tray on the small table between the chairs, then returning to close the door, and to lock it.

"I told you he'd think badly of us," Belle laughed. Even the best inns were places where travellers stopped by necessity; few would simply decide to spend a day of leisure, locked in their room, when they needed to be getting on with their journey. Then again, few rooms had the luxury of this one, with its touches of Rumpelstiltskin's magic everywhere, and few travellers were as free of obligations.

The tray held bread rolls, freshly baked, to judge from from the sweet smell, and Belle's mouth watered. She took one, while Rumpelstiltskin poured them each a cup of tea and sat back in the other chair, visibly restless. A day of ease suited him poorly. Even when he had been unwell, needing his own rest, he had endured idleness with bad grace. Belle remembered that he had even resorted to leafing through her recipe book to distract himself, and smiled behind a mouthful of bread.

The simple meal filled her with comfort and warmth, and she discovered that laziness held a genuine appeal, for once. Her visit to her father had not been peaceful - even when her body had been idle, her mind had been whirling. As much as she anticipated returning to the castle, and as set as she had become on making it a proper home for them, she decided to welcome this day of respite from the road. From everything except how full her heart was of Rumpelstiltskin.

"May I have my bath?" she asked, when she had filled herself with bread and tea. She still felt ridiculous and somewhat guilty, asking for anything to be done by magic, but Rumpelstiltskin behaved as though magic were no different, to him, than the brief inconvenience of leaving their room to fetch some food. He nodded, barely distracted from his thoughtful contemplation of his tea, and waved his fingers towards the fireside rug. Her copper bath appeared, the vague sensation of magic tickling her knees and toes. "Thank you."

Leaving her silk nightdress and the borrowed cloak on the chair, Belle was extremely conscious of how Rumpelstiltskin watched her, as she stepped into the steaming water. What she felt about that, now, was less shyness than shy curiosity - about what he would do, think or say in response to such a blatant display of her... what was the word for it? At first, she had thought of it as a mere measure of her trust, and of her growing comfort in his presence; of the loss of her innocence and the protective modesty that went with it. But what had taken its place?

Belle made a contented sound as she sat down in the hot water. Lying back, letting her hair get wet this time, she saw Rumpelstiltskin put down his teacup, hand trembling slightly.

They could still make one another tremble, and without even trying. Belle offered her hand by way of an invitation, and her husband came to his knees beside her at once, kissing her damp left palm before she worked her fingers into his hair. He kissed to her elbow, then to her shoulder, then leaned over to capture her mouth with a grunt of approval. She had wondered how to ask him, to invite him to share the water again. Perhaps she'd not have to find the words, where kisses could speak for her - speak of welcome, and of desire.

Sure enough, Rumpelstiltskin pressed into the kiss with enthusiasm, and Belle, laughing, stopped him just short of plunging his brocade-clad arm into the water to touch her.

"Take it off," she laughed, holding his hand above the water, even if his elbow was getting a dipping. She could not contain her smile, not even a little, when her husband sat back and, awkward between the seats and the side of the tub, unfastened the long coat in clumsy haste. All but wrenching it from his shoulders, Rumpelstiltskin came to kiss her again, his right hand going behind her head and his left straight down into the water, silk sleeve and all. Belle squeaked a protest, but insincerely. Wet brocade was like a soggy carpet, but wet silk clung like a second skin, sensual and smooth. His ruffled cuff floated in the water, tickling her in the wake of his gliding palm. Rumpelstiltskin caressed shoulder, breast, ribs, hip and thigh, while they kissed as though their lives depended on it.

As though they had not thoroughly seen to their pleasures less than an hour since, too. That was the thing that continued to surprise Belle, and even to alarm her - that, unlike hunger, or a call of nature, lust was an appetite that could not be appeased by doing what the body cried out to do. The more Rumpelstiltskin satisfied her, the more she hungered for his touch. The better she knew him, and the more fond she became, the more her world centred upon what they shared.

Belle touched the silk, beneath the water, with her other hand buried in his hair, fingers curled tightly against his scalp as though afraid he'd stop kissing her if she released him. The contrast of sensations was heavenly - wet and dry, warm and hot, hair and cloth. For the first time she wondered if it might be possible to _come_ from nothing more than such an innocent touch as that. Rumpelstiltskin's hand was upon her outer thigh, keeping her as near to him as the bath would allow, yet she felt the yearning unfold between her legs, just as if he teased her there. Her soft, eager sounds were muffled by their kisses, and seemed to encourage Rumpelstiltskin to kiss her harder, deeper - almost selfishly, except that it was to her equal benefit.

Only when each one of Belle's breaths contained a whimper did Rumpelstiltskin delve between her thighs and find her, kindling sweet pleasure where there had been a yearning throb. At her little cry, he surrendered her lips, her head dropping back onto his cushioning arm. He watched her eyes, while he fingered her - watched her lips, and the shapes they made in her struggle for silence. Belle was the centre of the world, for this moment, and her husband saw only her face; heard only her deepening moans.

"Yes," he whispered, his face so near that she struggled to focus on his eyes. His breath was warm against her lips. "Yes, so beautiful..." It was his voice that carried her over the edge, her sounds becoming a desperate, thrashing silence, with her thighs clamped around his ministering hand. It left her feeling weak, shivery and - stars above - discontent. But Rumpelstiltskin did not withdraw his hand, only supported her head while he kissed her, gently now, and returned to his fascinated study of her eyes. "I could watch that forever," he confided, and where he might have teased her, he spoke with reverence.

With love.

"Forever?" she murmured, shifting restlessly when he began to move his fingers again, this time questing to enter her. "Oh... oh, _Rumpelstiltskin_..."

He gave a shivering giggle, at the sound of his name, and touched her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Belle tried, desperately, to commit the little fact to memory - that he liked to hear her say his name - but his fingers had found the spot inside her that made thought impossible, and he was kissing her again, and she couldn't even think to keep herself quiet as he made her come again, and once again, until her moans were helpless sobs and she had no strength left, even to return his kisses.

Belle drifted in a happy daze, still pillowed on his forearm, and watched, drowsily, as he began to wash her. A bar of soap appeared in his hand, green and creamy and smelling of spices. He stroked her flesh with it, beginning with her torso, and Belle made her own hand follow it, rubbing the slippery skin. It was a nod to cleanliness and a prayer to sensuality; her breasts slipped against her palm, the little shock of feeling hardening the nipples anew, and Belle watched all of it, entranced. Rumpelstiltskin watched too, though he had the soap at her knee, now. Little bubbles slithered down her skin and floated away across the surface of the water.

"Come in with me?" Belle pawed his shoulder with her dry hand, unable to form a more coherent plea. She blinked rapidly, trying to collect herself, but her pleasure had left her in a state of lassitude. She wanted, and could do nothing about it. "I want you," she whispered, ashamed of it. He gave her pleasure - such pleasure - over and over, and _still_ she wanted. A wife, even a beloved wife, could demand too much. "Come in, or take me to bed. Please," she whispered, burying her fingers in his hair once again. "I want this forever. Rumpelstiltskin, I want you forever."

And Rumpelstiltskin giggled, without a trace of malice but with naked glee, and scooped her from the water.


	64. Beauty

Setting her down gently on her feet, where the bathtub had been moments before, Rumpelstiltskin kissed her.

Belle felt the fire grow hotter, behind her, already drying the backs of her legs, as she snaked greedy arms about her husband's neck and urged him to more passionate kisses. Her bare, wet skin felt new against his clothing - buttons, belt and boot tops made themselves known, reminding her of their present imbalance. She was naked; Rumpelstiltskin was not.

Deep in their kiss, Rumpelstiltskin shook out a towel and pulled it across her back, wrapping his arms about her afterwards to leave her warm, and straining on tiptoes to coax more from his kisses. He was unhurried, in all his movements, and remained so when he dropped to one knee before her, pulling the towel down and using it to pat dry each of her legs in turn. While his hands clasped the towel around her right shin, he rubbed his face into her nest of curls, tongue darting out to torment beneath. Belle bit her lip, swaying, and rested her hands lightly upon his head for balance. The contrast between the press of the towel against her flesh and the erratic flicks of his tongue first confused her senses, then thrilled them, and then Rumpelstiltskin dropped the towel behind her and grasped her buttocks, steadying her as he sought to kiss between her legs.

Her hands became claws, curling against his head. She had wanted to be loved, but imagined him above her, thrusting himself deeply while she grasped at him - a shared pleasure. In this, he was devoted to her pleasure alone, on his knees before her like a supplicant, lapping between her thighs. All the same, she felt the tremor in him, as she changed her stance to widen her legs, to give him room down there. Dizzy with wanting, with changing sensation, Belle recalled the happy sounds he made, doing this to her in bed, as carefree as anything, yet as careful as could be.

She loved him for it - for the care, and for the eagerness, and for the pleasure he gave her in such generous measure each time they loved. She concentrated on balance and on nothing at all, aware that she was indulging him and begrudging it not one bit. The roaring fire made the back of her legs smart, the wet silk of his sleeve a contrast of coolness where it pressed to her backside. Fingers in his hair, combing and grasping, Belle looked down and waited for him to discover that there was too much of her he could not reach, like this. In the meantime, his kisses to the crease of her thigh, and the visitations of his deft tongue in the wake of his fingers in the bath, were the sweetest and most contained pleasure she had yet known.

Making love. Lovemaking.

In Belle's books, it meant a kiss on the back of the hand and a conversation laced with flattery and persuasion; it meant love letters tied with ribbon, rings secretly exchanged, and a passionate fullness of two hearts. Between the lines, perhaps it had another meaning, but Belle had never suspected it, and guessed that few girls ever did.

She was quite sure that none of them ever anticipated _this_. Heart full of tenderness towards him, Belle lifted his chin. Rumpelstiltskin's tongue flashed across his lower lip, still tasting her as he gazed up, eyes dark with desire.

"I'm scorching," she said, running her fingertip across his lips, top then bottom. "Do I taste better cooked?"

Silent, Rumpelstiltskin drew his hands down the backs of her thighs, feeling almost cool against her overheated skin. Belle felt the roaring flames subside, behind her. He rose, smoothly and without visible effort, and gave her a shallow, slow kiss that tasted, tantalisingly, of herself. That quickened her breathing, her pulse. Rumpelstiltskin smiled into the kiss, feeling it - her first shock, the echo of old shame, followed by her shameless effort to find more of the taste on his lips and tongue.

For all that she clung, for all the kisses, Belle missed the smothering closeness of lying with him. She missed bare skin against bare skin. Rumpelstiltskin smiled again when she pulled his shirt loose from his belt, but did not oblige her with the vanishing of his clothing. She realised, after a few, fruitless tugs at the buttons of his breeches, that he was enjoying the demonstration of her impatience, just as he had enjoyed her whispered pleas for what she desired.

Battling a sudden shyness, Belle stepped back from him, having more success with his buttons and leather ties once she could see what she was doing. Bare beneath the soft leather, his cock was stirring already - not hard, but heavy with interest, and obvious beneath the hem of his brown silk shirt. She caught herself staring at him again, and thought of his guilty glances when he gazed too long at her breasts. She didn't mind that. Quite likely Rumpelstiltskin had no objection to her fascination with his nether-regions, either. She'd touched him often enough, and known him inside her, but been shy about looking, not least because her husband so hated to be looked _at_.

He gave her a sheepish smile, now, but didn't look away.

"Don't stop there, treasure," he urged, holding his arms out to his sides.

"Has magic suddenly failed you?" Belle asked, catching the hem of his shirt and lifting it, meaning to pull it off over his head rather than to trouble herself with the buttons.

"Unlikely," he assured her, wrinkling his nose in fun. Belle pulled, none too gently, and he laughed in the tent of his inside-out shirt, stretching his arms towards her to allow her to pull him free. And then to look at him, standing in bold daylight, and dappled with firelight too, his cock a shy bulge between loose flaps of brown leather.

Belle touched his chest, letting her fingertips go where her gaze went. Rumpelstiltskin watched her closely, his breathing gone shallow, as if he barely dared to let himself breathe at all.

"You glitter, in the sunlight," she told him, quietly. "Did you know that?"

"So do trout, my dear," he laughed. _Tried_ to laugh, but managed only a breathy, strained sound. "Come to bed, now," he urged, reaching for her shoulders, but Belle stayed as she was, hands roaming his torso, seeing her husband. "Belle."

"Don't be shy," she begged. "Don't be nervous. I'm only looking." Sparing a glance for his face, she saw that his eyes were narrowed in his discomfort, his expression at war between pain and longing. "It's all right."

Leaning nearer, placing her palms against his back, Belle kissed his chest, following the line of his collarbone and trying to emulate the soft nibbles with which he often teased her neck, her breasts. Rumpelstiltskin appeared to enjoy it, lifting his chin and swallowing when she played her thumbs against his small nipples at the same time. He rested his left hand upon her shoulder, the other reaching for her breast but toying with the ends of her damp hair, instead of touching her skin. While Belle kissed him, Rumpelstiltskin trailed a fat pinch of damp hair against her shoulder, throat and cheek, just like a paintbrush.

She would gladly have wrapped herself around him at any moment; taken him inside her, clung for all she was worth, but the lure of looking held her back. Although he still flinched and joked, he had allowed her to look at him, and she had liked it very much. Taking his hands, holding them loosely, Belle stepped back once more and resumed her thoughtful study of his neat muscles, his complexion that changed wherever she looked.

"You know," she said, feeling his hands growing stiff in her grasp, "I heard once that you had horns. And cloven feet. Like a goat."

"That'd be impressive," he conceded, almost laughing - a true laugh, this time, trying to be born from his nervous tension. "Maybe I'll try it?"

"Not on me," Belle grinned, happy to have distracted him. She relented, once more meeting his eyes. "I like you as you are, thank you."

Rumpelstiltskin made as though to speak, but was unable. He shook his head, squeezing her hands.

"I'll never understand you," he managed, after a long moment.

"I'd say that makes us even," Belle said, smartly. "But it's only been a few weeks."

He nodded, expression becoming wry.

"So it has." Hesitant, not sure that she had finished her study, Rumpelstiltskin leaned down for a kiss. She felt his unsteady breath upon her lips, before they touched, and then the rawness of emotion was in the kiss, making him almost rough, and making Belle feel that sense of utter belonging that only came when they pressed close. One of his arms supported her, the other hand was free to wander, and did just that, sneaking between their bodies to pluck at a nipple, to rest at her throat, or upwards to lose itself in her hair. Belle's own hands were busy behind him, grasping one moment and straying the next, and making Rumpelstiltskin gulp when she pushed one down the back of his breeches to rub at his backside.

As if she had commanded him, or even challenged him, Rumpelstiltskin swept her up in his arms once more, carrying her to the bed. It put them in the shade, hid too much of her husband in shadow, but Belle couldn't care about that - not when he lay above her, kissing her, a torment of flesh and leather between her legs. He rubbed it against her, while they kissed - cock, leather, buttons and all. Belle almost bit him, in the midst of the changing sensations; the cold brass button came as a surprise, gliding against her slippery places. Not an _unpleasant_ surprise, she thought, pushing uselessly at the clothing that would not move out of her way until Rumpelstiltskin cooperated, and helped her.

"Why do you make us wait?" she whispered, while his kisses were devoted to her left ear, her throat, her neck. She knew the answer, of course - that waiting made the eventual having that much sweeter. It was true of most things, and true of lovemaking as well; the excitement built, and built, and what seemed unbearable was only another level of pleasure between them. It only _felt_ as though waiting would make the world end. "Please," she tried, bucking upwards against his cock, which was hard now, already wet from rubbing with her. Wait she might, wait she could, but not without giving voice to her impatience. Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed that, too - words, while they loved. Belle had to struggle for every one of them, but thought of how his words thrilled her, sometimes, and of how his voice melted her insides with anticipation. If hers did as much for him, then she would give it. "I want you," she whispered, while his lips were at her temple, his curls tickling her face. She sank her hands into his hair, aching for new touches - for more, _more_. "Please..."

"Please _what_ , treasure?" Rumpelstiltskin murmured, lips and tongue busy with her earlobe. Belle groaned. "Spooning, is it? Canoodling, dilly-dallying, gathering nuts in May?" He nipped her ear, softly. "Tell me what to do, my darling. Tell me."

"Fuck me," she groaned, appalled at the coarse word that he used to mean this beautiful thing between them; their joining, their love. Excited, by hearing it in her own voice, in their urgency. "Please, fuck me."

Belle enjoyed small revenge in hearing his gulp, beside her face. He had not expected her to oblige him, to sully her mouth with it. By the sound of it, he all but swallowed his tongue, scrabbling with one hand to adjust his breeches, but unwilling to surrender her kisses in order to do it more easily.

When he sank into her, face to face with her and shivering with want, she took his face in her hands, hoping that he could see everything in her eyes - desire, joy, belonging, tenderness and love. Everything. Whatever name they gave to it, it culminated in this; her husband inside her, her heels hooked behind his calves; that fire of passion in his strange eyes.

She lay still for him, at first, to allow him to be slow with her. Rumpelstiltskin watched her as he moved, his concentration directed sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her lips, sometimes at her breasts. Once or twice, he peered between them to see where belly met belly, and then he'd kiss her, the thrusting movements becoming small and tender for a while while he kissed her with the vigour that he spared elsewhere. Belle wrapped her arms about him, then, driven by the urge to be - impossibly - still closer to him. He obliged her, lying chest to chest with her so that only the push of his hips stirred his cock inside her, with the easy slip-slide of prolonged desire.

Belle groaned, because that found the spot, made her squirm beneath him, anticipating how it would feel to come.

"Don't hurry, treasure," he breathed, raising himself on his arms now, to take her with long, deep thrusts that made her feel desired, needed. Nodding, she reached up for his face, holding back his curls to see him better while he sank into his trance of pleasure, answering to lust and need and love. Oh, she felt so loved! She ached for satisfaction, but his would end it. That never seemed fair. Holding his face, whimpering a little when Rumpelstiltskin turned his face to kiss each of her palms in turn, his eyes closed and lashes fluttering, Belle wondered why it was that he could not come as freely as she could. He had told her that a woman's pleasure was more elusive, but hers never had been; she could lose count of the aching peaks and still be lustful, while Rumpelstiltskin was thoroughly satisfied with just the one.

"Kiss me," Belle begged, her lips tingling with the want of it. The memory of him, the _thought_ of him in the throes of his release excited her too much, and she could not be still any longer. Unsteady, Rumpelstiltskin lowered himself to oblige her, strong arms shaking as he held his weight. He kept still, kissing her, causing Belle to roll her hips and squirm, the fullness alone not enough. Feeling helpless to it, she buried her fingers in her own hair, wet and warm at the scalp, and wondered if people went mad if they lingered long enough, in this state.

The sounds she made, even muffled by his mouth, excited her as much as they did Rumpelstiltskin. Belle felt tears sting her eyes - she couldn't _bear_ his stillness - but at the very moment that she would have begged him, he angled his hips and sent her, gasping, into the perfect place. He watched - she knew that he watched, taking care that all the pleasure was hers in that moment, and that his movements found the place inside that turned _coming_ into sweet agony.

Only when Belle had her voice again, little cries on every out-breath, did Rumpelstiltskin take his own pleasure, shoving hard and deep a few times in the wake of her climax, until he had his own. He was silent, save for the hiss of breath, and almost still on her, except for the shaking and twitching of his effort to be quiet. Belle watched his face, as he had watched hers, awed by what they could _do_ to one another, and by how beautiful it made him. Even him, her monster with the eyes of a hawk, with skin like scales. He was beautiful in surrender to their love.

Afterwards, they were still for a long time, Rumpelstiltskin slumped beside her, face hidden away in the curve of her neck, buried in her hair. Belle's body wanted sleep, but her mind danced, too full of memories and hopes to think of shutting them away. She stroked his hair, loving how his soft curls sprang through her fingers, and ruefully aware of how tangled her own hair would be, for being taken to bed wet and then tumbled about like that. One of Lotte's lotions would be needed. Belle smiled. She must remember her ribbons, when she dressed herself. A single braid threaded through with ribbon. She could manage that, with no mirror, and the decoration would be constantly in Rumpelstiltskin's sight, as they rode home. If she could not be a cheery travelling companion, she might at least be a decorative one.

Belle nudged him with her knee.

"Why ribbons?"

"Hmm?" Half drowsing, Rumpelstiltskin twitched at her disturbance, and lifted his head to peer at her from behind unruly hair.

"Why do you like to have my ribbons?" She thought a moment, while his expression remained blank - thought of her missing fripperies, and of the hiding place in the drawer beneath his small wardrobe. "And my garter, and the cord that tied my wedding gown?"

"They're pretty," he said, humble and colouring slightly. Perhaps it had not been fair of her to ask, while he was so off his guard - so completely hers. "They remind me of you, of course. And..." He stopped himself, averting his gaze and showing her long eyelashes, dark against his cheek. "I need not bargain, beg or buy." Rumpelstiltskin touched her cheek, tracing cheekbones with his knuckles. "From you, from my wife, I can steal. Just a little and... and perhaps be forgiven?" He looked terribly embarrassed. "You can have them back. I'll stop."

"No!" Belle pulled him back to her with clumsy haste, before he could think of pulling away. "I just wanted to know," she assured him, quickly. "Why the most powerful man in the world likes my ribbons, when he could have every ribbon ever made." He nodded, resting his head upon her shoulder this time. "It's very flattering." Remembering how she had felt, catching him with her ribbon as a bookmark, and seeing how he prized the lace from her wedding dress, Belle nodded. She had thought them tokens, but not known what they were tokens _of_. Affection, or kind memories, or even the pleasure he took in her. Reminders, for he was ever certain that her willingness would not last. Keepsakes. It made her happy to think that he took pleasure in having them - simply having them, and thinking of her, rather than hoarding them against an uncertain future. "I think I understand. I... that's why I loved the jewels, the gold. The dresses you made. It was as though I had a part of you near me."

Rumpelstiltskin relaxed, hearing that. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, where her breast began to swell, and stroked his hand across her ribs, making her shiver. Her body remembered every recent pleasure. He barely needed to try, to bring the memory alive.

"You'll have more gold," he said. Belle could hear that he was smiling. "More dresses."

"Not if they can be lost so easily," she said, quickly. "It... it's silly, to mourn a dress. Even if I was... you know." She frowned, wishing that her thoughts had stayed away from _that_. "Without a stitch."

"I'll change dresses of your own, then," he said, with boastful ease. "The worst that can happen if the enchantment is unmade is that you have old clothes on." His hand caught her waist, tightening. "I could have killed them all, that night. For seeing you. Frightening you. For your tears."

Belle swallowed. She knew that it was true. She had seen it, there in his eyes as he knelt before her, while Prince James saved her blushes and flashed his sword at unknown foes. Rumpelstiltskin could have killed them _all_ , in that moment, for her sake.

No. _Not_ for her sake. Any man's pride would roar at having his wife stripped naked for all to see. The only difference was that, for _her_ husband, thought, even emotion, could so easily become reality. An angry man with a weapon, or too eager with his fists, might be held back by strong hands, cooler heads. Only Rumpelstiltskin could stop Rumpelstiltskin.

"I know," she managed. "And I'm thankful that you didn't." Her father, and Prince James - even the King had detested what Gaston and the priests did to her, if not what they intended to do. "Tears aren't worth anyone's life. Humiliation isn't worth it."

"What is?"

"What?" Startled, Belle craned her neck, loosening her fierce hold on him, and Rumpelstiltskin propped himself up on his arm. He traced a pattern on the curve of her breast with his fingertip, head bowed, watching the finger move.

"What _is_ worth a life?"

Opening her mouth to reply, Belle realised that she had no answer. She could no more think of taking a life than she could of taking wing.

"Nothing," she said, but felt foolish when his lips formed a humourless smile and his nod indulged her.

What was worse was that she hated that their moment had been spoiled by such talk, as though cuddling with her husband ought to be more important than matters of life and death!

"I'll not kill a man for your tears," Rumpelstiltskin said, head still bowed so that she could not see his eyes. He leaned down and kissed her nipple, her right. "Nor for your humiliation." Moving slowly, savouring words and touch alike, he kissed the left nipple. "But if you are harmed, or stolen from me, no power in these lands will save those responsible."

Rumpelstiltskin said it so quietly. That frightened her the most. Not the words, but the kisses and the quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He might have been speaking of the weather.

Belle swallowed again, unable to stay beside him with her heart pounding and sweat making her palms and temples itch. She sat up, ignoring fresh twinges from an overused body, and looked for her nightgown. It was still by the fire - she went to fetch it, unsteady on her feet, as though her passion had wrung her out. She put it on, glad for the shapeless ease of it, and bent to pick up her husband's brocade coat from the fireside rug. She draped it over the back of the chair, and then his cloak beside it, smoothing out both with her hands.

"Papa thinks I'll be in danger," she said, when she had collected her thoughts and felt that she might trust her voice again. "Because you care for me, because others might think I can be used to hurt you. Undermine you. Is that what you mean?" Plucking at the fur of his cloak, Belle listened for an answer. Rumpelstiltskin had not moved from the bed - at least, she had not _heard_ him move - and he was silent. Turning, Belle saw that he had gathered up all the pillows behind him, and lounged there now in his dark nightgown, legs beneath the bedclothes. Her wedding cord was between his hands. "It's not only True Love's Kiss that frightens you, is it? If you love me, you've a weakness in me."

"Yes." His scowl was one of concentration. "And I do love you, little wife. I tried very hard not to."

What could she say? Belle didn't know, and so she took refuge in silence. She took up his long coat and slipped it on, for the warmth, and felt the hem brush the ground behind her heels on her way back to the bed. Rumpelstiltskin glanced up, smiled faintly at the sight of her battling sleeves that were too long for her, and rested his hands, folded, in his lap.

She sat, playing with the left cuff, one knee bent and the foot beneath her buttocks so that she could face her husband. She didn't want to turn her back, to seem cold, but he had left her without words - without answers. Rumpelstiltskin seemed to expect none from her. His smile was not mocking, and his silence not impatient. How often had she longed for him to open his heart to her? _This_ was what she had longed for; his unguarded honesty, and his love, and for him to be there in her bed with the certainty that he belonged.

"Love frightens me," Belle told him, long after he had resumed his neverending game of cat's cradle. The patterns were simple. No magic, just clever, black-nailed fingers and her lace. "Forever frightens me."

"Do I frighten you?" Rumpelstiltskin spoke lightly, but his cheek twitched and his hands went still again. He tried to look at her, and could not.

"Your magic does," Belle confessed. How could she dissemble, here and now? This bed had housed their honesty, from the very beginning. "Your moods. I don't fear for myself," she added, hurriedly, realising that he might think she meant that. "I'm like Wren," she added, ducking her head to conceal a smirk. "I refuse to be afraid of you. But the thought that you might have swept away my father, and the King, and the man who came to my aid... for vengeance... _that_ frightens me."

"Very wise," her husband said, soberly. He did not seem offended, but nor did he display his usual smugness at being feared. He turned his palms upward, drawing the crossed cord into a new pattern with his thumbs.

"Do I frighten _you?_ " Belle wondered, thinking back to when she had been sure of it, when his affection had been so skittish, and his touches hesitant to the point of apologetic.

"Hourly, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, and this time there was the smirk, the weapon that easily deflected too sharp a truth. "Frighten, amuse, astonish, enchant, intrigue and arouse. More than any man dare hope for, in his bride." He smiled, and looked at her properly. "Come, now." Tugging his right hand free of the cat's cradle, Rumpelstiltskin patted the mattress beside him. "Or do you prefer my clothing keeping you warm?"

"Oh." Sheepish, Belle remembered that she had taken his coat without his permission. She thought how odd it would be, should Rumpelstiltskin take her shawl and wear it. "I'm sorry."

"I can't say it suits you, dear, but it is warm. It's yours, if you want it." He watched her shrug the garment off, and drape it carefully over the foot of the bed. He met her with an outstretched arm, when she slipped beneath the blankets and wriggled to be beside him, sharing his mountain of pillows. Uncomfortable, Belle delved beneath her knees and found the towel, rolled almost into a ball by all the upheaval. She tugged it out and tossed it down the bed, where it landed at her husband's feet.

"How did that get there?" he asked, mildly. At once, Belle bit her lip, wishing that she had left it tucked beneath the bedclothes. Last night's anxieties seemed so far away, now.

"Oh, I was afraid that I might bleed," she said, still mortified at raising the subject with any man. It stood to reason that husbands knew all about it - husbands who had very much to do with their wife's bed, in any case - but nothing had prepared her for finding the words, or cooling the blushes. "I felt a bit strange, yesterday."

Rumpelstiltskin made a sympathetic sound, and squeezed her closer. All her silly embarrassment, her worry about the sheets, and that was all the response he made; a solicitous little hug. Sometimes, he made her feel _so_ young, and so silly. But, then, he was very old. Nothing much could be new to him, or shocking, or even surprising. She stared, vacantly, towards the door, and remembered how he had danced on his toes, keeping a bloodied nightgown just out of her reach. It had made her cry, yet such things were truly _nothing_ to Rumpelstiltskin. _Magic knows naught of shame_ , he had told her, and fashioned her ring with the blood, to remind her of their sealed bargain.

Blinking herself out of the haze of recollection, Belle nestled nearer to her husband.

"Will your work take you away again?" She had grown so used to his company, since his illness, and remembered with a pang how alone she had felt, in his absences. It would be easier, now that she thought of the Dark Castle as home, but still...

"Sometimes." After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin kissed the top of her head. "But I've reason to hurry back." He cleared his throat. "I feared you'd ask to bring the maid along. The snotty one."

" _Lotte,_ " Belle said, patiently, but rolled her eyes where he could not see her. "She didn't want to come, in any case. Would you have said yes?"

"To a maid, perhaps," he admitted, reluctantly. "But not to one who spies and gossips. You'd be so angry, when I had to punish her." Another uneasy clearing of the throat. Rumpelstiltskin did not like this topic _at all_. Thinking of Lotte being punished, where he had only spoken harshly to her before, neither did Belle. "A child from the town, perhaps?"

"They _hide_ the children," Belle reminded him, tiredly. "I don't think it will end well if you make off with one."

"I wasn't proposing to snatch one, dearie. Just give her a job." His exasperation made Belle smile, and tuck her face more comfortably against his shoulder. He truly would give her the world, she thought, if he would allow a stranger into his castle merely for her comfort.

"You didn't really answer my question," she said, after a few moments of imagining a terrified Odstone girl scurrying about the place, as scared as Lotte had been, but without the comfort of knowing that her mistress loved her, and would protect her. "Will you be gone very much?"

"Sometimes," he said, again. "Sometimes, you might come with me?" Hope wavered in his voice, almost a question. "If we can find a means of travel that agrees with you," he added, quickly.

"I'd rather be miserable in a coach than spend days or weeks alone," Belle assured him, realising the truth of it only then. It was an awful thought! "And I want to try travelling by magic, even if it makes me wretched," she added, with a stubborn nod. "How can I be Rumpelstiltskin's wife, if too much magic makes me queasy? Everyone will laugh at me."

His soft laughter gusted into her hair.

"I'm glad that you're thinking of your place in the story, little wife," he said, coaxing her up and onto her side, half above him, to come and kiss him. "Everything's a story, in the end." They closed their eyes, coming together in a slow, achingly tender kiss. "The beast and his beauty of a wife," Rumpelstiltskin sighed, clasping her to his chest and staring into her eyes. "I'll be envied forever, even if you're a bit green."

Belle pinched his ribs, laughing, and kissed her husband again.


	65. Home

They left the inn at the crack of dawn, Belle swathed in her velvet cloak and with Rumpelstiltskin's arm about her shoulders.

As pleasant as their day of rest had been, she had slept too much yesterday to sleep the night through, finding herself up and dressed long before the first lightening of the sky. Rumpelstiltskin indulged her, as ever, leaving the innkeeper's wife to follow them to the coach with Belle's baskets, freshly laden with hot bread and sliced cold meats for their breakfast, later.

To Belle's laughing delight, a tea tray awaited her on the seat of the carriage - everything silver and gilt, save the cups themselves, which were such fine, white porcelain that she could see the shadow of her hand move behind one. Her rose, the hothouse one that he had confessed to stealing for her, lay upon the tray among the tea things. The outer petals were beginning to curl, and the bloom to wilt, but the inner core of tightly folded petals remained stiff, fresh and fragrant.

Lighting the small lantern that swung from the roof, with a prod of finger and magic, Rumpelstiltskin took the seat opposite Belle's, his back to the coachman, and smiled at her reaction to his surprise.

"It's a cold morning, and we travel into colder lands," he explained, as though it needed explanation. "I should have thought of it before."

Belle poured and sweetened a cup for him, ignoring the saucers and passing the hot cup to him with care as the carriage began to move. When she was comfortable with her own cup, the red blanket draped across her knees and the cushions all about her, Rumpelstiltskin asked, "Magic or no, my dear?"

"Yes," she said, without hesitation. "I want to be home."

Inclining his head, her husband turned his attention to the teacup, sipping slowly. Whatever magic he used, to speed the carriage, she never saw any sign of effort on his part, nor any strain for having done so.

After a first cup of the hot mint tea, Belle tore a chunk from the long, flat loaf. The piece that she offered to Rumpelstiltskin was waved away with a faint smile, so she left it in the basket with the rest. Her own piece was light and sweet, bread made with the finest pale flour and very unlike the coarse, rich breads that dominated the table where Belle came from. The breads from Odstone were different again, egg brushed and decorated with leaves or lattices atop the dough, often with herbs, cheese, seeds or dried fruits added. She found that she liked this bread the best, the lightness and the simplicity of it.

It had been a wonderful day, yesterday, closeted with her husband in that warm, quiet room. She had finished her book, resting beside him in bed, and then kissing had led to lovemaking, Belle snug in his lap and able, for once, to give herself over to pleasing Rumpelstiltskin. He had fretted, afterwards, that she had not found her pleasure, and it had taken many more kisses to reassure him that there had been pleasure enough without need of _coming_. After feeling that she would never be capable of doing anything _but_ come, yesterday, Belle felt worn out today - her body sending very definite messages about the need for some self restraint, to allow overused muscles and bruised flesh to recover from her recent excess.

Although the dawn had found her wide awake and impatient to be going, Belle's eyes were heavy by the time the sun was fully risen. Catching her in the act of concealing a vast yawn behind her hand, Rumpelstiltskin put on a stern look and patted his lap, moving to the lefthand end of his seat to offer himself as her pillow once more. With cushions, cloak and blanket, and her husband to hold her steady and pet her hair, Belle went to sleep quickly, and deeply too.

There was a fierce rainstorm, when Belle awoke again. She could hear it, the pounding on the roof, the kind of rain that her father said was made of iron and could split a man's skull open. Belle could smell leather, and remembered where she was; her husband's lap, held safe against the rocking and the occasional jolt that might have knocked her from the seat, otherwise. Her next realisation was that he played with her hair - not stroking wisps at her cheek, as he often did, nor weaving and twirling a tress between his fingers, but with the thick braid that she had tied before dressing, that morning. Tied with ribbon, and woven with three more, each in a shade of blue or green. The braid slid through his grasp, again and again, and Belle could imagine the expression on his face - the absorption, and perhaps a little hint of a smile.

"I know you're awake, madam," Rumpelstiltskin said, after a while. "You've stopped snoring."

Belle sat up, and would have fallen into the well between the seats had he not kept hold of her. He was laughing.

"I don't snore!" Mortified, and somewhat dizzy from the abrupt change of position and the near fall, Belle sorted out her limbs from cloak, skirts and blanket, and sat next to him, properly. "Do I?"

"It's very ladylike," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, with the near-smiling look of innocence that she could never make out. The truth or not, he was having fun at her expense. "Very _genteel_ snoring. Hardly any dribbling at all."

"Oh, you can be horrid," she complained, but with a chuckle. "I think I won't let you take out my ribbons when we get home."

Innocence became a pout, betrayed by a sparkle of laughter in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes.

"I've been admiring them all day," he protested. "It would be cruel to deny me, after such temptation."

"All day?" Belle reached past him, pushing back the little curtain. The sky was a filthy grey, and she could see nothing through the sheets of rain. "Are we almost home?"

"A while yet," Rumpelstiltskin said. "The sleep did you good." His hand caught her braid again, behind her, and tucked it over her shoulder so that he could see it. Belle had tied the very end with one of her oldest ribbons, soft with age and nearly an inch wide, enough to conceal the ends of the slender ribbons woven with her hair. It was a simple dark blue, quite unremarkable, but her husband eyed it as a man might eye the crown jewels themselves.

"Yesterday did me good, too," Belle admitted, leaning near to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

He looked outrageously pleased with himself, and smiled, quietly, long after Belle had taken herself across to the other seat again, to nest with her cushions and her blanket. She had never seen a lasting smile on him, before; Rumpelstiltskin's expressions were all fleeting, furtive things, save the one - the sharp, sober-faced concentration that took him out of himself, as he spun, or toyed with her ribbons.

Rumpelstiltskin conjured fresh tea, and even joined her in picking at the cold meats packed for them by the innkeeper's wife. Belle found that she had little appetite for those, as delicious as they looked, so she contented herself with more of the bread and plenty of tea, only to be forced to ask her husband to stop the carriage so that she could relieve herself by the roadside, some while later.

It was a barren stretch of rocky road beneath stubby cliffs, and Belle wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had arranged for the existence of the lone, evergreen bush that sheltered her privacy.

After that, Belle declined the offer of any more to drink. It had been bitter outside, during her brief visit, and the scent of snow was in the air. The nearer they grew to the mountains, to Odstone, and to the Dark Castle, the colder it would be. She had absolutely _no_ desire to leave the relative comfort of the carriage again, until they were home.

Home. She thought about that, leaning her hooded head against the door and staring out, unseeing, at the grey landscape that sped by. Tonight she would be in her own bed, with its canopy and thick drapes; with her sheepskin, and her bathing room but a few steps away, and with her husband, if she had her way. It would be perfect.

When recovered from the journey, she would visit Wren, to bring her small gift and to see if the old woman was in need of more medicine. Perhaps she would look for a maid, as Rumpelstiltskin suggested - if one could be found who would not come to the castle in terror, and spend her days there in misery, earning Rumpelstiltskin's sneering displeasure at every turn. Belle would far rather see to herself than see any more of _that._ And, anyway, the past days had taught her that their isolation was no bad thing. Not now, when they were newly married and so jealous of one another's time, and still struggling to know how to face the world as one.

They were still finding their way together, she and Rumpelstiltskin; still hardly knew each other, and then there was his work. Secret work, which preoccupied him at all hours up in his cold turret, and which took him away on errands that left him in black moods that lasted for days. She hoped that the latter, at least, might be softened by his growing acceptance of her as companion and ally - by the understanding that he was missed, when he took himself away from her for any reason.

Had anyone ever cherished him? Belle dropped the curtain, and turned her head to steal a glance at her husband. He had closed his eyes, shoulders hunched and arms folded in his cloak. Another rarity, to see him _try_ to sleep, or even to rest himself a while. She did not know how well he had slept, last night; only that he had remained close to her. He had been beside her in bed, reading one of her books, when she had briefly awakened, hungry, near midnight. Smiling, accepting a soft kiss of greeting, Rumpelstiltskin had conjured her a small poppy seed pastry to go with the leftover bread. Afterwards, he had drawn her back to the bed, lying beside her and perfectly still until she slept again. _She_ felt cherished, in moments such as that one. Did he, when she reached for him in his reluctance, or did he only feel that she intruded where she ought not?

It was a fine thing, to hear words of love, and to speak them, but words were too fleeting. The fullness in her heart, for him, was constant now, and Belle had no idea how to make certain that he knew it.

His son, she thought, watching him openly while his eyes were closed. His Baelfire must have cherished him in return, with a child's constant, uncomplicated love.

That made her think of her Papa, of the differences that now lay between them, and she closed her own eyes to keep the tears from welling up. Once, her devotion to him _had_ been uncomplicated, easy with trust, and he had made her feel utterly safe. Belle knew that it was a luxury of childhood, and one not granted every child, at that. She had only hoped that something of that faith between them would linger, now that she was wed; that the trust she had earned, in the past several years, would hold.

Opening her eyes, swallowing the tight pain in her throat, Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin watching her.

"You think of your father," he said, a simple statement of fact.

"Yes." She tried to smile, but it didn't work. "How did you know that?"

"I've seen nothing else put the shadow of guilt on your lovely face, treasure. Nothing but him."

Astonished, Belle dropped her gaze. She had occasionally wondered if her husband could see her thoughts. She had never thought that he might simply be seeing something that she allowed to slip, there in her expression!

"I don't love him as I used to," she said. No, she _blurted_ , hating to be a child before her husband, but she'd nowhere else to share a daughter's hurts, now. "As _much_ as I used to," she insisted, hands squirming together in her lap. "But different." 

Rumpelstiltskin's arms would have been a comfort, then, but she felt too small, too childlike, to ask for it. It was a comfort that he listened to her, no matter what she said. Whether her thoughts were idle, or playful, or troubled, or even inconvenient to him, her husband listened. She did not always like his responses, but there was never a doubt in her mind that she had been heard. With her father, now, she felt as though she were trying to make herself heard across a great gulf, and that the effort was hampered by his unwillingness to hear her words. He wanted them to be different words.

"He'll be glad to get your letters," Rumpelstiltskin said, when the silence had been long enough to reassure him that Belle had no more to say.

"Yes." Belle brightened a little. It would be easier to put her thoughts on paper, a little at a time, than to explain herself to her father's anxious face. She would have shared her doubts with him, had he not been so set against her marriage - had he not given her more cause for doubt and heartache than her husband ever had. "I will write to him, often."

That earned a nod of approval, with Rumpelstiltskin coming to sit beside her, to reach across her shoulders. He did not pull her to him, but made a happy sound when Belle leaned in for his comfort. He need not have chosen such a child for his bride, she thought, as she made herself comfortable with her head beneath his chin and her arms about his waist. Perhaps he did not mind that she was young, still, and craved her Papa's love even when he had disappointed her so.

"Home, soon," Rumpelstiltskin said, his tone wistful. "I've a gift for you, if the men of Odstone have been diligent." He offered the words just as he offered her gifts - timidly, uncertain of the welcome. Belle pulled away from him, his warmth, and made no effort to moderate her pleasure or her curiosity. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, when he saw her reaction. "A surprise."

Belle gave him a kiss. She had meant it to be a peck, but felt him press eagerly back and parted her lips, instead. The kiss became deep, passionate, with Rumpelstiltskin's hand behind her, toying with the thick plait of hair and its ribbons. He urged her to no more than that, than kissing with him, twisted awkwardly to meet one another among cloaks, cushions and blanket. From his urgency, Belle would have expected his hand to find her breast, demanding, but there was only the kiss - a kiss to get lost in, until they were startled apart by the rumble of wheels meeting hard cobbles.

"Odstone!" Rumpelstiltskin grinned and stole another kiss, this one only a tickle against Belle's lips.

Relief filled her up, almost as completely as had the enjoyment of their prolonged kissing. _Odstone_. That meant that home was near - her room, and the stillness of the Dark Castle. Her cosy kitchen, and the gardens that Rumpelstiltskin promised would be full of roses, once the snow melted away.

She lifted the curtain, leaning forward so that she could see the little town. It was dusk, and a light snow was falling. Belle could see that it did not settle on the road, but the rooftops and walls were thick with snow, blue-white in the grey evening light.

Belle gasped and startled back from the window, seeing figures hurry towards the carriage - one thick-set man darting ahead, to try to halt the horses. There were voices, raised in an attempt to hail them, and as the carriage slowed, a brief, fierce pounding upon the door.

She looked at her husband, and saw that his expression was dark. He was lord of this place, and such a hail was, at best, disrespectful. Slipping past her, Rumpelstiltskin pushed the door open, quickly, and jumped down onto the cobbles to meet the gathering ring of shadowed faces.

"Well?" he demanded, curtly. He did not sound angry, Belle thought, leaning forward to peer out after him. She saw the effect that the single word had upon the half-a-dozen men. It was as though they forgot their purpose, as though Rumpelstiltskin had stolen their tongues. 

The tallest of them pulled back a woollen hood and took a half-pace forward. It was Janek, the dark-skinned mayor of Odstone. He looked as though he had not slept since last Belle saw him.

"Forgive us, my Lord," Janek begged. "There's a curse on us, a sickness. Wren says it's magic and to fetch you."

The mention of Wren's name was the appeasement that Janek had clearly hoped it would be; Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin's stiff shoulders settle, as his temper eased.

"How many are taken ill?" Belle asked, aghast, and the assembled men, seeing her for the first time, made nods or little bows of respect.

"All the boys, my Lady," said a shivering, younger man. He was Belle's age, or barely older; she might have called _him_ a boy.

"All of them," Janek agreed. Belle thought that, had his lord been any other man, Janek would have seized his arm, in his urgency. "From the very womb to the end of boyhood, every one. Seven are dead, two stillborn - the others seem beyond all hope. Their limbs freeze, my Lord, and then they cannot breathe, and their skin is like _rot_. Even the babes."

Belle covered her mouth, afraid that she would sob or cry out in her horror. As she made to step down, Rumpelstiltskin spun on his heel and restrained her, hands grasping her elbows. Gently, but with absolute firmness, he set her back in her seat. His fury brought with it the awareness of magic, barely contained in him, and she said not a word in protest.

"To the castle with you," Rumpelstiltskin said. "And straight inside."

"I want to help," Belle said, but with care not to plead, nor demand. She might offer her services, but no more. Not with that palpable rage all about him.

"If Wren can do nothing then it's a different sort of help they need, here," he growled. "Be where I need not worry about you, if you want to help."

Nodding, Belle let him close the door. Before she had taken another breath, and without any word of command from Rumpelstiltskin, the carriage began to move. Without magic, it would have been a suicidal pace. She had to steady herself with a hand on the seat beside her. The road between the town and the castle was in good repair, but no mountain road was ever meant to be taken at speed.

She was quite dizzy and sickened, by the time the carriage stopped, and took a few moments to collect herself before taking up her baskets, and the lovely blanket, and dropping inelegantly down from the step. Slushy puddles met her feet, splashing her stockings and soaking her slippers, and Belle sighed. Her footwear and the weather in her new home were incompatible.

"Do you speak?" she asked the coachman, her voice made shrill by her worry. Belle did not like to be at odds with anyone, but each successive encounter with the silent figure who drove Rumpelstiltskin's carriage made her more resentful, and more afraid of him. "Do you even hear me?"

It seemed that he did not.

The black iron gates opened to admit her, and then swung shut with a resounding clang the moment her feet were upon the snow-cleared path to the castle. Belle went as fast as she could, still unsteady from the journey, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when the castle's main doors swung outwards, as if reaching for her in welcome. Inside, all was bright with yellow candlelight.

 _Home,_ Belle thought, as she stepped inside and felt the doors close behind her, less viciously than had the gates. But her mind had never left Odstone, the nightmare unfolding there, or the brittle rage of Rumpelstiltskin. No ordinary sickness singled out boys, and took them indiscriminately from the womb to the cusp of manhood. Wren had to be right that it was a curse, instead.

She _knew_ that there was nothing she could do, in Odstone, but Belle wished that Rumpelstiltskin had kept her beside him.

Not only for her sake, she thought, leaving her baskets on the table in the marble hall, and making her way to the fireside in the great room. For the people, so that they would see that their new mistress cared for them as she ought to. But, then, who would accept even comfort from her? She was Rumpelstiltskin's wife.

Belle had forgotten the small changes to the room. Two chairs at the table. Two chairs at the fireside. She smiled, seating herself and leaning forward, palms towards the hearth to catch the warmth. There would be other things that made this enormous castle become a home for her. Her sense of duty towards the people of Odstone was but another aspect of that, so she supposed that sitting and worrying, her belly full of butterflies, was equally a part of it.

She could not bring herself to go upstairs and unpack, nor even to visit her kitchen to look for an evening meal. Sleeping away most of the journey had helped to ease the worst of her discomforts, but she remained queasy, and could not think of food when she was also thinking of children in pain, and dying.

Rumpelstiltskin had told her of other unwelcome occurrences - the murder of the girl, strangers making trouble, the poisoned farm. Did his protection for Odstone wane, in his absence? Had their journey allowed some new threat to move in? Surely not...

Clocks in various corners of the castle had struck midnight, before Belle heard the castle doors open and close again. She had not moved, other than to shed her cloak and her wet shoes, and to fetch the red blanket to spread across her knees while she waited by the fire. As soon as she heard movement, Belle hurried from the chair, the sudden movement leaving her light-headed. She went quickly to the marble hall and found her husband leaning, palms down, on the polished table. His head and back were bowed, though he straightened when he heard her enter the hall.

"I thought you'd be sleeping," he said, and his gruffness now was that of fatigue, not of anger. Belle went to him at once, taking his right hand between hers, and finding his skin damp and chilled. His clothing, too, was damp - tiny flecks of snow were still melting on his shoulders. He did not have his cloak, and beneath that he had worn only a silk shirt, and a high collared waistcoat. He was soaking wet, and a glance showed Belle boots caked with mud. He had walked home, from Odstone.

"What happened? What ails the children?"

"A curse." Rumpelstiltskin did not look her in the eye. "I saved only one." At the tightening of Belle's hands, he tugged his own hand free of hers, turning away. "One of eleven, none of them older than..." He stopped, angered by his own words. "There's one boy-child left in Odstone."

Belle felt weak, and turned quickly to rest her thighs against the table, her weight on the heels of her hands. It would do no good to faint, or to weep. More than anything, she wanted to say that it could not be true - that such a thing could not happen.

Of course it could. Magic could do anything. No magic was meant to be blacker or more powerful than Rumpelstiltskin's, but she had seen that he could be defeated - or at the very least delayed - by cunning spells.

"Perhaps if I'd come sooner," Rumpelstiltskin said, slowly, and very softly. Belle, realising that he'd taken her silence for accusation, steadied herself with one hand on the table as she walked around it, to stand facing him with her back to the staircase.

"Don't think like that," she begged. Hesitant, not sure that he wanted her present, let alone offering her comfort, Belle reached for his shoulders. "Can you protect others?"

Jaw hard, Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his face turned away.

"I will."

He had shown such disregard for the people under his rule, in the past. Belle had wondered if he had any sense of obligation towards them, or if they were merely a diversion for him - as much a trophy as the castle, his collection, and his wife. But this... this had cut him, and deeply. It was not only his pride that was hurt.

"You still believe that someone is testing your magic?"

That surprised him enough to look at her. His eyes were red, though with no other sign that he had wept. Perhaps he was only tired. He _looked_ tired.

"What other reason could there be?" Rumpelstiltskin made a sound of quiet disgust, and strode past her, almost knocking her aside. He began to climb the stairs, two at a time, energised by his anger, his wife and their homecoming forgotten in his wake.

Although she knew that it ought not, that hurt her, and Belle made her way slowly up to her room, not expecting to find him there.

He wasn't there, and selfish tears almost overcame her. _Tired,_ Belle told herself, crossly, and prepared herself for bed quickly, unpacking nothing but a nightgown. She had been so sure that they would spend this night together, that was all; that arriving home would solve all her cares.

Of course it wouldn't, and couldn't. It had been a foolish thought, a story from the mind of a little girl, as silly as the adventures in the books. If this were a story, her arms would have been all the comfort her husband needed.

Belle managed to sleep, after a long while spent tossing and turning, and remembering how she had looked forward to having this bed again. She folded the sheepskin and tucked her feet into it, relaxing enough for sleep as she began to warm up, but missing him. Missing Rumpelstiltskin, and worrying for him, up in his turret with the icy wind and his black thoughts.

It was still dark, when movement awakened her. Rumpelstiltskin sat with his back to her, a silhouette against the light of the single candle she'd left burning in case he came to her. His shoulders were rounded, his head bowed.

After a moment, blinking herself awake, Belle did as she had done the other night and wriggled up behind him, reached around him where he sat, and buried her face in the small of his back.

They said nothing, but Rumpelstiltskin took her hand, and gripped it, tight.


	66. A Distraction

Neither one of them enjoyed much sleep, that night.

Rumpelstiltskin lay with her, for a while, tucked behind her and atop the bedclothes, fully dressed. He stroked her hair, toyed with her plait and its woven ribbons, soothing her to sleep. He was gone before Belle woke again, to the sound of birds singing and the fresh light of a new dawn.

She felt leaden, inside. Where there ought to have been grief, outrage, pity or even guilt, Belle felt only a sharp, hard hurt - and anger. She bathed, preparing herself for the new day with mechanical detachment, dressing herself in what came first to hand from her trunk and the other boxes.

Later, she would sort out everything that had been packed for her. Finding Rumpelstiltskin was foremost in her mind, for now.

He was in his tower, of course. A few things had changed, since Belle saw it last. Some of the high storage shelves were gone, with the bookcases that lined the walls visible once more. The work benches were arranged end to end, against the wall furthest from the stairs, and Rumpelstiltskin was working in the spot beneath the window, seated on a tall stool, his head bowed over a retort and flame.

"Husband," she said, from the top of the stairs, because she did not think that he had heard her come up.

"Come in, come in," he urged, without turning. "I've not forgotten my promise."

"Which promise?" Belle asked, caught completely off her guard by his joviality. She had only to rest her hands upon his shoulders, upon the mantle of stiff scales, to know how false his good cheer was. He was wound tight, his magic with him.

"Breakfast," Rumpelstiltskin replied, plucking a glass dish of dried residue from the apparatus with his thumb and forefinger. The residue sparkled slightly, a strange blue colour, and grew sharply crystalline and blocky in the dish as she watched. Her husband appeared to be pleased with this result, straightening and nodding his head with a small sound of approval. "A feast each morning for the queen of my castle." He flicked a finger towards the burner, which went out. "And I'm to join you."

"I'm not hungry," Belle assured him, squeezing his shoulders before she stood back. That wasn't completely true - there had been hunger pangs, while she bathed. It simply seemed wrong to make time for her comforts while Odstone wept. But a meal together would distract Rumpelstiltskin, perhaps soothe him, even if it was a meal that neither one of them actually wanted. "Can we feast on just tea and toast?"

"As you wish," he said, standing up and turning to face her. He tried, for a moment, to look at her. Then he looked at the floor. "Wren asked if you are well," he said, the words stilted, as though it pained him to speak even that much of what had happened in town, last night. "Her cough has worsened. I commanded her to take the medicine you brought her."

"Did she?"

"Probably not." Snorting with disdain, Rumpelstiltskin drew her towards the stairs. "She prefers to obey you, I think."

"I didn't _command_ her," Belle said, gently. "I asked, and she did it for my sake." She felt the leaden hurt close a fist around her heart, thinking of the ailing old woman and her herbs, trying to save the dying. "She's my only friend, here."

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning to face her and blocking her way. Still on the last stair, she was eye to eye with him. His eyes were hard.

"They treat you unkindly?"

"No." Belle took his shoulders and kissed his brow. "They're afraid. Wren isn't." She calmed a little when Rumpelstiltskin caught her waist and lifted her down from the last step, seeing a proper kiss. After a moment, he backed her against the stone wall and pressed in tightly, his breathing gone shallow. His hands were gentle, his kisses generous and welcome, but Belle could feel that barely-tamed magic of his, all over her. It wasn't like being touched - not exactly. More like feeling a breeze through thick clothing, or the heat of the sun through a window - an awareness of the power, too strong to be ignored. It flickered about her like flames, alive.

"I... feel magic," she gasped, not wanting to protest, to put him off, but... If it would give him comfort then she would accept him, lie with him here on the floor if he wanted to, but she didn't want that flickering awareness, that _intrusion_. "Touching me."

It stopped, almost before she had finished speaking, and Rumpelstiltskin pulled back, sharply.

"Forgive me," he breathed. "Not everyone can... it's a gift, that you can sense it," he managed, taking her hands as though she were a frail thing, something he hardly dared touch. "A little of what's in here." He pointed his thumbs towards himself. "I don't imagine it's very pleasant."

"It's... it is _you?_ " Belle asked, warily. "Not..."

"It's me," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, with a strained little laugh. "As I once told you, there are times when I'm best left alone." He lifted her hands and kissed them both, a soft brush of lips against knuckles. "But I think your gift will see to that. Come."

Her left hand in his right, they walked along the passage, past Rumpelstiltskin's bare cell of a chamber, to the stairs.

It was not the moment for gifts, any more than for a feast, but Belle let him lead her downstairs. She almost wished that she had held her tongue, let him have his way with her there and then, but... no. She did not _like_ the touch of magic, and he had insisted that she tell him if he ever displeased her in their loving. He would not want her to be silent. Having reassured herself, Belle squeezed Rumpelstiltskin's hand as they passed through the cold marble hall, and into the great room.

There were fewer candles than she normally found in there, leaving much of the room in shadow. It was, ordinarily, a cosy place, in spite of its great size and the oddities on their pedestals. Even with the heavy, enormous curtains always closed, Belle thought of it as a place of light, and warmth. Today, it felt abandoned, with only a feeble fire in the great hearth. But Rumpelstiltskin kept walking, half turning to give her a little smile of encouragement.

"Where are we going?" she laughed, growing impatient with the surprise. The way he led her, by the hand, reminded her more and more of her fifth birthday, when Papa had taken her on what seemed like such a long walk, in her new wine-coloured dress and soft leather slippers, to the stables, to see her first pony.

It had not been a pampered beast, that little pony, but an old mare confiscated from a trader who misused her, overloading her with sacks of sea coal and whipping at her fat little legs when she stumbled. Papa had given her the pony, not to teach her to ride, but to show her how to earn the trust of a horse, and learn the care of one.

For one, strange moment, Belle was caught between then and now, husband and father, here and there. She went with Rumpelstiltskin down the wide kitchen stairs, and wondered if she would find a horse waiting for her, in her kitchen. He _had_ promised to find her one...

But, of course, it wasn't that. Belle shook herself, in the kitchen doorway, and blinked at what she saw before her. Behind her, Rumpelstiltskin put both hands on her shoulders, standing very close.

"A stove!" Belle clapped her hands in unrestrained delight, while her eyes surveyed the changes. When she had mentioned it to him, she had imagined a pot-bellied little black iron stove, with a pipe to let out the smoke, and a heavy plate on top to sit a large pan. Instead, where an oak dresser had stood, on the left-hand wall between the hearth and the sink with the pump, there was now a great black oven and stove combined, half as big as a carriage. A multitude of copper pans sat all over her table, gleaming new, in all sizes, with most of them suiting her size and strength better than the iron fixtures of the castle ever had.

While Belle stood in front of the stove and stared upwards, wondering how the big, iron chimney pipe had been let out without damaging the stonework, Rumpelstiltskin came up and embraced her from behind.

"Do you like it, my dear?" he asked, his breath tickling her ear.

"I... I didn't expect..." Belle gestured, helplessly, and then turned to put her arms around his neck and hug him, tightly. "Thank you, thank you," she said, almost in tears. "I'll be able to learn everything, now!"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his gracious response muffled in her tight embrace, and clasped her gently to him, swinging her slowly from side to side on her tiptoes. Only when Belle relented, releasing her stranglehold, did he let her go. She could make out pleasure and quiet amusement, in his expression, but he was restless. She had lured him from his tower, and not even let him have what he wanted.

"I can cook my own breakfast," she said, but her husband shook his head.

"I keep to my deals, mistress," he said, softly, and leaned down to kiss her, very briefly. "Breakfast is served."

Belle smelled the food before she turned to look, and saw that one corner of the table had been cleared of the copper pots and pans, leaving their two places clear for their meal. It was tea and toast, as she had asked, with the toast in a long silver rack, ten half-slices. Dishes of butter and preserves clustered around that, and their plates awaited them. The tea service, with the chipped cup that Rumpelstiltskin favoured, was crammed into the remaining space.

"Much better," Belle said, relieved. She thought that she might have burst into tears, had he filled the table with another wasteful banquet of meats and fish, today of all days.

They took their seats, Rumpelstiltskin at the head of the table and Belle to his right. He did little more than watch, while she buttered toast and nibbled away, more from a sense of duty to him than because she had the appetite. Again and again, her thoughts would go to Odstone, and try to put faces to the grief, but she knew of only one house where a boy lived - the one she had passed, the first time she had gone into town alone, and on foot. They hid the children from her, lest her glance bring her husband's notice.

Rumpelstiltskin ate one half-slice of heavy brown toast, dipped into a pool of honey that he dribbled onto his bread plate. He used the last crust to spread the remainder of the honey about on the plate, until he had made the shapes of the sun and the moon with the golden stickiness. Then, as though realising what he had been doing, he dropped the little crust of bread and pushed the plate away in disgust, rattling the tea set, hard.

"I'll be out all day," he told her, flatly. "Not far - I must tour the boundaries of my land to see that all is secure. This new curse ought not have been possible here, without my knowing it."

Belle laid her hand upon his wrist, squeezing where the wine coloured silk of his sleeve met a delicate lace cuff of pure gold.

"Can I do anything to help?" She wanted to - oh, _how_ she wanted to! But Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, just as she had expected he would. She had no place in his sorcery.

"Be here. Safe and sound where none can touch you," Rumpelstiltskin answered, turning his hand palm upwards, to meet with her hand on the corner of the table. "Keep your pretty ribbons for me?" he added, as though it seemed too much to ask. "Something to look forward to?"

Belle's other hand went, self-consciously, to the fraying braid at her shoulder. She had paid it no attention, since they met the shock in Odstone yesterday, other than to tighten the big blue bow before she retired, and again when she dressed. It was coming apart in wisps, and the ends of two of the ribbons had worked their way loose at the top, but she nodded. Rumpelstiltskin had looked forward to undoing it, and she would make sure that he got the chance, if it gave him the least comfort.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" she said, urgently, when her husband stood up from the table.

For a moment, she saw that he meant to dismiss her concern as absurd. Then, perhaps he remembered, as she did, the awful days of his sickness, because his expression became grave, and his mouth a tight twist of distaste. It was gone in a moment, his expression mastered, and he was cocksure and light on his feet again.

"Worry not, little wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, touching her cheek with his knuckle. "I'll be on my guard. I've had about enough of this mischief." He turned back, bending to give her a slow kiss of promise, her chin cupped in his fingers. "Enjoy your pots and pans. Don't burn down my castle."

"I won't!" Belle called after him. She heard his steps grow heavy, again, once he was out of her sight, and her skin turned all to goosebumps, as though she felt the change in his mood that accompanied it. He had made a kindly moment for her, for his wife, his treasure, but his thoughts were of the assault on Odstone and its children. He prided himself on the safety and prosperity of his people, under his indifferent rule, and most especially the children.

And the boys most of all, Belle thought, shivering all over as she began to gather up plates. Rumpelstiltskin's son was never far from his thoughts, she knew, and she thought that must be the reason for his idiosyncratic laws. No child went hungry in Odstone, and to kill a child was death, yet they hid the children when their master came near, more afraid of losing their families than they were grateful for his protection. And now his protection had failed them, and some evil magic had stolen away their sons, even the ones unborn.

She felt sick, remembering that.

With breakfast cleared away, Belle went upstairs. The stove was a novelty to her and a perfect gift, but food was the very last thing she wished to think about, for the moment.

The morning was spent unpacking her travel chest, and the long boxes of clothing and other items that had been packed for her by Lotte. Belle had her first look at the bolt of black silk that Rumpelstiltskin's gold had bought her, and she sighed over it, better pleased with the quality than she could have hoped. It was the almost flawless, slick silk that came from Agrabah and beyond, where the secret of the cloth was known. Belle had heard that it was woven and dyed by magic, to give it the evenness of colour and texture that allowed for the finest and lightest of garments, such as her nightgowns. It seemed almost a crime to take her own clumsy needle to it, but if she began with handkerchiefs, she could hope to get the feel for it before attempting anything ambitious. A nightshirt, or a shirt. Something that he could wear next to his skin.

Black silk suited him very well.

Belle at last found a use for her sitting room, with its bright window. Although it chilled the room, the light was good for such dainty needlework; when she sat beneath the window, carefully rolling and stitching the edge of her first square of silk, Belle was able to lose herself in the monotony of the task.

During all her previous attempts to sew, since marriage, she had found herself missing the women who would have been with her, at her father's castle, sharing the pastime and talking with her. Today, Belle enjoyed the solitude and the stillness. It made a proper space for her grief and fright, about the sons of Odstone, and no-one had to see or fuss when she sat a while with the half-stitched handkerchief in her lap, snivelling like a little girl.

Drying her eyes on her sleeve, Belle wondered if it would be like the ogre war, again, with the pain of such loss turning the town hard. How many families had been touched? Were the mothers and fathers waiting in fear, now, for the daughters to be next? Rumpelstiltskin would not let that happen... of course not... but suppose that his protection failed a second time? He had sent Belle on to the castle; he had not been confident that he could protect _her_ , in Odstone.

Finishing the handkerchief, pleasantly surprised by how neatly it had turned out, Belle smoothed it across her knee and considered how to decorate it. There was little enough skill in rolling the edge of a small square of cloth, even if it had been done by her own hand. She had tried her hand at embroidering coarse silk, before now, but never any as fine as this cloth. And her work had always been feminine - pretty. Rumpelstiltskin would probably laugh if she embroidered his handkerchief with flowers, even if she did so in black thread. Indecisive, Belle returned her sewing things to her trunk, and hid the bolt of silk away at the back of her wardrobe.

By mid-afternoon, she felt hungry enough to face the kitchen, and to try her new stove. Belle began with the copper tea kettle, to get a feel for the strength of the heat in the big iron plate atop the stove. Compared to the fireside hooks, it boiled quickly, and provided her with a fresh pot of soothing mint tea to enjoy while she chose what she would like to eat.

Belle cooked an onion, finely sliced, in a small skillet. She enjoyed how the knob of yellow butter sizzled against the metal, bubbling and browning as it melted. Almost as soon as she added the onion, the smell became delicious, filling her with optimism. In a second pan, into boiling water, she put two potatoes, peeled and diced, meaning to mash them up with milk and more butter when they were cooked through. Lastly, finding the sharpest of the kitchen knives and a sturdy cutting block, she sliced a steak from a joint of beef and then cut that into slivers, adding them to the pan with the onions.

Both of her books, Wren's recipe book and _Of Hearth and Stove_ , claimed that steak and onions was a simple dish, quick and easy to prepare. Although her onions blackened rather, Belle was able to turn out the meat onto a plate before it progressed beyond deliciously cooked, and then had to wait, impatiently, with the mouthwatering aroma of the meat filling her kitchen, for the potatoes to be done.

It was _delicious_. The meal made an ugly mess on one of the fine china plates with their blue and white pattern, but Belle tucked in with gusto, and congratulated herself on a first, true success in her kitchen. She left a second plate for Rumpelstiltskin, of course, in case it appealed to his appetite, when he returned.

Washing the copper pans was less exciting than preparing the meal, but Belle liked that work well enough. Like the simple sewing, up in her bright sitting room, scouring a pan clean left her mind free. She thought about embroidery, about the moment in the night when Rumpelstiltskin came and sat on her bed, seeking solace without seeking her embrace, and about Wren, refusing a command from her lord but indulging a plea from a lonely _duckling_.

A visit to Wren, sooner rather than later, was definitely in order. She would have a better understanding of the needs of the townspeople, and what Belle might do to help them in their grief - even if that was simply to stay away, and thereby avoid adding another burden by her unwelcome presence.

Before going back upstairs, Belle went to one of the rooms that housed her husband's endless accumulation of golden thread, and searched the various chests, trunks and drawers for a spool that might be suitable for embroidery. Sometimes, his gold was like wire - the pure, extruded metal, thick or thin. Other times it was like chain, or even sturdy enough to make rope. Belle had not determined whether the qualities of the thread were the product of Rumpelstiltskin's mood, his whim, the straw he began with, or mere experimentation with his skill and his magic. He could turn straw into a gold thread fine enough to make soft lace, or tough enough to harness a horse and then, when he took the gold in hand, he could transform it into other things. Her jewels, her wedding ring. Belle wondered, as she rummaged in a drawer that contained promising-looking, dainty spools, if her husband's peculiar affinity was with the straw, or the gold. He _liked_ gold, and valued it in his own way, even as he sat and devalued it, yard by neverending yard at his spinning wheel.

Belle had never heard it said that the Dark Castle was filled with gold. She wondered why not. It was well known that Rumpelstiltskin could spin gold from straw; among all the whispers and misinformation, fed by terror, people remembered _that_ detail. Nobody ever spoke of what the Spinner _did_ with his gold, and Belle found the truth unbearably sad. All these boxes, unregarded - sad not because of the wasted wealth, but the squandered skill, and patience, and dedication of the spinner. Some of the gold might fill her purse, adorn his clothing or sweeten a deal, but almost all of it ended like this, abandoned in a forgotten room.

On her way back, a single spool of fine, soft-spun thread in hand, Belle collected several bundles of straw. Whatever else remained a puzzle, about her husband, she was certain that he chose to spin during those times he mentioned when he was best left alone. She would fill his baskets with straw, unnecessary as that was, just to let him know that she had thought of him and remembered his request.

That done, Belle returned to her own room, tucking away the golden thread with the black, in her sewing basket. She wasn't sure that it was even possible to keep a secret from Rumpelstiltskin, least of all in his own castle, but she would try to make his gift a surprise, if she could. If an unsolicited kiss surprised him, so might a gift, even if it was partly made with his own gold.

She sat beside her fireplace, the red wool blanket across her knees, and began a new book. It was a history of the kingdom of Midas, which she could tell was going to be equal measures fiction and fact. While she did not question the possibility that the first king of the Firelands might have been nine feet tall, she could not accept that he had quenched the mountains of fire with his copious seed. She had heard the tale before, though rather less baldly stated. The claim did give her vivid imagination something to chew on, however, now that she knew what it meant. Even a man nine feet tall and a step removed from godhood, she thought, would be hard put to manage _that_ much quenching. Fire mountains could spew their red hot rock for years on end, while a man...

Rumpelstiltskin found her drowsing over her book, half-dreaming of the little she knew about fire mountains. Belle jolted awake, when he squatted in front of her chair and placed a hand on her knee, and felt unaccountably guilty for having fallen asleep, while her husband was out seeing to their security.

It was dark outside, and her room had filled up with warm candlelight. Muddled, her eyes heavy, Belle closed the book and tucked it beside her, giving Rumpelstiltskin her hands. When he took them, his flesh was cold, as was the hard leather of his sleeve.

"Is it late?" she asked, doing her best to rouse herself to alertness.

"No, not late." Rumpelstiltskin rose, slowly, and drew her gently to her feet. "I thought you'd be in your kitchen," he said, with a half smile.

"I kept a plate for you," Belle remembered, brightening. "I'll warm it."

"Later," he urged, holding her still when she made to turn towards the door. "Please?" Rumpelstiltskin lifted her hands to his chest and pressed them there, beneath his coat, catching a sharp breath when Belle opened her hands and rubbed with her palms. The cold was in the stiff brocade of his waistcoat, as well - the deep cold of a day spent outside without furs or other protection. It might not _harm_ him, she thought, but it couldn't be _comfortable_ or pleasant. Perhaps he wanted to be warmed up?

Rumpelstiltskin had never _asked_ her to be with him, before. He'd given her every opportunity to refuse him, when he wanted his way, and had never simply requested it of her. He'd never needed to, when he'd found a wife who became wanton at a touch or a kiss, but tonight he asked, as though for a favour.

She answered him with a kiss, lifting herself on tiptoes to give it, the red blanket slipping down around their feet. Remembering how his magic had grasped at her, earlier, Belle held her breath, half expecting it to be the same, but there was only a kiss, her husband's lips rough and dry. He was gentle, yet something was different in the way he touched her; impatient, hasty. He desired this for himself, desired the physical thing with a new immediacy. Belle had no objection to that - his kiss and his roaming hands excited her enough that it would be no chore to give him his way.

Remembering when he had taken her in the turret, face down over his workbench and strangely businesslike in his search for distraction, Belle made no effort to draw things out, nor to undress him, other than to push until he dropped his leather coat to the ground behind him. She loosened her skirt while she crossed to the bed, leaving it in a heap on the floor and beginning at once on the buttons of her drawers. Looking up at him, growing nervous that she had misread his intentions, Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin's expression and was reassured. She saw anticipation, approval, and want.

He played with her garter, when she sat on the side of the bed to kick off her drawers. She had not dressed with seduction in mind, and wore thick woollen stockings tied off with the plain garters that she had sewn for herself. Rumpelstiltskin was captivated, anyway, bending to kiss her but keeping one hand where her stocking met her flesh, and teasing there until she shivered, her jaw quivering. He smirked, when Belle reached for his belt, and he left her to fiddle and struggle with stiff leather thongs and cold brass buttons, while he teased her tongue with his own. Conscious that she would have felt foolish and uncertain, bare weeks ago, Belle relished the little challenge now, and enjoyed the way he swelled and hardened beneath the leather, while she fought his clothing, and won.

The little victory made her bolder, and a slightly guilty excitement made her hasty. Belle took him in her hand, earning a gasp of genuine surprise from him, followed by a sigh of enjoyment. Rumpelstiltskin straightened, watching her toy with him, his hands going hesitantly to her hair. Belle moved her hand up and down his cock, just as he had shown her, while he drew her braid past her shoulder and tugged the big blue ribbon loose, grunting with satisfaction.

Her unkempt plait unwound itself at once, with little help from his fingers. He trembled, claiming each of the three thinner ribbons in turn and lacing them through his fingers, until his hand was decorated with trophies and Belle's hair hung loose, falling where it would.

"Enough," Rumpelstiltskin whispered, bringing the hand with her ribbons down to still her hand, on his cock. Belle hoped that she'd been doing it right. "You're too beautiful, little wife."

She didn't feel beautiful, in her hairy stockings and half a dress, but his praise made her feel that she glowed with something more than beauty. Lying back, welcoming him above her and raising her knees so that her heels caught the very edge of the mattress, Belle watched Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. There was a little of the yearning, in her, but far more than that she felt the belonging, when he thrust himself home. If she was comforted by that, then perhaps he was as well. She hoped so, closing her eyes and burying her right hand in his hair, drifting in a pleasant daze until he began to moan, then biting her lip when his sounds and firmer thrusts piqued a deeper excitement in her.

Belle whispered to him, while he was finishing. Encouragement - _yes, good, yes_ \- and then sweet nothings, as he rested above her, forehead against hers, his body trembling. _My love, my husband, my darling._ Rumpelstiltskin gulped, and hauled himself up beside her on the bed, bringing a hand bedecked with ribbons between her legs. Shocked and intrigued, she forced herself up on her elbows to see - her ribbons, all shades of blue, woven between his fingers with the ends hanging loose. He rubbed her with the flat of his hand, letting the changing texture of skin, ribbon, skin play over her swollen bud. She had never watched him do it, before - not really _watched_ as his mottled hand and black fingernails explored her pink folds, beneath her thatch of crisp curls. In the light from the hallway, and from the nearest candelabra, she could see everything, even where the ribbons darkened with her moisture. The ends tickled her thighs each time Rumpelstiltskin moved his hand, offering a teasing counterpoint to the more direct stimulation where he rubbed her. They both watched, and he kept on rubbing.

It became a strain, to stay curled up as she was; heels at the very edge of the mattress and slipping on the bedclothes, neck craned as she peered to see what he did to her. Belle gave it up, when the pleasure began to make her quake and whimper. She let one leg dangle over the edge of the bed, and lay back, watching Rumpelstiltskin instead. His expression was intent, eager, and he smiled whenever she made an involuntary sound. Every time she thought that his fingers were about to slip inside, he denied her, so that when she came, it centred around the swollen mound alone, and left the world oddly bright in its near-painful intensity. She could not have stayed silent for all the world. Rumpelstiltskin's smile broadened and softened, hearing her whisper and yelp her pleasure.

As they kissed, afterwards, letting themselves be comfortable and lazy on the bed for a little while, Belle thought of their other reunions, with a pang of regret so deep that it truly hurt. True, he had only been gone for the day, but it was still a homecoming, and the most pleasant they had had, thus far. Dreamy, with her fingers sliding through his hair and the taste of their kisses making her sigh, Belle wondered if he had come straight to her, when he arrived home; if having her had been his first thought. She liked the idea that, even burdened as he was, he looked to her for solace, and perhaps... escape?

"So many ribbons all at once," he murmured, when Belle's kisses grew feeble, her jaw aching, and she had to admit defeat and lie still. "I fear I got... quite carried away." Lifting his hand, showing her the worse-for-wear ribbons still tangled with his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin sounded almost embarrassed. "I've not offended you, putting your pretty things to such a use?"

There was no reason for him to ask that; Belle had made not the least effort to stop him teasing her with the ribbons, nor shown the slightest disapproval, even when he shocked her. She felt a little drunk, with loving and tiredness both, and gave a quiet laugh as she lay there, staring at the bedraggled ribbons.

"Haven't I always made it quite clear, when you've offended me?" she teased, trying to draw him back to her. But Rumpelstiltskin gave her one last kiss and then sat up, arranging his clothing while he shuffled from the bed.

"That you have," he agreed, unwinding the ribbons from his fingers while Belle forced herself to overcome a the warm lassitude, the urge to sleep, and sit herself up. Holding the four ribbons by the ends, Rumpelstiltskin gave them a gentle shake and his magic left them perfect once more, dry, smooth and shining. Still sheepish, eyes downcast so that his lashes were dark against his cheek, he offered them back to her, draped across his palm.

"Don't you want to keep them?" Belle asked, knowing that he would.

"Of course," he confessed, resorting to a playful coyness. Belle thought that he was blushing, but candlelight made it difficult to tell. "But so many? Don't want to be greedy, do I?"

"I have others," Belle assured him, gathering up her clothes from the floor. "Lots," she added, seeing how that pleased him. It was much more convenient to have their coupling in bed, after they retired, she thought, trying to put her petticoat on straight. Convenient, and cosy, but possibly not as... interesting. She blushed, herself, and forced herself to turn her mind to other matters. Unwelcome ones. "You went out to see that your borders were safe?" she asked, as she saw to the rest of her clothing. Rumpelstiltskin had drifted across to the window. She could see his reflection in the glass, against the darkness outside. "Magical ones, or have you defences?"

"Boundaries are important," he told her. He spoke vaguely, as though with only half a mind on the conversation. "All kinds. And mine are secure. No flaws, no weaknesses, no breaches. All is as it should be."

Belle joined him at the window, feeling only slightly guilty about using her own reflection in the glass to see that her dress was straight and her hair not too untidy. It wasn't a mirror, after all. He had not forbidden her to see her _reflection_ , only to use mirrors.

"Then you don't know how it--"

"No." Rumpelstiltskin answered so shortly, so sharply, that Belle flinched. He reached for her hand at once, exasperated. Not with her, Belle thought, returning the heartfelt squeeze. "No," he said, with a forced calm. "I do not. The curse took so many, so far apart. Townsfolk and mountain woodsmen alike lost their sons. No-one remembers a stranger, an odd occurrence in my absence. Nothing is out of place."

They stood a while, hand in hand and staring out at the blackness, until Belle grew cold. She drew the heavy drapes, slowly, and Rumpelstiltskin seemed to remember himself. He straightened his back, turning from the window with purpose in his stride.

"It... it isn't because of me, is it?" Belle asked, seeing that he meant to leave. Back to his magic, she knew. Back to that turret, to seek answers by every means at his disposal. She hurried to him, placing herself between her husband and the door. She took both his hands, gazing up earnestly as she voiced the coalescing fear. "It's not because you married me, because you love me, that these things are happening now?"

She saw Rumpelstiltskin draw breath to dismiss her with some grand gesture, some pantomime of gallantry, but he did not. Perhaps he saw, in her eyes, that it was the truth she asked for, not reassurance. Her heart beat too fast, in fear of what he might tell her.

"It's not," he said, softly. "The intrusions, the disruptions in Odstone, began long before your father sent his message."

"Only... the Queen, Regina," Belle said, stumbling because she did not know where the thought would take her. "She said that I had you distracted."

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes widened - a disquieting sight, in any good light - and then he threw back his head and laughed, as Belle had never seen him laugh. It was harsh, and mocking. It took him a moment to control himself, and to look at her again. His eyes shone, now, with both mirth and the glimmer of malice.

"Did she now?" he chuckled. Belle nodded, almost wishing that she had not mentioned it. "Well, she's not wrong about that, treasure. You're quite the distraction."

Belle's expression must have been more revealing than she knew, because her husband softened at the sight of it, tenderness washing away the moment of twisted humour. "Hush," he said, stroking her cheek. "You're not the cause of this. I'm not so distracted as all that."

Her relief almost brought her to tears - childish, unexpected tears, and Belle reached around him with both arms, burying her face against his stiff collar to hide her moment of foolishness. Perhaps he took it to be something less selfish - grief, for the children - because Rumpelstiltskin rocked her on her tiptoes, tucking her head beneath his chin as he held her. He seemed not to mind that he must comfort his wife like a child.

"Even the ogres didn't single out the children," Belle said, small-voiced, when his comfort had given her back a little self-control. "They take anyone in their path, anything in their way, but not... not like this."

"No," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, squeezing her too tightly. Belle wondered if he thought of his son, and if the one boy he had been able to save, last night, came as any comfort at all. He sounded grave. Grim. "No, treasure, they don't. Only men know how to be cruel."


	67. Tears

The last of the soothing oil warmed her skin, after her bath. Belle was glad that most of the redness had faded, and that the only hints of dry and peeling skin were at her collarbone and the peak of her shoulders. The slight soreness had been a small enough price to pay to free her from the clerics' magic, but it was a relief to ease the last of it away with the balm. Besides, the stuff smelled so good, and made her skin feel lovely.

Belle made sure to tip the very last drops of the oil into her palm, wanting to waste none of it. As she contorted and tried to smooth it as far down behind her shoulders as she could reach, she thought of how Rumpelstiltskin had rubbed her all over with the oil, and shivered. Would it be too daring, to ask him to play that game again when she'd no burns to soothe? To try stroking _his_ skin all over with her palms slick with sweet oil, and find out if he liked it too? Another shiver, and Belle scolded herself, ashamed of such self-indulgent thoughts. It was not the time.

She had seen little of her husband during the past day, except when he joined her for breakfast. He had not joined her in the night, either for pleasure or for solace, yet there he had been at the table, waiting to watch Belle eat her bacon and mushrooms. She smiled, remembering. They had spoken little, but the silence had never been uncomfortable, and Rumpelstiltskin had pressed a parting kiss to her cheek before he returned to his tower.

In the warmth of her kitchen, Belle read recipes, sewed her aprons, and put two big potatoes in the oven to bake in their skins. The solitude was pleasant enough, when she knew that her husband was near, but by late afternoon she ached to see him, to speak to him. She truly did miss his company, Belle thought, as she retrieved the hot potatoes from her new oven. Testing them with a fork, she found them soft and fluffy, and grinned to herself at another triumph.

Her own potato was eaten with butter, salt and pepper. For Rumpelstiltskin, she grated a little hard cheese as well and sprinkled it into the hot potato. It would be less hot, by the time she reached him, but he could mend that, if he chose to. Belle covered the plate and set out, upwards, feeling full and content.

At the top of the turret stairs, Belle felt herself restrained by a gentle pressure in the air. It was as though her husband's hands were at her shoulders, keeping her from moving into the room.

Rumpelstiltskin had cleared a large space in the centre of the room, where a glowing sphere of changing rainbow colours hovered in the air, two feet above head height. It cast a soft and glittering light about the room, quite beautiful, but Rumpelstiltskin stood several paces away from it, regarding it with a wary alertness and not the least sign of pleasure.

"Stay there," he commanded, sparing her a glance and a tight smile. "You'll be safe."

Belle nodded, taking him at his word, and rested the tray against her chest to keep it from rattling while she waited.

Raising a hand towards the glowing ball, Rumpelstiltskin squinted slightly and made a twisting, grasping gesture. The rainbow glow flickered, struggling, and then exploded out from the sphere like the bursting of a bubble, filling the air with a firework display of fizzing, dying colour that faded as it fell to the ground. A moment later, there was nothing left but a faint smell of burning.

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin said, his smile huge. He clapped his hands together and strode across to the head of the stairs to greet her, releasing whatever magic had held her back. "What's this, what's this?" He scanned the humble contents of her tray with bright, quick eyes. He sounded slightly breathless, excited and unable to contain himself.

"It was supposed to be lunch," Belle explained, trying not to be unnerved. "But they weren't ready in time." Easing her way past him, when he failed to move aside, Belle carried the tray to the nearest workbench and set it down among his tools and jars. "A baked potato." She lifted the cover with a flourish, turning in time to see his blank look turn to a smile. "What was _that_?" She gestured to where the rainbow ball had hovered.

"Fairy magic," Rumpelstiltskin declared, with evident satisfaction. "Fairy protection." Still smiling, he stooped to examine her cookery. "Thank you, my dear," he said, happily. "But there's no need to feed me."

"Reminding you how to be a man," Belle reminded him, thinking that fairy protection probably ought not to explode when her husband willed it. If he had found a way to make it do so, fairies were suddenly rather less safe, she feared. "Men eat."

"Ah, yes." Straightening, Rumpelstiltskin eyed her with that same, unblinking intensity. "And kiss their wives, and fuck." He took a step towards her, reaching for her waist, but Belle put up her hands, laughing.

"And sleep," she said, placing her hands against his chest. "If you'd come to bed last night, you could have had the other." At his playful pout, Belle rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "I can see that I need to be stern."

She didn't feel stern, and would have liked nothing better than to put her arms around him now, but the magic had him. It did not frighten her as it once had, but it still made him seem... beyond her reach, somehow. As though he looked down upon her from a great height, scarcely seeing her. His success had excited him, filled him with that terrible glee, and his body all but quivered with it. He would grow calm again, in time, but she did not think that she wanted to go to bed with him while it still had him.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed untroubled by her refusal, though he kissed her brow before letting her out of his reach. Belle watched him take up the fork and dig it into the fluffy flesh of the potato, with its crust of half melted cheese, lifting some to his lips. He hesitated, just barely, before eating it. It gave him no pleasure, she could see, though he forced a smile and nodded his thanks.

"Is it that bad?" she asked, laughing again. Hers had been delicious, wonderfully hot and filling; she was sure that his was no different, even if it had gone a bit cold.

"It's very good," her husband said, but dutifully. "Thank you." His smile brightened again. "You like your stove?"

"Oh, yes!" Belle wandered further into the room, while her husband made his reluctant attempt on the potato. "It keeps the kitchen so warm, as well. I could sleep there, it's so snug." And had done, she thought, ruefully. She had twice dozed off over her book, and her sewing.

"We were going to find you warmer quarters," Rumpelstiltskin remembered.

Belle turned to look at him, leaning over the tray and picking at the food. Already he sounded less... less the wizard, and more the man. It drained the bright and brittle energy from his speech and manner, along with that dreadful remoteness. It made him quieter, and let the troubles back in to weigh him down. Belle was sorry for it, but that was what it meant to be a man, wasn't it? For the world to have its inconveniences, and its terrible hurts? Its comforts, as well. Belle returned to his side, attempting to be artful as she drew her plaited hair forward, to hang in front of her shoulder, displaying the fire-orange ribbon that she'd bound it with. It was the second to last of her new ones, from Odstone. She was going to need more, if he kept up his greedy collection.

"Us," she said, straightening the trailing ends of ribbon beneath the bow, and conscious of how Rumpelstiltskin had stopped chewing to stare at what she was doing. She enjoyed that it was so easy to capture his imagination, to remind him of their time together, and to lure him with the promise of more. Belle caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and wondered what else she might be able to do with a mere hair ribbon.

"Mmm?"

"We were going to find warmer quarters for us to share." Belle studied his face, and watched the lines appear beside his eyes as he frowned. She knew that he had not forgotten. "You and I."

Blinking, Rumpelstiltskin tore his gaze from her hair, her ribbon, and met her eyes. His lips lifted in a hesitant smile.

"Yes," he said, hushed. "So we were." He interested himself in the food, after that, if only to avoid the conversation.

Belle touched his shoulder and made another slow tour of the room, looking at his current array of tools, potions, plants, boxes and books. There were books everywhere, even in a stack beside his three-legged stool at the spinning wheel. Many of them were open, or interlaced with another to keep a page, or trailed one of her ribbons for a bookmark. She liked that. If he wanted to keep her ribbons, she would much prefer that he put them to use, and kept them close by him, than hiding them away beneath his wardrobe.

Belle took a small volume from the corner of the work table nearest her, opening it at the place that he'd marked with one of her slim, blue ribbons from yesterday. The memory of how he'd touched her, teased her with the ribbons made her blush, but it made her smile as well, and Rumpelstiltskin had his back to her and did not see. At first, she took it to be a book of verse, and wondered why her husband would keep anything so whimsical in his workroom. Then, as she studied the short lines on the page, and set her mind to working out the meaning from the old tongue, Belle discovered that it was not so much poetry as prophecy or religious thought - a doggerel of loose rhyme and meandering meaning. She frowned, able to make out only three in five of the words.

"I forget," Rumpelstiltskin said, startling her by plucking the book from her hands, "that you read the old tongue." Belle had not noticed him approaching, and his sudden nearness left her heart beating too fast, her breath short. "Be careful of which books you look at, in here," he went on, closing the book on its bookmark and putting it down on the table. "Some of them have more than just words inside."

"What does that one have? It's nonsense."

"Perhaps." Her husband bent slightly, putting his eyes at a level with hers. They were warm with amusement. "Those who peer into the future tend not to make a great deal of sense, afterwards."

"The future?" Belle's eyes strayed back to the book.

"Our past," he said, with a dismissive wave. "But some of it is history not recorded elsewhere. Never recorded at all, never witnessed by another. Useful."

She nodded, her breathing steady again after her small fright. As much as she wished that he would not sneak up on her, Belle suspected that he enjoyed doing so.

"So many books," she said, putting as much cheer into her voice as she could, and gesturing to the stacks of unshelved volumes. "You'll be needing more ribbons."

"Always." Rumpelstiltskin hooked the end of her braid with his right index finger, lifting it away from her shoulder. He smiled, letting the weight of her hair drag braid and ribbon away from him again. "I've found no answers with magic. I may find them in my books."

Belle sighed. Although he had reassured her, she could not shrug off the fear that it was her presence, her distracting presence, that had allowed terrible things to happen in Odstone. Would Rumpelstiltskin have been hurt, that time he returned in bloodied agony, had his new wife and their troubles not been occupying a corner of his thoughts as he went about his business? She did not think it likely that he often fell prey to traps, or even to surprises.

"I hope you can," she admitted, feeling somehow a traitor for it. "These attacks, these murders. They're cowardly."

"Yes." Taking her by the shoulders, Rumpelstiltskin waited for her to look at him. "You'll be safe, here, beside me, until I find who has done this."

She almost denied that she was afraid for her own sake, but that would be a lie. She had given it no thought, but he was right. When she did consider it, she was afraid, and rightly so. As his wife, she was a more valuable target for his enemies than any child in Odstone. If someone sought to challenge Rumpelstiltskin, to anger him, to draw him out, they might use her. Perhaps they already had, with the clerics and their fairy dust, and Gaston and the secrets that he could not speak. She would be foolish, were she unafraid.

"I must go to Odstone, tomorrow," she said. "To market, to be seen. To console them, if I can." Her presence there only caused disquiet, she knew. The people were too afraid of offending her, and of offending their master in turn. But if she was their mistress then she _must_ be seen. She ought to have been beside her husband, the night the last sons of Odstone died, sharing their hopeless struggle, and their grief.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, very quietly, his hands resting more heavily on her shoulders. He would have forbidden her in a heartbeat, Belle knew, but she was right. She could see that he understood that. If only they had returned home sooner...

"Not alone, then," he said. "And you will wear my protection, and keep close to me." She had seldom heard him sound so stern - he seldom commanded her in anything - and she nodded quickly. She would welcome his protection, and his nearness too. "I have medicine for Wren, and you can be certain that she will have questions for me." Grimacing, Rumpelstiltskin turned away. "Let me work, little wife," he said, his voice heavy with frustration. Wren had surely asked her questions the other night, but Rumpelstiltskin had no more answers now than he'd had then. The giggling excitement of his spell's success had left him, utterly. "I shall see you tonight."

That promise lifted Belle's spirits, at least, though she ached with renewed sorrow. She collected the tray, the half-eaten meal, and glanced back before she left him. Rumpelstiltskin trailed his fingers over the books, unseeing, his face consumed with a deep and troubled frown.

What frightened Belle the most was that Rumpelstiltskin was baffled. The most powerful man in the world, and very likely the oldest; the man who had read every book in this castle, and more; the man who had seen the world that Belle only dreamed of seeing. If _he_ could not see to the truth of this, to discover how and why he was being challenged...

And his wife was of no use at all, when it came to magic.

When her kitchen was tidy and the plates gleaming, Belle sat beside the kitchen fire and began a sampler of gold thread on black silk. She had feared that it would be difficult to work, as were the metal-wrapped threads that she had occasionally used in her needlework as a girl, but this was Rumpelstiltskin's gold. Metal it might be, but it behaved like the smoothest and finest of silk threads, and was just as light on the cloth. It didn't even _feel_ like metal, when she drew some of the fine thread through her fingers. It was not cold, nor sharp, and while it had the weight of gold while it sat dead upon the spool, it transformed when she cut a length to work with, becoming as weightless as thread.

Encouraged, Belle embroidered chevrons, petals, wavy lines and letters on her scrap of silk, and wondered if the gold obeyed her so easily because her husband would wish it so. Because she was his wife? There was magic in their contract of marriage. Not in the makeshift ceremony where Sir Maurice gave her hand, but that night, at the inn. When she had given herself, a different sort of contract had been sealed. Then, she had felt the weight of it and feared an unknown future. Now, she remembered his prickly embrace fondly, as their beginning, and she feared that their future was under threat.

Well before nightfall, Belle's eyes grew heavy and her limbs tired. She had not shaken off the ill effects of the journey, as she had hoped, though it was a blessed relief not to be _moving_ , at least. Her head still ached too often, and she felt drained of her strength, no matter how careful she was to eat her meals when she should. It annoyed her, to be so feeble - to have imposed so much upon her husband's patience to ease their journey, yet still be so affected by it. To have been the reason they spent extra nights on the road, when Rumpelstiltskin might have been at home, in Odstone, saving the children.

The thought made her miserable - guilt where there was no blame. Her husband had indulged her, pleasured her, spoken of his love to her, while Odstone prayed for his return. Would a day have made a difference? A few hours? Knowing that it might have done, Belle felt sick and tearful, and went to her room as though she could hide better from the truth of it, there.

Belle wrote a letter, brief and simple, to let her father know that she was safely home, and placed it inside the magic box to send it on its way. That she had not thought to send one as soon as she returned upset her still more, and tears overcame her for a little while, leaving her so cross with herself that she could not settle to her reading as she had meant to. She washed her hair, using the softening lotion that Lotte had packed for her, then plaited it in two, one braid behind each ear, so that it would dry full of soft waves. It gave her a smile, to wonder what Rumpelstiltskin would make of the mismatched ribbons that bound them - the orange satin, and a much narrower one of black velvet.

Her purse was nearly empty, thanks to the purchase of the silks. Even knowing that he begrudged her nothing - and certainly nothing that gold could buy her - Belle felt embarrassed, realising that she must ask him for more coin if she hoped to buy ribbons at market, tomorrow. Rumpelstiltskin was generous, in spoiling her, but she had seldom needed to _ask_ him for anything. Born a gentlewoman, Belle had never needed to earn her living, but nor had she ever been gifted with a large purse of money to spend as she wished, under her father's roof. If there was proper etiquette to asking her husband for money, she had never learned it.

Too sleepy to keep herself busy, Belle changed for bed, choosing the cotton gown that she had worn on her wedding night, for its warmth. Perhaps, a little, for the memories as well. She felt full of chills, in spite of the cheery blaze in the hearth, and looked forward as little as ever to going between the cold bedsheets, all by herself. Instead, she huddled among the pillows, cross-legged beneath the very edge of the covers, and kept the cosy sheepskin in her lap while she tried to read.

Before very long, Belle was tracing each line with the tip of her feather bookmark, struggling to follow the words even then. Before her wedding, before the war, she would need Lotte to shoo her away to bed, being so lost in her books that she would sit down after supper, and glance up to find that it was midnight. A waste of good candles, Lotte called it, but Belle was never sorry. These days, it seemed that all she wanted of an evening was her pillow. And her husband, of course. She had only to feel him beside her to feel that sense of anticipation, even when all they desired was sleep. She would sleep, knowing that he would likely wake her with kisses, or something better than kisses. That he wanted her, and found a pleasure in her that no other had ever given him.

Belle could not help but wonder if her fatigue was due to... well, to _that_. She felt as though she had spent the first weeks of her marriage lost to the discovery of the pleasures that came with being a wife. She had come to Rumpelstiltskin as a dutiful bride, willing to face all the trials of her new life, and found, instead, a way to escape them. In his arms. She had not expected the area of her marriage bed to interest her very much, if at all; had expected something to be endured for her husband's sake, and now...

Her husband had forbidden her shame, and she had taken him at his word, but had she allowed her fascination with their loving to blind her to duty? All those days when she had barely remembered to eat. All the letters that she ought to have written to her father. Her failure to endear herself to the people of Odstone - her husband's people, and hers now. When she had not been seeking Rumpelstiltskin's embrace, she had been indulging her whims with chores that need not be hers! At first, it had been her desperate need to find something in her new life that she could call her own, and her objection to the dusty neglect of the castle to which her new husband brought her. Then she had objected to eating food prepared by magic. Then she had learned that she could expect no children, and thrown herself into her chores with a reckless obstinacy. And she had proven... what? What? That she was obstinate? And wanton? And ungrateful to her husband for his care of her?

The wretched thoughts made her cry again, and her anger at the tears only made them worse. Then she was sobbing because the bedsheets were cold when she tried to hide herself away beneath them, and then for no reason at all, except that she couldn't stop.

Her tears had dried, long before Rumpelstiltskin slipped into the darkened room to join her, but Belle was afraid that he would know she had been weeping. The slight headache of earlier was now a pounding behind her eyes, thanks to the crying, and enough to keep her from sleeping. Her husband did not come to her for her misery, though, and she tried to seem welcoming when he eased into bed beside her, whispering that he was sorry he had woken her.

"You didn't," Belle whispered back, then wondered why they were whispering. This was their chamber, their castle. There was no other living soul for miles. She remained where she was, halfway towards the window side of the bed, and let Rumpelstiltskin find her there, bringing his welcome warmth up behind her. Belle bit her lip, as he settled himself, hoping that he wouldn't want her. Tears always made her feel ugly, swollen, but her head hurt too, and she felt that she might sob again for no reason at all. She would hate for him to misunderstand.

Belle had forgotten how well he could see in the dark. After watching her a moment, behind her and leaning on one arm, Rumpelstiltskin laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, where he might have snuck it towards her breast, otherwise.

"Have I kept you waiting too long, treasure?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, trying to hide his uncertainty with a teasing voice.

"No," Belle promised, only to realise that her flat answers would give him no reassurance. "My head aches," she told him, reluctant to admit it, but better that than that she had been sitting in her room, weeping like a child. "I can't sleep." With a wordless sound of concern, Rumpelstiltskin felt her brow. His hand felt burning hot against her skin, and that made her shiver. "It's only a chill," she supposed, already feeling slightly better for having the warmth of his body near.

"Perhaps," he said, cautiously, and felt the tender flesh beneath her jaw, where her tongue was rooted. "You've no fever. Do you have the medicine that your maid gave you? The little pills?"

"I used them as we travelled," Belle sighed. Yes the bark pills were what she needed. They were excellent for headaches, for the little aches that nagged without really mattering. "I should have brought more."

Another wordless sound, this one thoughtful. Then the slight glow of magic, as a bottle appeared in Rumpelstiltskin's open palm. He sat up, coaxing her to do the same, and took the glass stopper from the bottle. Belle's stomach turned at the sharp, alcoholic fumes. She recognised the poppy potion that she had brewed to ease her husband's pain, or something very like it. Sometimes, the clear liquor in Rumpelstiltskin's flask smelled similar.

"This will help," he said, dipping a tiny spoon into the neck of the bottle. Belle could just see the glimmer of firelight on the silver, and on the little puddle of liquid in the bowl of the spoon. As he offered it to her lips, she turned away, sickened by the scent. Just breathing it made the throb inside her skull worsen.

"No. It's only a headache," she repeated, flinching. "That's too strong. Perhaps Wren will have some willow bark."

"As you wish." Plainly unhappy, Rumpelstiltskin stoppered the bottle again. "You were the picture of health, when we wed," he said, fretfully. "How can I care for you better?" He touched his knuckles to her cheek, and his hand was trembling. Belle bit her lip, hard, to keep herself from crying again.

"I'm hardly frail," she said, a feeble laugh behind the words. "I'll be all right, with you to keep me warm at night." Her voice was strained, hoarse, and she very much doubted that Rumpelstiltskin would be reassured by it.

There was another faint glow of magic, bottle and spoon vanishing in his hand. Then he gathered up his pillows and lay beside her, letting her choose how to make herself comfortable. Belle found that she did not particularly wish to be touched, even in comfort, but she did crave the warmth of him, so she settled with her back to him. Rumpelstiltskin reached around her with his arm, and did no more than kiss the back of her head before he lay still. Grateful, and ashamed, Belle took hold of the hand in front of her and played with his fingers a while. The backs of his hands were almost rough, the raised skin there hard and dry. His palms, though, and down between his fingers - that skin was as soft as her own.

She could feel the misery between them. His for her sake, fearing that he had upset her somehow, and hers... she sighed, silently. She wanted to believe that it was her grief for the sons of Odstone, and the journey taking its toll, but it was more than that. She _did_ feel frail, whatever she told her husband. It had begun... when? With her father's betrayal? The clerics' magic dust? The journey? Belle wanted to curl up and hide herself from the world, and that wasn't _her_ at all. And Rumpelstiltskin was right - she was not the woman he'd wed. The _girl_ , the trembling girl who thought that love would feel like pure happiness, and knew nothing of the wicked joys that lay between her legs, waiting for her husband to unlock them. Not all of the changes had been for the better.

Rumpelstiltskin shifted very slightly behind her, tense and trying not to disturb her. Belle squeezed his hand, bringing their joined hands up to tuck them beneath her chin. She was supposed to be her husband's strength, not his weakness, but tonight she had not enough strength for herself alone.

Belle managed to sleep, but had frightening dreams that left her tossing and turning in her own perspiration, jerking awake no less than three times during the night, and breathing hard until she remembered where she was. The first two times, her husband soothed her, stroking her shoulder or her hip. The third, he woke her up himself, shaking her shoulder in the thin, dawn light, and grasping firmly, reassuringly, until Belle subsided into her pillows with a groan.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what's the matter with me." Rumpelstiltskin hushed her, lying back among his pillows and drawing her to him, to rest herself against his chest. He squeezed her, gently.

"It's your time, no?"

"Hmm?"

"Your blood, treasure. It must come soon? You're so out of sorts."

"...Oh." Belle frowned. In truth, she had not been counting the days as she ought to. She had not been thinking of it at all, except for that night at the inn, when her belly had cramped all day long and she'd been afraid for the innkeeper's sheets. She blushed, though not for the same reason that she might have, a month past. She blushed because she ought not need her _husband_ to remind her when it was time, or put a name to the strangeness that had overcome her. All the same, she was glad that he could; glad, yet again, that her husband was no fumbling boy, clumsy and ignorant of a woman's own things. "I suppose you're right." She wondered if he had been counting the days, as she had not, and if he had been dreading the days when she would not permit him to touch her. "I lost track of the days again," she confessed, remembering with a pang how her blood had surprised her the last time, and alarmed him as well, for fear that he'd hurt her. "I'm a hopeless wife."

"You're a perfect wife," Rumpelstiltskin insisted, squeezing her to him. "Perfect and more. I love you very much, little wife. Very much." He tried to bury his face in her hair, but it was still tightly plaited, leaving him to press against her temple instead. He kissed her there.

"I don't feel perfect," Belle confided. "You can't stop it, can you? The blood?" He'd want to, wouldn't he? He wouldn't want another week of keeping apart from her and waiting on her body's whim, would he?

"I advise against it," he answered, uneasily. "It can be done, but..."

"No, of course not," Belle said, quickly. What had she been thinking?! A sore head, a few tears and a sleepless night, and she was ready to trade who knew what for the sake of better comfort? "I'm sorry. I should never have asked such a thing."

"Does it trouble you so?" Drawing one of her braids through his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin peered down at her.

"Not usually," she admitted. "Not so badly as this."

"Wren will help you," he offered, almost apologetic. Apologetic, for being honest with her from the beginning about the cost of easy magic! "Better herbs than magic, I think."

"Yes," Belle said, firmly. "Of course. I'll speak to her." She yawned. "Today," she realised. "Today is market day."

"It is. Time for more sleep, yet."

Belle didn't want to sleep again, only to wake again from nightmares that she could not remember. She planted a kiss on Rumpelstiltskin's chest, instead, and sought the opening of his gown with her fingertips. His breath caught, when he realised that she meant seduction, but he did nothing to prevent her kissing her way slowly towards his bare throat, stretching her body out above him as she went.

"I don't want to sleep," she confided. "I want to kiss you."

She had missed that, last night, as she lay with her head throbbing. She felt no desire, and had felt less last night, but there was comfort in kissing. If her husband minded that she wanted nothing more, she could not tell. Rumpelstiltskin returned her kisses gently, once or twice a little playfully, and did no more than play with her twin braids of hair. He did not try to take the ribbons, though he fingered them once in a while.

It _did_ comfort her, Belle found. Perhaps they could have this, while she bled? It was not so unfair to risk stirring her husband's desires, now that she knew how to give him satisfaction with her hand. He liked to be kissed _there_ , as well; he liked to be nibbled and even licked - she could do that, too. Cruel magic had kept them apart, too recently. Belle thought that she would do _anything_ to keep him near her, even if it drove her mad to be selfless. It would only be for a few days.

There was no blood on her, when she washed and dressed herself. Belle wore a cloth anyway, because the more she thought about it, and thought back over the weeks since her wedding, the more convinced she was that Rumpelstiltskin was right. It _was_ time. The weariness, the irrational upsets, the aches and pains - she had known them all before, if never so badly, nor all at once. Wren could surely help her with this woman's trouble; Belle knew that Lotte and many of the other girls in her father's castle had special herbs, or drank soothing teas to ease their monthly ill humour. Belle had never needed them, other than a cup of chamomile to soothe her nerves, or a few of the bark pills to calm a headache; it did not mean that she would never need them. She had been a maiden, then, and perhaps things changed, after a girl's wedding night?

Belle shyly asked for chamomile tea, when she joined her husband for breakfast in the big hall. She did not want to be weeping all day, not in Odstone, and she still felt brittle inside, and more like the foolish child she had been last evening than the mistress of a great castle. Rumpelstiltskin obliged her with a gallant little half-bow, as he took his own seat. She could see that he was concerned for her, but his concern manifested itself as a watchful silence, and she was grateful not to be fussed over. The chamomile was good, sweetened with a half spoon of honey.

"I'm afraid I'll need some more money for my purse," she confessed, after a few bites of bread. "If I'm to buy ribbons."

"All that you want, my dear." Rumpelstiltskin had a large slice of black pudding on his plate, and half a piece of thickly buttered bread. It was more than he usually wanted, and Belle enjoyed seeing him eat with something approaching willingness, for once. "Gold and silver are nothing to me."

"The traders prefer silver and copper," Belle said, truthfully. "If you buy from them all, they must have more gold than they know what to do with, in Odstone. It's such a small place."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, faintly, and finished chewing a mouthful before he answered her.

"My grandmother used to say that a body can't eat gold. But our traders travel, and the gold is welcome wherever they go. It allows Odstone a comfortable existence." Then he looked down at his plate, scowling. "But gold won't bring back their sons."

They both stared at their plates.

"You're so pale, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin said, after a while. His eyes remained fixed on the remains of his breakfast. "Won't you stay and rest?"

"I'd enjoy some fresh air," Belle told him. She did not look forward to Odstone, to its grief. "And I'd like to see Wren. Could... could we walk into town? I feel as though I've been indoors forever." And no wonder it had left her pale! At home - her father's home - she had been often out of doors, for at least part of each day, and seated near a window the rest of the time, with her sewing and reading, or the household ledgers.

"As you wish. But first, you must be protected." Rumpelstiltskin gave her a bright smile, but it faltered with its own falseness. He drummed the fingers of his right hand upon the table, pursing his lips and frowning as he thought. "Bring down your cloak, when we leave," he said. "Your cloak of wool."

"All right." She was in no mood to press him with questions, particularly if the answers were sure to concern magic. Breakfast had left her with an unsettled stomach, even as the sweet chamomile had calmed her nerves.

Giving him a kiss on the cheek, Belle returned to her room. She felt shaky and light-headed, by the time she reached her landing, and found herself perspiring as she had during the night, trembling with chills. Gulping, afraid that she would lose her breakfast, Belle sat on the edge of her bed with her eyes shut, until the spell passed.

At least she wasn't crying.


	68. Even Magic

When she felt better, Belle pulled on her warm boots and emptied a basket to take with her. Her cloak over her arm, she went back downstairs, and found Rumpelstiltskin waiting for her in the marble hall. He, too, wore his travel cloak over shirt and waistcoat, the fur collar fastened tight beneath his chin.

Pausing on the steps, Belle remembered how he had worn the cloak the very first time they travelled together, when he took her to the inn, and to the consummation of their marriage. Then, it had only made him seem more forbidding - bigger, taller - and the dark fur had not flattered his complexion. It still did not, but now she saw only her husband, bundled up in a cloak that, while richly made of rare cloth and fur, did not suit him at all. She smiled, loving him.

"What?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, all but shrinking back as she smiled down at him. He took a step or two closer to the marble stairs, but stopped, looking sheepish. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Belle promised. "I just like to look at you."

Rumpelstiltskin moved a little closer, and when Belle was on the third stair, he reached up and lifted her down, slowly, as easily as if she were made of feathers. He lowered her just as slowly, so that she barely felt it when her feet met the marble, and kept his hands at her waist, watching her. His expression was almost grave, as he tried to puzzle her out - to see through her claims, looking for a truth that wasn't there. She did like to look at him. His appearance no longer struck her as strange, and had never been unwelcome. Not even that first day, when he drew her up to stand beside him on the town wall, and she'd discovered that his skin was warm, like hers.

"I love you, Rumpelstiltskin," she said, swaying coyly in the circle of his arms. If she reminded him often, perhaps he would begin to believe it. Truly believe it.

He touched his tongue to his lips, nervous and breathless, and closed his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her. It was a shallow kiss, simple and undemanding. It reminded her of last night, and of her wedding night - of all the times he had been gentle with her, patient with her, and gazed at her with wonder in his eyes when his touch brought her joy.

When she slipped free of his arms, Belle caught a glimpse, a _moment_ , of what must surely be happiness, in her husband's expression. It changed him utterly, almost more than the curse that sapped him of his magic had changed him; it lifted the hollows from his cheeks, the shadows from his eyes, the sour line from his lips. It made him look a boy, almost, until he caught himself, and the smile became something calculated, instead. Rumpelstiltskin blinked, and reached out to take the cloak from her arm.

"What do you want with this?" Belle asked, as he took it. "The one you made for me is much warmer." Not that she wanted to parade her finery in Odstone today, but it would be cold outside, and she did not want to catch a chill on top of everything else.

"A little enchantment," her husband answered, turning away slightly, and shaking out the folds of her cloak as he held it by the hood. "To keep you safe." He gave it another shake, and Belle watched a wave of magic ripple down the fabric, from Rumpelstiltskin's fingers to the cloak's fraying hem. Then there was nothing to see but her cloak, as plain and snug as it had always been. She smiled in faint bemusement, as he draped it about her shoulders and fastened the simple pin. "There," Rumpelstiltskin said, with evident satisfaction. "I'll have no more unwelcome surprises from our foe."

 _Our foe._ The thought of it made Belle's skin crawl, and she nodded, gratefully. It had taken but the blink of an eye, for the cleric to throw that handful of dust and magic in her face. It had taken only Gaston and his deliberate insult to distract Rumpelstiltskin for just long enough. If magic in her cloak could offer her some protection from a similar assault, then she would accept it, gladly.

"Am I being selfish?" she asked, wretchedly, looking down into her empty basket to avoid his gaze. "Going to to town when I know there's danger?" As miserable as the thought made her, she had to ask. Rumpelstiltskin had not commanded her to stay, as he had once before - only to wear this cloak, and his protection.

"You're safe beside me," he promised, taking her left hand in his right. "I can whisk you away from danger in a heartbeat."

"But you'll be watching over me, when you could be looking for those responsible."

"Oh, I'll be doing that too," Rumpelstiltskin said, pressing her hand uncomfortably hard. "I'd never suggest using you as bait, my treasure, but since it was your idea to visit the market..."

Belle swallowed, her stomach turning queasy again. But Rumpelstiltskin was right. If someone wanted to attack him - a stranger, or one of their own - then she presented an obvious target. It might draw them out, make them overeager. Force an error of judgement that would reveal more than they knew.

"I'll be your bait," she said, determined to sound brave, even if she was alarmed by the notion. "Gladly. You'll keep me safe," she added, confident of that much, and adding a brave smile as though to prove it.

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin reached across to place a large bottle of Wren's medicine into the basket. It was bigger than the one before, which in turn had been bigger than the first. The next time, it would be too much for anyone to down in one, let alone a frail old woman with a bad chest, struggling for breath. Belle suddenly understood Rumpelstiltskin's warning. He could buy Wren only a little time, and then she would be beyond his help. Just as the children had been.

Tears stung her eyes, yet again, but as they walked towards the gates, Rumpelstiltskin slipped his arm across her back, protective and fond, and Belle was comforted.

"It's a long and muddy walk," he said, hopeful of persuading her to avoid it. "The carriage is warm and dry."

"I like to walk," she laughed. "Since I married you, I feel as though my legs have forgotten what they're for."

That wasn't true, not when moving from room to room in the castle took her up and down those endless flights of stairs, but she wanted to speak lightly, and to laugh with him. It was the sunlight that she missed - the fresh air, and the sea breezes that she'd left far behind. They were far from the sea, here, but the mountains had their own freshness and their own scent. She thought that she could grow to love it, in time. For now, it still smelled of faraway places, and adventure.

Besides, walking briskly often eased the pains that accompanied her bleeding. Her governess and some of the maids had always fussed at her, saying that a gentlewoman should rest while it was upon her, but Belle noted that _they_ did not rest, and saw no reason why a gentlewoman was any different from a scullery girl or a farmer's wife, when it came to the trials of being a woman.

She was more grateful than she could say, that her husband seemed to know of those trials without being told. Of course he did. She was not his first wife, and he was a learned man, besides. An old man. It was so strange to think of him as such.

"Wren," Rumpelstiltskin said, when they had walked a way in silence. Belle's arm was through his, she was snug in her cloak and hood, and his voice startled her from a pleasant lack of thought. "She fails fast."

"You'll miss her," Belle said. If she made it into a question, he would deny it - scoff or change the subject. But it was so, and she told him. "I will, and I've only known her for a little while." When he only grunted in answer, Belle shook her head, mildly exasperated. "I think you need someone to not be afraid of you, and to tell you so."

Rumpelstiltskin's only answer was another grunt.

The walk to Odstone was muddy and cold, but Belle enjoyed every moment of it. The sky was clear, the day bright and fresh, and she could feel the chill making her cheeks and nose redden as they went. Rumpelstiltskin held her arm, and matched his pace to hers, but he seemed lost in thought. If he noticed the pleasant day, he gave no sign.

"We've never walked together, before," Belle said, leaning in as she spoke. "Are we courting again, do you think?"

"Courting?" For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin looked as though she had spoken to him in a language that he did not know. Then he blinked and found a smile for her, but it was small, strained, and he looked uncomfortable. "If you like."

Belle shook her head, smiling, and let him walk the rest of the way in peace.

Odstone was busier than she had expected. The market straggled along two streets and around the crossroads, and the town hall was hectic with comings and goings, as Belle and her husband passed by. She held tightly to Rumpelstiltskin's arm, nervous of their reception. Did people turn away more readily than they had before? Belle found her heart fluttering with anxiety, and took care to keep her expression free of it.

Rumpelstiltskin noticed her discomfort, even so. When her hand tightened on his arm, he glanced at her and offered a tiny smile.

"You're quite safe," he promised, misunderstanding.

Belle forced herself to smile in return.

"I know. And I know they'll never love me while they fear you," she added, doing her best to sound pragmatic about it. In truth, it saddened her so deeply that she could hardly bear it. "I am only their master's wife."

"Shall I leave Odstone to you, my treasure?" Watchful of everyone and everything, as they made their way up the cobbled street to the crossroads, Rumpelstiltskin spoke for her ears alone. A bedroom voice, she thought, and her heart fluttered in a different way. "I confess, I've little interest in playing the lord, here. Shall I give them a lady to rule over them, instead?"

She almost scolded him for teasing her, only to realise that he was perfectly sincere.

"I'm not really _equipped_ to play the lord," Belle pointed out, with a furtive gesture to her privates. "That shouldn't matter, but it always does." Making a face, Belle squeezed his arm. "That's why my poor father is looking for a wife. He needs a son, to rule his lands after him."

"So it seems." Rumpelstiltskin guided her around a puddle where the cobbles dipped. "A shame to confuse a cock with capability, it seems to me." He gave her one of his dark, toothy smiles, and Belle almost laughed. She dared not, with Odstone full of grief, but his irreverence lifted her spirits, just when they had been flagging. "If you want their love, you must find ways to serve them."

"I know." Belle squeezed his arm, as they reached the crossroads. "Perhaps I can persuade them to love you, too?"

"Now, that _would_ be sorcery, my sweet," he grinned. Belle thought that he meant to kiss her, right there in the street, but when he leaned towards her, it was only to tuck a coin purse into the pocket in the lining of her cloak. A tender gesture, all the same, when he rearranged her cloak afterwards, and it warmed her that he had allowed it to be witnessed. Perhaps it would show the fearful men and women of Odstone that their lord had a heart, and a face other than the one they had grown accustomed to. "Fill your basket with all that your heart desires."

Belle half expected the playful pat on the rump with which he had propelled her into the market before now. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin waited for her to choose a direction, then followed her, close behind. _My protector_ , Belle thought, and experienced yet another sort of flutter beneath her ribs.

To her surprise, her welcome at the carts and stalls was less hesitant, with her husband close at her heels, than it had been while she browsed alone. Perhaps it was their relative familiarity with Rumpelstiltskin, or perhaps the men and women opted for nervous good cheer rather than be seen to shun Rumpelstiltskin's wife, but Belle received smiles, shy displays of leather goods, and five little pastries from Hadley where she had paid for only four. She had not known what to expect - women wailing in the street, men up in arms at the town hall, accusing stares - but there was only Odstone and its market, subdued. Those who survived their sons still had to eat, and feed their daughters, she thought, and felt helpless.

There was a young, plump girl at the stall of threads and ribbons, in place of the older woman who had tended it the last time. The girl looked as though she had slept as poorly as Belle, and her dark blonde hair was lank and greasy beneath a simple woollen cap.

"My lady," she said, curtseying nervously, and glancing at Rumpelstiltskin to see that her deference met with his approval. "Mama said you might favour us with your custom." The words were awkward, rehearsed, but Belle pretended not to notice that as she browsed the lengths of ribbon, coiled in boxes and baskets.

"What's your name?" Belle asked, feeling both the girl and her husband watching her while she studied the array of colours and patterns.

"Elsa Fitchet," came the answer, fast and frightened. Belle glanced over her shoulder, and saw Rumpelstiltskin standing with his hands folded behind his back, one foot before the other, striking an elegant pose that was all but lost beneath his heavy cloak.

"Turn away while I choose my ribbons, husband," Belle said, catching his eye as she commanded him. "Unless you'd like to choose for me?"

Startled, but not displeased, Rumpelstiltskin gave a slight bow and went a few paces from the stall, turning his back.

 _There,_ thought Belle. _She has seen me command him, and that he could barely hide his smile when I did._ How alarmed could Elsa be, having witnessed such a thing?

"Which of these suit my hair, Elsa?" Belle asked, lightly touching the coils of ribbon in one basket. All were different, and she thought that someone must have travelled very far, or to very many other markets, to gather so much colour in one place. "Would you be kind, and help me to choose?"

Belle had silver and gold enough to buy them all, she knew, but she enjoyed the little task of buying and hoarding them, knowing that Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed the game so.

A quiet shrewdness took the place of Elsa's nerves, now that the pleasantries that had been drilled into her were out of the way. She studied Belle's hair for a moment, loose about her shoulders today except where the orange ribbon bound two thin braids at the back, restraining the rest of her hair. It was wavy from being braided while wet, and glossy from Lotte's lotion.

"The orange suits you ill, my Lady," Elsa offered, confidently enough. She might not be comfortable with lords, ladies and sorcerers, but she knew about ribbon. "There's this green." Two small rolls of ribbon were plucked from two different baskets and shaken out to hang across Elsa's pale hand. "Dark like the pine forests, and very soft. And this one like the moss on a stone." Smiling, Belle accepted both.

"And something a bit brighter?" Again, she watched the girl stare at her hair, and then at the baskets. This time, she brought out a wide, long silk ribbon of deep sky blue, the shade not unlike the ribbon that belonged to her blue nightgown. It was a finer ribbon and would be more costly, so Elsa offered this one with less confidence. Belle took it, pulling it through her fingers to feel the softness of the silk. Rumpelstiltskin would enjoy it, she knew - the softness and the colour. Belle tried not to think on that, knowing that she might blush or even begin to ache for him, if she did so. "Thank you," she said, giving Elsa another warm smile of thanks. "And another six, in matched pairs if you will." She enjoyed the widening of the girl's eyes. Belle would leave here today with the reputation for being an excellent customer. And, she hoped, a gentle one.

Elsa chose the three pairs of ribbons, as she had asked. There was slim velvet, the colour of dark red wine, then a pair of wide silken ones the colour of fresh cream, and lastly a pair with a woven pattern of blocky flowers, blue and yellow on white with a blue border.

Flushed with her success, the girl pocketed the two large silver coins that she named as her price. Belle thought it a fair price, perhaps even too much in her favour, but she would return often for more ribbons, and likely keep the family in bread week by week, should Rumpelstiltskin's appetite for the little trophies not wane. Belle didn't think it would, but she could not quite imagine what he would do when he had twenty ribbons, or fifty, or three hundred.

"My regards to your mother, Elsa," Belle said, putting her ribbons into a stiff leather purse that she had bought earlier, and pushing that deep into her basket.

"She was with child, my Lady," Elsa blurted, as Belle made to turn away. "She lost him to the Rot." Her round face crumpled with misery. Belle stepped nearer to the stall.

"Is your mother healing?" she asked, trying not to think of her own mother's last struggles. "Those who lost their sons may ask anything that is needed," she said, touching Elsa's arm, gently. "Does your family need anything of me?"

"No," Elsa whispered, afraid again. "I shouldn't have..."

"Yes," Belle said, firmly. "You should. Odstone is my home, now. Tell your mother, tell everyone. Please." She gave Elsa's arm a squeeze before releasing her. "I want my people to be happy and well."

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin touched her shoulder. "Come."

He was right. Belle could see that her words were only upsetting Elsa more. However sincere her concern, she could offer nothing that would ease the grief. Her promises were empty.

"Are the healers and midwives good ones?" Belle asked him, as they crossed towards the well, his arm about her shoulders. "Wren knows her herbs, and seems wise, but... I would have the mothers be safe, and well tended. The injured cared for, not harmed with superstition."

"They're a long-lived people," Rumpelstiltskin answered, frowning thoughtfully. Belle could tell that he had never given a moment's thought to the midwives and healers, and sighed, disappointed. "Wren understands the properties of her herbs, and has little time for superstition. I know that she has taught others. Ask her your question, little wife."

Belle nodded. He was right about that, as well, and he did not try to deter her from helping her new people as best she may. When she stole an uncertain glance at his face, Rumpelstiltskin's head was bowed to hide his expression, but he knew that she was looking at him.

"What else will you buy, treasure?"

"Some cheese." Belle looked around for Lulie and her little wooden table, which was always piled high with cheeses large and small, whole and cut. "And then I must see Wren."

Rumpelstiltskin had relaxed, during their slow tour of the marketplace. He remained watchful, but no longer prowled behind her as though he meant to pounce on anyone who looked at her the wrong way. He actually caught her by the hand, as they crossed the square again to the corner where Lulie had her wares, although less to show his affection than to gain her full attention.

"You'll speak to Wren?" he asked, his voice strained. Whether it was with uncertainty or embarrassment, Belle could not tell. "About your discomfort?"

"Yes," Belle said. "If she's well." She could not help thinking of Wren as she tried and failed to save the sick, to help safely birth the lost babes. It was no wonder that she was not at the market today, selling her bunches of dried herbs. Her grief must be so much worse than Belle's own. "I feel much better after the walk, anyway."

"Of course," Rumpelstiltskin said, freeing her hand. He did not want to press her on these matters, she realised, but nor did he want her to return home without seeking the older woman's advice and potions. She had worried him with her pallor and her moods.

It would be nice, Belle supposed. A tonic, or a tea - something to calm her in the days before she bled, and perhaps to ease the pains too. She did not want to be the weak and weepy creature that she had become, yesterday; she did not want to lie beside her husband, passionless and wretched, when it might be their last opportunity to love before her blood came. She did not want Rumpelstiltskin to worry about her, when he had such dark magic to confront.

"Lulie always looks half starved," Belle said, quietly, while they were still out of the girl's hearing. "She seems more servant than daughter. I thought of asking her to be my maid."

"If it pleases you," Rumpelstiltskin said, gazing at the girl, who was huddled in a rough grey shawl of old and fraying wool. Lulie was such a small thing, and covered with pimples. She was not unwashed, but looked it in her threadbare clothing, and looked poor for one who did such a good trade in well-made dairy goods. All Belle had been able to draw from Lulie was that she was the eldest daughter among nine children, and made the gorgeous, creamy butter herself. "Her parents won't like it."

No, Belle thought. No parent would like their daughter going to Rumpelstiltskin's castle. She thought of Sir Maurice with a sinking heart. At Lulie's stall she looked over the cheeses, her mouth watering, although it was barely two hours since she had eaten a good breakfast.

"Good morning, Lulie," she said, warmly. The girl had been crying, or had a head cold - Belle could see that her eyes were bloodshot, her nose and cheeks puffy and mottled red. "Are you well?"

"Yes, my Lady," Lulie replied, dutifully. She seemed not to notice Rumpelstiltskin, waiting nearby. Her eyes remained downcast over her wares.

"Some butter, please. A hard cheese and a blue one, you choose for me." Belle tried another, encouraging smile. Seeing Lulie's sniffing, she was already reconsidering about offering her the opportunity to be a maid. Rumpelstiltskin would not tolerate a tearful servant, and what Belle herself could forgive in Lotte, having known her since girlhood, she might not wish to see everyday in a stranger. A frightened stranger. She wanted a companion far more than she needed a servant.

Lulie chose two small cheeses and wrapped them in waxed paper, working with slow care. Her fingers looked cold and red. Sore. While the girl wrapped a pat of butter, Belle considered her, quietly. "I may need a maid at the castle, Lulie," she began, lightly. "I wondered if you might want the position."

Wide eyed, Lulie froze in the act of offering the packages across the table to Belle. She took them, with gentle hands, and slipped them into her basket on top of the other things. "Don't be afraid to tell me if you don't want to," Belle said, when it became plain that Lulie was going to continue to stare like a startled rabbit. "But if you'd like to come, you would be well paid. Or there could be goods for your family, if you prefer," she added, remembering the eight brothers and sisters. "Anything you like, and a room to yourself, of course, and new clothes." Belle knew that this, most of all, might tempt a girl from a large, poor family. Lulie likely shared a bed with several others, in a room housing several beds. "Would you like that?"

The girl's silence was making Belle babble. She caught herself and stopped speaking, giving the poor girl a chance to think of an answer. While she waited, she took coins from her purse and placed them on the table. Lulie glanced at them, blankly, and reached into the pouch at her belt to bring out several small silver coins, and many copper. She counted them with slow care, and offered them to Belle, still silent. After a moment more, Lulie turned and looked at Rumpelstiltskin, who was a dozen paces away, feigning strong interest in some weeds that had withstood the snow to flourish at the corner of the crossroads.

"Anything I like, my Lady?" Lulie asked, slowly, just when Belle was ready to give up on her for the moment.

"Yes. Any fair reward for your service. It will be generous. I know that the girl who comes to be my maid will need great courage." She looked at her husband's back, trying not to let wry words become a wry smile.

Hesitant, Lulie came around the table and stood facing her, wringing her reddened hands in front of her rough apron.

"Even magic?" There was something eager in the girl's expression, all of a sudden - an urgency in her posture.

"Magic?" Belle echoed, weakly. She looked again for Rumpelstiltskin and saw that he had turned to watch them, frowning. Of course he had heard every word. He could see in near darkness, and his hearing was equally keen. "Why would you want that?" she asked Lulie, gently, only to realise the answer before the words were fully out. Her insides knotted, her throat tightening.

"M-my brothers, mistress," Lulie almost whispered, in the strain of her fearful eagerness. "They died of the Rot, Jules is eldest, he was the first, days before the master came back. And I thought... you said anything, and... the master..." Tears welled in her eyes, then, and she looked at the ground, ashamed. "Mam never stops crying and Da's just angry at everything, and if... if we had Jules back..." She gulped her way to silence, breathing hard.

Belle had to blink away tears of her own, and this time they were nothing to do with her womanly woes. She took Lulie by the shoulders, looking helplessly to her husband, who looked away quickly, scowling.

"It can't be done," he said, snapping the words, with a trace of his mocking sneer. "Dead is dead."

"If Rumpelstiltskin could have saved them with magic, he would have," Belle promised the girl, hoarsely, desperate to soften the blow of her husband's words. "Jules and all of them." She knew that it was true. If not for the children, for the mothers and fathers, then for the satisfaction of avoiding defeat in his own territory; Rumpelstiltskin would have used any magic he had to mend this. "I'm sorry for your grief, Lulie. All of you. I'm so very sorry."

Then, somehow, the girl was weeping in her arms, bitter sobs of agony that must have been held back for too long, and all Belle could do was hug her and soothe, whispering useless things while she fought back her own tears. They had attracted a loose circle of watchers, she noted, but she didn't care. Nobody had comforted Lulie, who'd lost a brother, so Belle would. She would. The girl felt slight, even to Belle, who was a slip of a thing herself. She could feel Lulie's bones even through her layers of winter clothing.

Rumpelstiltskin had not moved, but had frozen where he was, fists clenched at his sides. He ought to speak to them, Belle thought, distantly. Their master should speak and tell them... what? Anything, she decided. Showing his concern would be enough, if he could not show them the grief and bitter rage that Belle had seen, in private. Seeing him there, desperate to be anywhere else as the crowd gathered and the market fell silent, she understood why they did not love him. Rumpelstiltskin gave Odstone a comfortable existence, but it was in return for his distance. His disinterest. He had told her the truth of it, the very first time they rode to market.

An older woman approached and tried to draw Lulie away from Belle, mumbling some sort of apology, but Belle waved her away. Lulie's tears were quieting, as she became aware of the watchers, and she let go of Belle with a moan of fear.

"I'm s-sorry, my Lady," she spluttered, through snot and tears. Belle fished under her cloak for her handkerchief, grateful that it was clean, and that it was one of her own cotton and lace ones, not one of Rumpelstiltskin's silk gifts. She had another handkerchief, in the pocket that housed her purse, but that was the embroidered one that she had brought as a gift for Wren.

"Here," she said, pressing the plain one into Lulie's shaking hand. "It's quite all right." She turned to look at the gathered faces, each one of them wary or frightened. "Lulie is right to tell me what troubles her," she called to them. "To ask that I might help her. No-one should be afraid to speak to me, or to ask help when it's needed." She had startled them all, Belle could see, but a few of the surprised faces were exchanging glances, and little nods. "None of you know me," Belle went on, her voice clear and carrying across the rough square of the crossroads. "But know that I care for each of you, and understand my duty to you." Glancing at Lulie, to see that she had mopped her face and stopped crying, Belle released her. "I grieve with you all," Belle told the people, more quietly, because it made her throat painful to speak of it.

Belle felt Rumpelstiltskin come to stand beside her. She was trembling, already afraid that she had been too bold in addressing the crowd. Lulie shrank away from them, but only a little way. She clutched the little handkerchief to her bosom as though Belle had given her the crown jewels.

A woman standing behind Hadley looked as though she wanted to speak. Belle gave her a nod, trying to encourage her without seeming desperate for someone else to speak. The woman shuffled forward, all heavy boots and layers of skirts. She was older, greying, and although Belle had first thought her large, she could see now that it was merely layer upon layer of clothing that made her appear so. It looked as if she wore everything that she owned.

"We thought the master was punishing us," she said, with a boldness that Belle realised was born of grief, just as Lulie's had been. "It was young Lulie's brother who fell first, big Jules," she explained, alternating between a stubbornly determined gaze at Belle, and frightened half-glances to Rumpelstiltskin beside her. "And he was one of the ones who took the iron stove up to the castle," she explained. "We thought... for setting foot inside the Dark Castle, we thought..."

Belle's expression silenced her. Belle knew that her horror was written all across her features, her self control fled in the face of such a suggestion. They feared that _he_ had done this to them?

"You were mistaken," Rumpelstiltskin said, his words clipped and his voice carrying easily. "Those who obey my laws and my wishes are safe from me. It has always been so, has it not?" He gestured to the crowd, challenging them to deny it. None did. "When I find who took your sons, I will destroy them," he said, through half-clenched teeth. His words, his tone, made the skin crawl between Belle's shoulders.

She would have said more to the crowd, for their expressions were mingling fear and resentment in equal measures once Rumpelstiltskin finished speaking. It was not vengeance that they wanted. Perhaps later, when a culprit was found, but for now, like poor Lulie, they wondered why their lord's great magic could not give them back their sons. All Belle had done, in inviting them to share their cares, was to open a wound.

"We've business with Wren," Rumpelstiltskin said, his tone still cool and dangerous. He took hold of Belle's upper arm, making it clear that he meant to lead her away in the direction of Wren's cottage. "Come."

Lulie held out the damp handkerchief, but Belle waved it away, flustered. "It's yours," she said, her arm still in her husband's iron grip. He was not hurting her, but nor would he release her unless she protested or struggled. She chose to go with him, half grateful to be rescued from her own folly, but half furious with him for not letting her try to ease the minds of their people.

A path opened up for them in the loose gathering. As they walked away, across the corner of the crossroads and past an unattended vegetable stall, Belle heard cautious conversation begin, behind them.

Belle expected that Rumpelstiltskin would challenge her, once they were out of earshot, but that moment did not come. The street that led to Wren's home housed the tavern, and was therefore busy with comings and goings. All in all, perhaps twenty people had heard what Belle had to say to them, but she knew that word would spread. It would spread as far as the outlying farms, and quickly. Her face grew hot and she stared at the cobbles in front of her feet, trying to be calm. Was he angry with her, or at being suspected of cursing his own people?

Reluctantly, she held her tongue rather than ask him. She could not, where they might be overheard, and besides, she wanted to clear her own head before she spoke of what had happened. She had not meant to draw a crowd, nor to address them, but... but it had been the right thing to do. There had been suspicions that Rumpelstiltskin had brought this curse upon them! Belle knew that he had struggled to save the few who still lived when he returned, and struggled since with the failure. If he would only let them know that... but how could he? He commanded the sort of respect born of fear, and did not wish it otherwise.

Wren's cottage sat where the cobbles petered out towards the dirt road. Rumpelstiltskin stopped some dozen paces away, and plainly meant to go no further. His expression was sour.

"You will be safe inside," he said, gruffly. "I will leave you to your business."

"Rumpelstiltskin," Belle began, but he looked away, and avoided her attempt to touch his arm. That hurt her, and yesterday would likely have left her in floods of useless tears and a heap of self-pity. Today, it only added a dull ache to the sharp grief for Lulie and the rest.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Belle went to Wren's door and knocked. After a moment, remembering that the old woman might be upstairs and not wanting her to struggle all the way down just to greet a visitor, Belle pushed open the door and called out.

"Hello! Mistress Wren?"

"Up here, flower," came the croaking voice. It was followed by a fit of coughing that frightened Belle enough to take the uneven stairs two at a time, rounding the turn in reckless haste. "Stars, girl, don't break your neck," Wren wheezed, trying to laugh. That only intensified the coughing fit, drowning her words in the struggle for air.

As she entered the upper room, Belle blinked in the gloom. Wren had a narrow cot before the fire, where her work table had been. The table itself was pushed back against the bannister rail, tidy and looking disused.

"Oh, Wren," she moaned, seeing her struggling to sit up. "No, don't get up," she begged, and dropped to her knees beside the cot. She felt a straw mattress crunch beneath her hands as she steadied herself, dizzy for a moment. "You didn't take the potion."

"I did not," Wren agreed, amiably. Her voice was a croak from a throat raw with coughing. "Commanded me, he did!" She stabbed a gnarled finger towards the mantelpiece, where Belle saw the green bottle that she had brought weeks ago. It was half the size of the fresh one in her basket. She felt a stab of fear, realising again that there would be no fourth bottle. It would be too big, too much to take all at once, especially for a frail old woman with a hacking cough.

"Please," Belle whispered, where she meant to speak gently. "I ask you to take it, to stay with us a while yet. Please." She swallowed again, but this time the lump in her throat would not budge. "Please, Wren. We need you, now more than ever."

Beneath her pile of blankets, Wren sighed. She sounded tired, but resigned.

"Bring it here, then."

Belle helped Wren to sit up, and then to steady the bottle against her lips while she drank the potion down. It was a struggle for her to swallow even that much, Belle could see. She tried not to think about the larger bottle in her basket, knowing that she would need to see that Wren drank it while her chest was clear, or she would not be able to manage it at all.

Just as before, the potion worked quickly. Wren smiled at her, the stuff greasy on her lips and staining her teeth. Although it eased her breathing almost at once, Belle could see how weak the old woman had become, and the magic did nothing to cure that. Her cheekbones jutted above sunken cheeks, and she looked so tired. So old.

Wordlessly, Belle made up the fire with as much wood as she thought safe. She gave no thought to the near-empty log basket. If Wren was in want of wood for her fires then Belle would see that she had it.

Food, too, was in short supply. Wren was not too poor to buy bread, Belle thought, but had been too ill to go and do so. There was a dried up crust and a jug of overripe milk. Belle made them a pot of mint tea, downstairs at Wren's little stove, and carried up two cups. She wanted to ask when the woman had last eaten, but stopped herself. What mattered was that she ate something now, and that she had enough food tomorrow and every day. Belle could see to that.

Wren was already seated in her fireside chair, cramped beside the foot of her cot. Her feet were bare, and Belle saw that her toes were as swollen and twisted as her hands. She gave Belle a faint smile, when she took her tea.

"He's prowling outside my cottage," she declared.

"Yes," Belle said, not asking how Wren knew that. "He won't come in. Is he afraid of you?" It seemed absurd, but she had seen nothing else cow her husband as mention of this woman did. She put one of her fresh pastries on Wren's lap while she awaited a reply.

"I never know if he's afraid of nothing, or everything," Wren said, finally. "You're kind, duckling," she added, giving Belle back the cup with a trembling hand, then lifting the flaky little pastry to take a bite

"I thought you had many children," Belle said, seating herself at the foot of the hard cot, holding both their cups while Wren nibbled at the food. "Don't they see to you?"

"Outlived all but two, and they're far away," Wren said, shortly. "I'm old, chick. Old and ready for my grave. Older now." For a moment, a terrible moment, Belle thought that Wren might cry. There was that telltale tremor in her voice. "He sent you away, when the boys were ailing, didn't he?" She was almost pleading - begging for Belle not to have been there, not to have seen.

"Yes," she said, bowing her head. "It must have been unbearable." More than outliving your own children? Belle could not even imagine that.

"Anything can be borne," Wren told her, with a sharpness that Belle could see she was sorry for at once. "It's no use saying it shouldn't have to be," she finished, much more quietly. "But I did, nursing them boys. I did. I said it, and knew I'd lived too long."

When she finished the pastry, Belle passed her back the heavy clay cup of mint tea. Wren cupped it in twisted hands, watching the reflections of candles and firelight.

"I'll fetch what you need from the market," she said, after a long silence. "Your larder is empty. You've no wood left. I'll see to it."

"It's not for you to serve me," Wren reminded her, kindly. "You're mistress here."

"That's why I must," Belle said, stubbornly. "If no-one else sees that you're warm and well, then I shall. My husband makes gold for an idle pastime. There's no reason for any of his people to go without food or firewood."

"None do, duckling," Wren assured her. "Only those too stubborn to beg another to fetch for them." Her sheepish smile made her look, for a moment, fifty years and more younger. Belle could imagine her as a young woman, as a girl, her life stretching ahead of her, and that knowing sparkle always in her eye. "I've only to ask, but I don't. Wren's a fool that way."

Belle nodded, and found a smile for Wren. She did not even mind being called a duckling, so great was her relief that Wren had taken the potion. With her breath coming freely, she already looked a better colour, although it was hard to tell for certain by the light of one, cheap candle.

"I brought you a present," she said, finding it inside her cloak with her free hand, and bringing out the carefully folded square of cloth. "I thought of you, while I visited my father."

She did not know how well Wren could see the beautifully detailed handkerchief that Belle placed upon her knee, but she seemed to appreciate the gift, regardless.

"Odstone missed you, child," she said. "And him too, this time. Seems we might've done with a bit of magic."

"Yes." Belle couldn't look at her. "That was my fault." She remembered the inns, the carriage, the loving and the sweet words. "I distract him."

"You've brought a change in the air," Wren told her. "A lightness, since he wed you. That serves us all."

"I..." But Belle had no idea what to say to that. Not even Rumpelstiltskin seemed to understand what it was that the old woman could sense of him. Belle remembered her sense of Queen Regina's magic, when the witch embraced her. Did Wren have the same sense of Rumpelstiltskin, but from a greater distance? Or was it that Odstone itself truly changed, when its lord was present? A change in the air? "I've not brought him much lightness, these past days," she said, meekly. "He says I should ask you for herbs. To soothe my monthly visit." Belatedly, she realised how dreadful that sounded, and looked up at Wren, anxiously. "He's concerned for me," she explained, quickly. "For my headaches, and I'm sure he knows that I've been crying for no reason."

"Herbs can soothe," Wren nodded, blinking as if to clear her filmy old eyes. "A babe at the breast is best for what ails you."

Belle put a hand to her chest without thinking, and lowered her gaze once more.

"Herbs must do." She sighed. "I can't go on feeling so strange. I couldn't stop weeping, yesterday! What good will my tears do, for the mothers who lost their sons here?" Before she knew it, Belle was on her feet, pacing restlessly in the cramped space. "Is it different, for a wife?" she asked, her frustration colouring her tone. "I never had such foolish troubles when I was a maiden."

"Different for a woman than a girl, can be," Wren mused, nodding thoughtfully. "But not for a wife than a maiden. More likely you're with child now, ain't it?" She sounded perfectly matter-of-fact about it. Belle blanched, turning and staring at her from beside the tiny shuttered window. At Belle's mute headshake, Wren cackled. "You lie with him, don't you?" she challenged, bluntly. Belle gave a weak nod. "You count your days closely, my Lady," Wren nodded, at her confirmation. "Are you queasy in your belly?" Belle nodded again, swallowing hard.

"But... the journey," she explained, feeling feeble. "The road made me ill. The carriage. I can't... Wren, it can't be," she said, with more assurance, smiling a little. "He wants no children from me. He said so."

Wren laughed, not her wheezing cackle but a true laugh, and Belle felt mocked, until she saw Wren patting her knee to encourage Belle back to her side. Belle went, her steps reluctant.

"What a man wants or says never stopped his seed from taking," Wren told her, still laughing, but more gently. A chuckle now, and creeping back towards the familiar, wicked cackle. "Does he give you anything to stop it? Herbs, or magic?"

"No," Belle said, sinking back down at the end of Wren's bed, beside the old woman's knees.

"Does he leave his seed inside you?"

"Yes," she said, too numbed by Wren's suggestion to be embarrassed by her bluntness.

"Then count your days, duckling," Wren said again, touching her cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin there was papery, soft, and felt chilled. "You look to the signs, and you come and tell Wren. Could be our duckling's to be a mother duck, eh?"

All Belle could do was nod, and swallow, and leave Wren with two more of the pastries to tide her over. She had meant to return to the market, to buy bread, cheese and milk for Wren's empty larder, then to make arrangements at the tavern for someone to look in on the old woman, but her heart almost stopped beating at the sight of Rumpelstiltskin waiting for her outside. She could not tell him... face him...

She could barely think.

"I... I must speak with the tavern keeper," she said, before Rumpelstiltskin could speak to her. "Wren has nothing in the house and she's too weak to go to the market. I'll ask them to look in on her, and see that she has wood and enough to eat."

Already sombre, Rumpelstiltskin's expression became a dark scowl. He nodded, cast a resentful half-glance towards Wren's cottage, and followed after her to the tavern.

Belle hardly noticed the walk back to the Dark Castle.

At her side, Rumpelstiltskin was grave and silent, making no effort to touch her or to speak to her. She knew that he was angry, that she should speak of it, but her thoughts were reeling from Wren's words. It was all that Belle could do not to weep, and her speech in the marketplace seemed long ago - a dream.

Her mind went again and again to counting, to what Mistress Elena had told her about signs to look for, to the weeks since she bled last, and to the terrible night when Rumpelstiltskin had told her that there would be no children. Never any children. But what if he was wrong?


	69. Counting The Days

Belle would gladly have run up to her room, locked the door and buried herself beneath the bedclothes. Instead, she lingered in the hall, her basket upon the table, while Rumpelstiltskin removed his cloak. His every movement was stiff with rage, and Belle might have been frightened, had she been able to feel anything at all. Watching him, she only felt tired - too weary even to resent his mood.

"I've angered you," she said, leaving her own cloak beside the basket. "I'm sorry. I only wanted to help."

"And did you?" Rumpelstiltskin snapped the words, but his anger was contained. It was unlike the deadly fury that caused his magic to dance all about him, excited by his mood. "They'd ask me to raise the dead!"

"That was my fault," Belle began, determined to defend Lulie, only to startle into silence when Rumpelstiltskin jabbed a finger towards her.

"Yes! It was. Don't think that it would earn me their love. I don't _want_ their love." Belle listened, knowing that she ought to feel stung by his harshness, or indignant. She felt nothing. Only tired. "You're their mistress, not their mother. It's not your love they want _or_ need. Don't forget it!"

Where his anger had failed to touch her, his petulance made an impression. Belle felt her features contort into an ugly scowl.

"You made me mistress here," she said, lifting her chin in defiance. Her governess always said that it made her look like a mule. "Are you afraid that I don't have enough love for you as well?" There. She'd found him out - that little flinch, and the way Rumpelstiltskin curled up his accusing finger, withdrawing it towards his chest as if she'd tried to bite him. He was _jealous_ \- of Lulie, of Wren, of _Odstone!_

Belle snatched up her basket and hurried for the kitchen steps, unwilling to face her husband's scolding if the cause was as petty as that. Not concern that she served Odstone poorly, but petulance because she shared her heart freely when he did not! She had made Rumpelstiltskin the centre of her world, and willingly, but she would not make him the whole of it!

The familiar welcome of her kitchen and the warmth from her new stove calmed her a little. She was determined not to end up weeping again, but her defiance made her breath come in little sobs, no doubt helped along by her shock at what Wren had said. She took out her temper on the cheese and butter, slamming them down on the larder shelves in their little packages, and then felt like a fool.

She would not be sorry for comforting poor Lulie, nor for helping Wren. Perhaps she _had_ gone too far in addressing the crowd, but it had been well meant. She had not promised Rumpelstiltskin's service, but her own! But Lulie had shown just how little Belle could give them. Comfort was too little, and nothing else would do. She hoped that she had at least impressed upon Lulie that the choice was hers alone, about coming to the castle to serve. She hated to think that she had added terror to the family's grief - the fear that, soon, they would also lose a daughter.

It would have been nice to have a companion, a _female_ companion, that day. Belle tried to busy herself, but the walk had left her with a pleasant tiredness all over. She would have liked to go to bed, surrounded by pillows and books and with a tea tray close at hand, but if there was going to be a child, she could hardly begin that way. She doubted that Lulie's mother or Mistress Elena took to their beds, be it with a woman's monthly troubles or with the start of a baby.

They probably had another woman near them, though - somebody to talk to of their trials and their fears, or simply to offer them silent understanding. She missed Lotte, who would have chattered and fussed, and probably cried, but who would have hugged her too, and put her to bed with all her comforts before fetching a woman who might know more than both of them.

But Wren was that woman, a mother and a midwife both. Belle did not think that _she_ would shoo a girl off to bed because her moon days troubled her, either.

Belle took out her sewing, beside the kitchen hearth, and began working an ornate letter 'R' in gold thread at the corner of the new black silk handkerchief. The work reminded her of Rumpelstiltskin, of the reason she had begun it, and each little stitch seemed to soothe away the sting of their quarrel. She would hear him out, she decided, nodding to reassure herself. If he was still angry with her, she would try to find out why, and if not...

If not, she longed to bury her face against his throat and feel his arms close about her with a strength that would never let her go. Rumpelstiltskin could not protect her from her own fears, but in his arms she felt as though he could. She prayed that if a child came, he would be able to spare her from her worst fear. Even so, when she thought on it, she felt only a startled fright. She imagined no sweet soft babe at her breast, but screaming, struggle, and too much blood.

When the handkerchief was finished, Belle warmed a flat iron and pressed the silk carefully on top of one of her new cotton aprons. Ironed, it looked neater than she could have hoped, given that she was not used to working with either silk or gold thread. She was eager to give it to Rumpelstiltskin, but it would be better to find out his mood, first. A gift might not be welcome until he had cooled from their quarrel.

The climb to Rumpelstiltskin's turret seemed a long and weary one, today. Belle had been careful to keep her tray light, with no more than two cups of tea and the fresh pastries on a plate, but her arms shook before she reached the foot of the turret staircase, and she had to lean against the wall to catch her breath. It gave him ample warning of her coming, and Belle felt the presence of some strong magic nearby when she began the last climb. By the time she reached the top, Rumpelstiltskin was standing beside a long, empty workbench at the centre of the room.

Curious, because she had never known him to hide what he was doing from her, Belle looked quickly about her. Whatever Rumpelstiltskin had been doing upon the table called for light. Candles burned everywhere, and the table was set at an angle that favoured it with the best light from the furthest window. He gave her a half smile.

"Not too cross to bring me tea?" He tried to tease with it, but Belle could hear the strain in his voice.

"You'll need to do worse than snap at me for that," she promised, relieved that he had spoken of it first. "Here." Her shaking was making the cups rattle in their saucers, so she made to put it down on the empty table. Rumpelstiltskin took it from her, instead, and put it atop a high stool near a different table.

"What have you been doing?" Belle followed him, tilting her head to better see his face when he made a show of stooping to examine the tray. "Dark and wicked spells?"

"Not at all," Rumpelstiltskin said, shifting from foot to foot while he stood with his teacup. "It's no secret, but it might have distressed you." He waved his right hand towards the empty work table. "I've been examining the bodies of the clerics."

"Oh." Belle had not expected that. She looked at the table too, wondering if there was a dead man there, hidden from view, or if Rumpelstiltskin had spirited him away at the sound of her approach. "I'm not frightened of corpses," she said, after a long moment. She had seen enough of them, and enough men who would be corpses soon enough. Dead flesh held no terror for her, only regret. "If you can't raise the dead, what use are they?" she wondered, trying to sound matter-of-fact. He would never share his secret work with her if she fluttered like a foolish little girl at every hint of his darker nature.

"Their clothing, their build," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, quickly accepting her word that the topic did not distress her. "The poison that killed the one in your father's cell. I can learn much. Well muscled men with a strong sword arm, and scarred by battle. They're no clerics, I know that." He tilted his cup towards Belle in salute, then sipped, watching her.

Thoughtful, Belle took the second cup and drank the lukewarm tea. Although corpses did not alarm her, she had lost her appetite for the pastries at the reminder of what those men had done to her. Rumpelstiltskin ate one, lost in thought as well, then seemed to pull himself back with a great effort to offer Belle a thin smile.

"Would you like to help?" he asked, innocently. "A man's insides are very interesting."

Belle was proud of how well she hid her reluctance. "If you like," was all she said. Corpses might not trouble her by their mere presence, but she did not look forward to handling one several days dead, or helping to poke about inside one. Dead men belonged beneath the soil, she thought. Even the most terrible of men deserved their rest in death. "Though I don't know what I'd be looking for."

"No." His cup empty, Rumpelstiltskin returned it to the tray. He scratched the back of his neck, sighing. "Neither do I. This has never happened before. People oppose me and they die." He said it quite matter-of-factly, almost sounding offended. "To do this, to counter my magic for more than a moment, someone must know what I am." He splayed his right hand against his chest, began to stride up and down between the window and the empty table, and Belle realised that she was not being consulted. She was merely a convenient pair of ears to hear his frustrations. "Few enough knew the truth of it when I became the Dark One and I've taken pains to discourage mention of it since then."

"Why?" Belle asked, dismayed at such casual talk of killing. "Because they might learn how to take your power, how to kill you?"

Rumpelstiltskin stopped mid-stride, and stared at her. There was something wild about the look in his eyes, though he tamed it as he watched her, frowning. Belle put her cup back on the tray, half full, and waited.

"Yes. Ignorance is a useful weapon. I've no time to battle endless foes intent on slaying me," he added, making a stabbing gesture towards his chest, mocking the seriousness of his words. "I must put an end to these mischiefs, and soon." At last, he truly seemed to notice her, and his expression softened at once. Approaching, offering his hands, Rumpelstiltskin's eyes now showed only concern. "You should not hear these things," he said, squeezing her hands when she gave them. "You were healthy and happy when you came to me. Now... so pale and sad." Grimacing, he brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, right then left. Then he stroked her cheek, knuckles across her cheekbone, staring into her eyes. Belle felt lost in him, in the simple act of tenderness. If only she could stay lost, and think of nothing but him and the brush of skin on skin. "Did Wren help you?"

"Oh..." Belle had almost managed to forget, for a moment, what Wren had said to her. She couldn't lie to Rumpelstiltskin, but nor could she tell him what Wren suspected. Not yet, not unless it was certain. "She says that what I need is a babe at the breast," she said, truthfully. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes creased at the corners as he frowned. At least he wasn't scowling. "I told her that herbs would have to do." She felt such a liar, speaking only half of the truth, but she _couldn't_ tell him. She _wouldn't_ offer hope of something he thought impossible, only to snatch it from him when she proved mistaken. When _Wren_ proved mistaken. "She's very weak, but the medicine helped. I'll go back when she's stronger and speak to her properly."

"Good." His expression pained, Rumpelstiltskin released her. "Hard enough to be apart from you without you suffering needlessly as well," he said, growing sheepish as he spoke. That touched her through the emptiness, and made her smile. She remembered their eager reunion when her blood ended the first time; how badly he had wanted her, enough to forget himself in his passion, and confess his great need.

"We don't have to be apart," she promised, hoping that it was true - that her efforts to please him while she bled would not simply drive them both to distraction. "And not yet, in any case. It's not time yet." She felt her cheeks flush a little, but he understood and did not press for her to explain her meaning. His anxious eyes had warmed with a smile. "If you mean to be busy with your corpses tonight, I'd like a hot water bottle," Belle added, trying to tease, though her heart wasn't in it. "For my cold feet."

Her teasing intrigued Rumpelstiltskin, as ever. Belle always felt clumsy and ridiculous when she tried to flirt, but her husband enjoyed it. His whole stance changed, not just his expression. He stood taller, lifted his chin, and his eyes shone with pleasure at the reminder of being desired. He liked to be told anew how welcome he was beside her. 

"As you wish, my Lady," Rumpelstiltskin promised, his voice deep and soft. "Warm feet tonight, come what may."

"Thank you." Turning to go, Belle decided that she would give Rumpelstiltskin his gift when he came to her tonight. First, she must do as Wren bid her, and count her days. She turned back at the top of the winding staircase, awkward. "How long is it since I came here?"

Surprised, and caught reaching for her half-drunk tea, Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head in thought while he fingered the rim of the cup. His empty one was chipped, hers was not, and when his finger encountered no break in the porcelain, he withdrew his hand and frowned at the cup.

"Thirty-seven days," he said, after a moment's thought. Belle wondered if he had kept a count, or if he had such a good memory that it taxed him little to count the days now. He flashed her a quick smile, pleased by her surprise. It was not only his easy feat of memory that had surprised her, either.

Belle shook her head. It sometimes seemed like she had arrived here only last week, and that everything was still new. At other times, there seemed so many days that they blurred in her mind - that she expected to count in months, not days or mere weeks. She nodded her thanks and descended the stairs, slowly. If she counted by the market days...

In her sitting room, Belle sat with parchment and pen, and counted. She envied her husband's swift recall, and trusted his guess that her blood was near due. And, yes, if she counted back from there... it seemed right. One turn of the moon, since that day when blood stained them both in her bed. It seemed right. Thirty-seven days since she arrived at the Dark Castle. And three days more since she'd met her husband for the first time. It felt as though it had been much longer than that, yet Belle felt that she barely knew Rumpelstiltskin. He played a part for her - the attentive husband, concerned, jealous, lustful, generous. He could be amusing, frustrating, even cruel, yet beyond all that was a wall. When he went still and cool, and the remoteness of centuries was in his eyes, Belle could see that she knew only the smallest part of him. That which he thought the best part, perhaps.

Other young wives might pray each day for a child to begin, from the morning after the wedding night. She knew that Leorna had done so, and been wretched when her blood came, a disappointment. She had not known how to tell her husband, who was impatient for sons. Belle's only disappointment had been that she could not be with her husband while she bled. And she had not needed to find a way to tell Rumpelstiltskin of her condition. Marked with her blood, his only concern was that he had hurt her in their vigorous lovemaking.

No wonder he remembered the days.

Too soon, Belle decided, when she had checked her own count and Rumpelstiltskin's against her letters from home, each dated in her father's slanting hand. She might find blood on her cloth the very next time she looked, and Wren must be full of mischief to suggest anything else. Belle would rest, drink her chamomile, and look elsewhere for helpful herbs if Wren did not want to give them. She did not want to find herself, a moon from now, back to sobbing and feeling sorry for herself!

Nor did she want to lose track of the time again - that was absurd. Her husband ought not know her days better than she did! She would keep a piece of parchment to hand and mark it with the market days - the second day of each week, in Odstone. She would mark off each day, and not look such a fool in front of her husband, a month from now.

Belle went up to the library, once she had satisfied herself about moons and dates. She had not been there since before their journey and, as much as she had meant to begin with instructive books before moving on to mere entertainment, she felt the need for something lighter now. The shelf of children's books called to her, but Belle remembered how silly the nursery tales had seemed to her, when Rumpelstiltskin read some aloud for her in the carriage. She had adored being read to, whatever the subject of the book. Would he read to her in bed again? That had been wonderful, such an intimacy when they weren't even touching. There would be nothing to stop them snuggling close while his voice caressed her, now.

She remembered how he had teased her with the tip of her feather bookmark, when the magic had kept them from being together properly. Belle smiled, warmed through by the memory. Those days apart had taught her to appreciate Rumpelstiltskin's every touch, knowing how much she had struggled to be without it. And in recent days, his reluctance to join her in bed at night had waned. If he still did not relish sleep then at least he no longer saw himself as an intruder between her sheets, there only on sufferance. Or merely to keep her feet warm.

When Belle returned to her room, one of the newest books in her hand, a large lump beneath the bedclothes caught her eye. Laughing, she bent to explore it with her hand and found that it was indeed a hot water bottle, the biggest she had ever seen, with one enormous stopper at the top. Not that she would ever need to fill it from the kettle, she thought; it would be ready whenever she wanted it, just as her fire and her bath were ready. Warmth was already seeping through the blankets to her hand, and she had no doubt that it would be as snug come bedtime as it was now.

Taking out her blue silk nightgown, Belle folded it loosely into quarters and left it to lie on top of the warm lump. It would feel lovely to slip into something warm, after her bath, and then into a cosy bed as well. Already looking forward to it, she went back down to the kitchen to fetch up her new ribbons and the black silk handkerchief for Rumpelstiltskin. She hid that beneath the pillow on the window side of the bed, grinning, then spread out her ribbons on the covers and took her time in choosing which to wear.

Using her faint reflection in the glass of the darkening window, her chair pulled up close, Belle wound her hair into as elaborate a style as she could manage without a proper mirror. Six pins, two plaits and a pair of ribbons put up her hair behind her head, with only a few wisps escaping at her nape and temples. Rumpelstiltskin would need to work for his ribbons, tonight.

Belle could understand Rumpelstiltskin's concern for her health, seeing her reflection as she worked. Her cheekbones were more prominent than they had been, and even in the poor excuse for a mirror, she could see that there were dark half-circles beneath her eyes. The travel, she told herself; all the tears, the changes. She had eaten well, since realising how poorly she had been looking after herself, and she had not been without sleep either. She would feel much better soon, in any case, after she bled and the belly pains passed. She always felt better, then.

She had not expected to see Rumpelstiltskin for hours yet, but he arrived as she was bathing, before it was even fully dark outside. Belle had not closed the door to her bathing room, the better to let the warmth of the fireplace reach the little room, and Rumpelstiltskin stopped at the door, watching her rub soap against her left arm.

"Come in or go somewhere else," she said, unable to convey the least protest in her tone. She was pleased that he had come, and eager to be near him. "Come and bathe, if you've been touching dead men," she added, wrinkling her nose. "Or I might not want to kiss you."

Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, but came in to the small room and began to shed his clothing. Waistcoat, shirt, breeches, boots - not the same ones that she had fought with when she had tried to undress him, but shorter ones of brown suede with a golden buckle at the outer knee. Watching, determined to be as shameless about staring as he had been, finding her in her bath, Belle thought of telling him that she liked the style better, to see if he wore it more often. Beneath, his feet were bare. All of him was bare, and although he hunched his shoulders and looked dubious, she could see none of the fear that had been there when she had last tried to see her husband naked. He was only uncomfortable, just as she might have been under such new and unfamiliar scrutiny.

He was not handsome, her husband. Not beautiful. Belle loved the neatness of his shape, the grace of his movements, and every single thing about how his body felt in her arms. Yet she could not compliment him to reassure him, as he did her; she didn't know the words for what he was, her Rumpelstiltskin. Hers, though, and she was glad of it. When he approached the tub, Belle tried not to stare at his cock, shrunken and almost lost against the darker flesh between his legs. But she had so seldom seen him, except in their passion when he was hard and risen. She _wanted_ to see him, and reached up to stroke his hip with wet fingers when he stopped beside the bath.

Rumpelstiltskin was quite right, she thought; a cock couldn't possibly be any substitute for capability. It looked such an ordinary thing, in its reduced state. How silly, that cocks made the difference between inheritance and dowry, power and obedience.

"My dear?" A hint of nervousness crept into Rumpelstiltskin's voice, though he allowed her to look as long as she wished. Belle shook herself and glanced up at his face, apologetic. She would have him grow used to being seen, if he enjoyed seeing her, but she would not put him at his ease by simply staring, wordless, at his manhood. He might think that she was silently finding fault! She lay back in the water, cradled by the curving back of the tub, and offered her arms. Rumpelstiltskin's expression became a happier one at once. Belle spread her knees apart, seeing that he meant to sit with his back to her, and they found that he could lie back against her, held close, and surrender his weight to her embrace and to the water.

She heard him give a sigh of contentment, once they were still.

"I like looking at you," she confided softly, into his ear. "When I'm not too stirred up to think clearly." Belle fished his right hand out of the water beside them and laced her fingers with his, against his belly. "I like that you let me look." She gave him a shy kiss to the temple and felt his breath sigh out of him again.

"You're too kind to your old monster," he said, gruff and gentle together. "You forgive me for the things I said to you?"

"There's no need," Belle soothed, squeezing him around the ribs. "You want to be left alone. I know that."

"But not you." Rumpelstiltskin's left hand covered hers, his nails stroking against the backs of her fingers. "You're lonely. Bored here. I know."

"No, no..." Belle began, but she knew that it was a lie. She had been both. She wasn't _now_ , not with Rumpelstiltskin in her arms, but while he was busy with his work and his secrets... while he was away... she had dreaded the future that held nothing but more of that. "Thirty-seven days," she reminded him. "It's still new. Every day."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin lapsed into silence. Belle found the soap, which had slid behind her, and began to sweep the smooth block down his arm, then his chest, then to follow with her palm and wash him with the slight lather that the soap left on wet skin. Why not? A touch was a touch, and she truly would prefer that he washed after handling dead men, before bedding her. Why not make washing his skin into a caress, a seduction, an exploration and a loving? She had wondered what it would be like to stroke his skin with the soothing oil, as he had hers, but this was almost as good. The soap allowed her palm to glide, even where his skin was at its roughest, and where he was smooth he twitched at the passing of her hand, his breath quickening. Across his belly was best, beneath the dip of his navel. He was tender there, perhaps even ticklish, and she could feel that he was excited each time her hand strayed near to his cock.

"I can't please you like this," he protested after a while, squirming as if to move away from her, to turn around. Belle tightened her arms, smiling against his damp shoulder as she held him still.

"I'm very pleased," she said, the words muffled by his skin. He tasted watery. "I looked and now I'm touching."

Subsiding, Rumpelstiltskin let her do as she liked. With his head back against her right shoulder, his hair trailing in the water and across her breasts, Belle could see more of him than before. He'd drawn up one knee to be more comfortable, while his right leg was stretched out to the other end of the tub, the tips of his toes peeking from the water. Very gradually, as she soaped and stroked and rubbed him, Rumpelstiltskin relaxed where he lay.

"When we choose our new rooms," she said, dreamily, "we must have a bigger bath to share as well."

"As you wish, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin nodded. Belle thought that he might have agreed as readily to anything she said, with her hand slipping across his chest, teasing his nipples as he often teased hers. She liked this quiet, contented mood in him, especially after his earlier temper with her.

"Where should they be?" Belle asked, tightening her arms about his chest once more.

"What?"

"Our new rooms. Warmer rooms, for both of us." At his wordless grunt, Belle grinned into his hair. Rumpelstiltskin had been dodging the subject from the moment she asked him to share rooms with her. She did not want to demand, but persistence might wear him down. "The castle's so big, and all wasted. Might we open up another wing?"

"Not for warmth," Rumpelstiltskin pointed out, with careful patience. He was enjoying her caresses; he did not want to say anything that might cause her to become cross with him and stop. Belle kissed the side of his head, where his curls had begun to plaster to his scalp as they grew wet and hung straight. "I store things on the western side. All sorts. The east has the better light, but the disrepair..."

"Light," Belle almost cried, letting her head fall back against the copper head rest. "Yes, please, somewhere with some _light_." Her own room was light and pleasant enough, and Rumpelstiltskin's turret workroom was blessed with large windows that were never covered, but the rest of the castle existed in a perpetual, candlelit twilight. "The darkness might not harm your complexion, but I'm sure it's no good for mine." She stroked his hair and planted another kiss beside his temple to make certain that he knew she was only teasing, exaggerating her woes to win him over. "The east side, then."

"I'm usually better at making a deal," Rumpelstiltskin complained, but he sounded amused. "What am I to do in these airy eastern rooms of ours?"

"Sleep. Take tea with me. Keep your clothes. Read to me." Belle stretched her hand down towards his lower belly, fingertips teasing towards his cock. "Other things."

"Other things?" His voice rose, creeping towards the tones of his wicked giggle. "Will we fuck there, mistress? Will I fuck you in your big bath?"

Belle pinched him on the arm, laughing. He used the vulgar word just to provoke her, she knew, but she had begun to associate it with the pleasure he gave her, to be excited when he used it, and could not help but laugh.

"No-one told me husbands were so crude," she complained.

Rumpelstiltskin wriggled in front of her, settling his shoulders more deliberately against her breasts. Her nipples had grown stiff; she had not noticed until he fidgeted against them.

"Spooning," he grumbled, as he fell still, and folded his arms across his chest. "The Dark One does not _spoon_."

"Not if he's horrid," Belle agreed, slipping the fingers of her left hand through his wet hair. At his scalp he remained dry and warm, but with the curls dragged out by the water, his hair straggled past his shoulders, heavy and dark.

"But you're so lovely when you blush. I must be horrid."

Happier than she had been in days, warmed right through and blissfully relaxed, Belle planted her hands behind Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders and pushed until he sat up and freed her. She thought, idly, how strange it was that he obeyed her - this great and terrible man, whose strength could crush her bones. Was that power, or only the illusion of power?

"I'm not as lovely when I wrinkle," she declared, kissing the back of his neck with its soggy, clinging hair. "I might stay in my bath forever, otherwise."

Rumpelstiltskin sat and watched her when she climbed out of the tub and dripped onto the stone floor, smothering herself in one of the big towels. After a moment, he reached for her, hooked her towards the tub with his left arm, and sought beneath the folds of the towel with his right, concentrating intently on whatever he planned once he exposed flesh. Belle waited, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder while she clutched the towel at her chest with the other. Rumpelstiltskin leaned close, where he'd opened the towel, and began to kiss her lower ribs, then her belly, taking up little droplets of water with his tongue as he went. The edge of the copper tub kept him from going as low as he would have wished, Belle could see, and she shivered all over at the memory of his tongue between her legs, so hot and nimble. Would he do that to her, tonight?

"Delicious," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, releasing her with a sigh of regret. Then he stood, water running from his body back into the bath, and Belle saw that he was already hard, his cock dark and heavy, jutting upwards. She tightened inside, her breath catching at the sight, and forgot all about holding her towel when he drew her near and kissed her. The tub gave him a little extra height over her, forcing her to tip back her head and be kissed, passive. Even on tiptoes, she could not reach his mouth unless he stooped for her. They both tasted of water, and very slightly of the lavender and olive soap. Belle's towel dropped behind her ankles, something soft to stand on when Rumpelstiltskin climbed out of the tub, still holding on to her, and drove her back a step before he kissed her again, clutching her close.

Belle hadn't realised that she had excited him so with her soapy touches and her teasing words. She snatched at the pile of towels as he drew her towards the bedroom, managing to catch two. One she threw down beneath her before he laid her back atop the bedclothes, sideways to the pillows. The second Belle draped about Rumpelstiltskin's dripping shoulders when he covered her with his body, kissing her hungrily. While their mouths played together, she squeezed his hair with the towel, and pressed it to his back, before pushing both hands up beneath it to hold his shoulders and urge him to kiss her more deeply.

"Do you want me?" Belle whispered, when Rumpelstiltskin broke from her mouth to kiss her throat with the same, hungry urgency.

"Always," he breathed, and sought her left breast with his mouth. His right hand went between her legs, fingers spreading her with such care, even as his teeth grazed her nipple in his eagerness. Belle moaned, neck straining, her head pushed back into the mattress and her body tensing with excitement and anticipation. It would be better if they waited, she thought, combing his hair with her fingers in a clumsy mirror of his gentle strokes between her legs. She didn't _want_ to wait. But Rumpelstiltskin did, hard as he was; he suckled her breast, burrowing inside her with two fingers, then drawing out the slippery wetness he found there, coating her tender flesh with it then sliding back inside her to stroke, stroke, stroke. All the while, her right leg was tucked between his thighs, his cock pressed between them. She could feel how he struggled not to rub it against her - to concentrate on her nipple, and on what his fingers were doing deep inside her.

When Rumpelstiltskin rubbed his thumb over the bud beneath her curls, Belle shuddered; couldn't have stopped herself to save her life, her teeth clenching and her limbs going taut; she came so sweetly, the sensation all fluttering about the place where his thumb teased, while her insides grasped at his fingers, greedy for more. Her husband made a soft sound, at that, his mouth full of her breast. He let it slip out, catching at her nipple with his tongue one last time, then came up to kiss her while he rubbed her in earnest, knowing that she was close once more.

"I want you," Belle whispered, the words smothered in kisses. She couldn't stop kissing him, tasting him, rubbing at his back and hair. "Not your fingers, not now. Please."

He needed no more persuasion, but she pulled at him anyway as he planted himself between her legs. For a moment, Belle held on to him so tightly with arms and legs that she pinned him, denying them both. She almost came, with the soft, blunt tip of him there at her opening, her heels behind his knees.

"Let me in, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin begged, and Belle loosened her frantic hold on him, and he pushed inside. Her limbs went weak, at that, and something in her crested anew - drawn out and unsatisfying, but weakening her grip and curling her toes just as coming did. It made her shudder the same way, but there was no relief. The want only built upon those sensations, intensifying around the hardness inside her. She could hear herself panting, half whispering, yes and please and fragments of his name, while Rumpelstiltskin met her demands with deep, firm thrusts. Belle realised that her hands had slipped from him, in those moments of weakness, and were now at her own breasts, pinching and pulling the nipples as he did, and when she glanced down to see herself, so did he. At his weak sound of appreciation, Belle came - sudden, sharp and satisfying, and Rumpelstiltskin bit back words as he followed her, his pleasure flowing into her own as his final thrusts grew clumsy. She wondered what words they would have been.

Breathing hard, groaning contentedly, Rumpelstiltskin slid his palms beneath her shoulders and buried his face against her throat, while Belle wrapped her arms around him and squeezed just as hard as she could. If only they never had to let go, she thought; if only they could stay like this forever. Then nothing else would matter. Not grief, not guilt, not fear, not magic, not counting. Nothing at all. Only this.


	70. Beyond Ribbons

They were both dry before they stopped kissing, languid and lost in one another. Only Rumpelstiltskin's hair remained damp, framing his face so differently from his normal elegant curls.

Her lips half numb, her jaw aching, Belle finally surrendered to the inevitable, though she did not want to. The aftermath of loving was always a marvel to her; the kissing, the closeness, the looseness of Rumpelstiltskin's body in her arms, as if his pleasure had wrung out all of the quivering tension that animated him at other times. _Sated_ , she thought, when he rolled away from her at the merest nudge, to sprawl atop the covers with his eyes closed. For that one moment he was shameless, or had forgotten his nakedness completely.

Belle sat, cross-legged, and watched him with a smile. Even when her skin began to turn all to goosebumps without his warmth covering her, she stayed where she was, savouring every moment of the rare opportunity to gaze upon her husband.

"You have knobbly knees," she said, finally, wriggling and bending to give each one a kiss. Rumpelstiltskin had been drowsing, she thought, as he jerked back to a state of alertness and found his wife examining his kneecaps at close quarters.

"Do I?" He might have been discomfited by such a forthright complaint, had Belle not been kissing her way up his leg, leaving the bony knees behind to savour the softer flesh of his inner thighs. How she loved to kiss him! Her jaw was stiff from kissing so long as he lay above her, tucked between her thighs. She felt sure that her lips would be sore in the morning if she kept on, yet... yet he tasted so good, and squirmed so happily when her mouth reached the crease of his thigh. "You have the sweetest mouth," Rumpelstiltskin breathed, when she teased there with the tip of her tongue. She could taste herself, the salty fluid that flowed from her when she wanted, and supposed that his seed must be mingled with it. The thought excited her, where she had thought herself spent.

Rumpelstiltskin's breath hitched, his hand finding the back of her neck and rubbing, so Belle tried more kisses; the soft, sensitive flesh above his cock, and then the shrunken thing itself, which tasted even more of her, of their passion. It stirred easily at her timid kisses, while her husband's hand tightened almost uncomfortably at the back of her neck, his breathing gone shallow and quick. He liked her mouth there, even more than her hand. More than being in her? Belle tried a lick, feeling silly, and earned a moan from Rumpelstiltskin that sounded more like torment than pleasure. "Belle..."

Already his cock was longer, heavier, thicker. If she kept teasing it, he could be ready again to take her; the very thought of it brought a long shiver of anticipation, adding chills to her goosebumps.

Belle was about to stop, to sit back on her heels and survey the results of her teasing, but Rumpelstiltskin half whimpered at her next little peck beside his cock, and she felt him loosen the hand at her neck with a trembling effort. He wanted to hold her there, to have her do more of the same. She licked her lips, lifting herself enough to see his face, rubbing his belly with her right palm while she watched his expression shift from strain to neutrality. No, she thought; disappointment. Just a hint of it, in the line of his lips.

"You enjoy that," she said, the mattress bouncing as she crawled across to fetch her nightgown from the warm lump of the hot water bottle.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, his voice gruff, and his disappointment becoming plain when she slipped the warm blue silk over her head and wriggled her arms into the sleeves. "Cold, sweet?"

Belle nodded, but she was already less cold. It took her a few moments to recognise that his magic was at work, bringing the room to a balmy warmth that put the crackling logs in the hearth to shame. She shook her head, trying not to smile, but she could not help but approve of such practical magic.

"You taste of us," she told him, returning to his side and kneeling beside his shoulder. Rumpelstiltskin made to sit up, his gaze upon her lips, but her palm at the centre of his chest kept him down. "I feel silly down there, without you showing me what to do," she confessed, unable to look at him as she said it. "I know I'm not doing it right."

"Treasure." Rumpelstiltskin lifted his hand to her face, soothing with voice and touch. "You're perfect. Perfect." The back of his hand felt cool against her cheek. Belle cupped it there, watching his face. He meant what he said, she thought. Whatever she offered he was glad to accept from her, and he would not have her fret. Not about this. "Use me as you will," he added, letting his hand fall and going limp in a pose of submission that was utterly belied by his sudden grin. Belle sniggered before she could stop herself.

Well, if he wasn't going to help her... Belle moved astride his hips and leaned down to brush his lips with her own.

"I shall then," she declared, holding his gaze. Rumpelstiltskin fingered her hair, showing his first interest in the braids that wound around, hiding both ends of each ribbon. If he wanted them, he would have to undo it all - pins, plaits and ribbons. "I'll have my way with you."

His grin widened, displaying his stained teeth. He never seemed shy about those, Belle thought, and truly they were the only part of him that she found less than appealing. But his smiles were always telling, whether soft and shy or wide and wicked like this one; she enjoyed those.

With the room so pleasantly warm, and candles coming to life all around as the last of the daylight faded, Belle felt no urge to hurry. She began with his lips, a shallow kiss when he sought a deeper one using his tongue - felt a tiny thrill at denying him, holding something back. Rumpelstiltskin made another effort, with her next kiss, but where he could have tumbled her onto her back and done all that he wished to do, he lay still, slipping his left hand behind his head while the right caressed her hair, occasionally pressing or digging to find where the pins were. Thus far, he had found only one, and drawing it loose had brought him no closer to his prize.

Belle moved on to his face, kissing each cheek, his brow, his temples, his eyelids. The last made him flinch, his eyelids fluttering soft beneath her lips, his lashes tickling her. That gave her a nice little shiver, such a delicate touch against her overused lips, but she didn't linger. Rumpelstiltskin turned his head when she kissed his left ear, exposing the side of his neck to her, so she kissed there as well, down, slowly down to his shoulder, hearing him release a quaking sigh of appreciation.

He had always been so attentive in their bed, while she thrashed about and lost all command of her senses; even that selfishness had delighted him, just as her want had excited him, but Belle was eager to give back all that she had received. The patience, the devotion to giving pleasure and... and had Rumpelstiltskin felt this foolish, this unsure, each time he showed her something new? Had he kissed her everywhere, half expecting to be stopped or, worse, laughed at? Belle felt exposed, even now that she was covered; it took a certain courage to carry on kissing his flesh, leading their love play.

Rumpelstiltskin's hand encouraged her. When not toying with her hair, he rubbed her neck or shoulders; when she discovered a particularly sensitive patch of skin, his fingers would curl against her in time with a little sigh, or with the arching of his back. Touching beneath his ribs, over the firm muscle there, made Rumpelstiltskin almost purr, his legs twisting behind her and his fingernails grazing appreciatively against the back of her shoulders. So she licked him there, as boldly and as greedily as he sometimes licked her nipples, and heard his next breath stop short on what might have been a whimper.

A soft nip with her teeth caused Rumpelstiltskin to draw up his legs, pushing his heels into the mattress, and he threw his arm across his eyes as if he could half hide from the pleasure of it. Belle was making note of the spot, and rubbing there with her cheek to rest her aching jaw, when he managed to speak.

"Lower," he begged, his voice hoarse with strain and quiet with hesitation. "Like that, but lower. Please, love. Please."

It started her to hear him voice a request, let alone in such a tone as that. His need made her insides feel strange, the oddest blend of tenderness and lust, and she could not have denied him for all the world. Was this how Rumpelstiltskin felt when he reduced her to a quaking wreck, barely able to speak a word because she needed him so?

Half trying to watch him, Belle wriggled herself lower, letting his right leg escape from between hers. He drew it back up at once, heel to his buttocks, exposing what lay between his thighs. Did he want her to kiss all of him, or go back to teasing his cock as she had before? Not his knees, she thought, though she gave the raised knee a kiss as well before leaning back down to give her mouth to his belly, then his hipbones, then back to the crease of his thigh. Glancing up towards his face, Belle saw him catch his lip between his teeth. His arm still covered his eyes, as if he could hardly bear it, and his fist was clenched tight.

His cock was engorged, now, and rested thick against his belly. She was more used to seeing it that way, although the contrast with the inoffensive, shrunken bit of flesh she'd seen earlier still gave Belle pause. Curious, she ran a finger from the very base of the shaft, up the thick protruding veins until she was touching the tender head. A touch at the very tip was too much, she had learned; it was just as when he exposed the hard, pink bud just beneath her curls, where a direct touch was near unbearable, and near painful. But his tongue there did not cause her the same discomfort, Belle thought, and lowered her head carefully to give the dark head of his cock a kiss, touching with her tongue. The flesh there was as delicate as his eyelids, and as soft against her lips, but it was the caress with the tip of her tongue that earned her first, brief cry from Rumpelstiltskin.

When Belle glanced up to make quite certain that it was not a cry of protest, she saw that Rumpelstiltskin had covered his mouth with the back of a splayed hand and was biting his middle finger, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Did _he_ have as little to guide him when he pleasured _her?_ Did he have to hope that he understood her moans, her cries, her silences and the involuntary contortions of her body?

Hoping that she understood, Belle placed her left palm against the side of his shaft and gave gentle kisses all down the right side, starting at the tender part with another quick flash of her tongue. That felt so wanton, so _intimate_ , her tongue... _there_... and this time she kept going, down and down to where the shaft nested with the soft scrotum. Cupping that, she tried a kiss, smirking helplessly at how odd it felt to both lips and hand. Rumpelstiltskin gulped, trying to swallow, and Belle pictured him biting down on his finger when she dared a stroke of her tongue there, and then another. His legs squirmed, his feet trying to push into the covers, almost to push him away from her, but she was no longer in any doubt about how much her husband liked these ministrations. He had begun to make the sort of sounds that Belle knew _she_ made, in her deepest pleasure with him.

Not until her lips and tongue had played with every inch of the tender sac did she return her attention to his cock. It was all but straining, now, and as she watched, a soft twitch produced a bead of clear moisture at the tip that dripped onto Rumpelstiltskin's belly. He had given up biting his hand and now had his wrist between his teeth; she saw blood on his knuckle and frowned, reaching up to tug his arm away from his face.

"You hurt yourself," she protested, but he seemed barely to understand her. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were wide pools of want, and he stared at her, overcome. Belle moved her weight, stretching over him, above him, until she could gaze down into his eyes. "Do you want to be in me?"

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, his face contorting; he looked wretched, ashamed, so lost. The tender feelings flooded her again, fuel for the heat of her own desire. Belle stroked his face, finding it damp with perspiration and hot to the touch. "What do you want?" she begged. She was too afraid, now, of doing the wrong thing while he lay so vulnerable, so _hers_ that she felt she held his heart in her hands while she cupped his face, cooling him. "Please tell me, show me," she urged, her voice soft with love for him. "It's yours. Just teach me. Please, husband." He licked his lips, blinking, focusing on her widened eyes. He was afraid, as naked as he had ever been. Belle offered a hopeful, uncertain smile. "I love you, remember? No shame, remember? That's what you told me." Her smile had grown as she spoke - grown with her love, her longing, her sweet trust.

"Your mouth," whispered Rumpelstiltskin, his lips hesitating over the words. "In your mouth, treasure. I... that would..." Belle blinked, not understanding him for a moment and then, when she did, desperately afraid that she would laugh. _In my mouth?_

To give herself a moment, a moment that would not send her husband running in alarm, Belle touched her lips to his, and let him seek a deeper kiss. He caressed her with his tongue, letting the kiss convey his depth of longing where words had failed him.

Rumpelstiltskin would take it back, if she let him; fumble and squirm and try to laugh it away as a thing that did not matter. She couldn't bear that. Slowly, watching his face and with her cheeks getting warm, Belle crawled down the bed to kneel at his right side, beside his hip. It seemed easier to reach that way.

Mild alarm overcame Belle, when she bent to do as Rumpelstiltskin had asked. The thought had not alarmed her, but when faced with the reality of him, thick and swollen in her hand, she could not help but wonder how she was to manage. In her mouth? How much of it, and for how long? Swallowing, wetting her lips and the roof of her mouth, she began with more kisses, enjoying the taste of the clear liquid that leaked out in his excitement. Rumpelstiltskin caressed her hair, finding another pin by chance and tugging it free with a grunt of appreciation, just as she opened her mouth and tried to fit herself around him, and prayed that he wasn't going to start giggling at her ineptitude. The lightest pluck with her lips earned a shivering sigh, though, and the hand that stroked her head signalled approval.

Nothing had prepared her for how he felt, even just the first inch of him butting against the roof of her mouth. Belle felt awkward, cramped, inept and flushed in the face... but so she had on her wedding night, and _that_ had heralded wonders that she could never have imagined. Thinking of Rumpelstiltskin with her breasts, how he sometimes sucked as much of her flesh as would fit between his lips, she tried the same and felt him shudder, heard him moan - so heartfelt, such pleasure. Belle tried again, knowing at least that she did not do the wrong thing, even if she was making a poor job of it - even if she feared to take his cock too deep into her mouth lest it make her retch, as her finger sometimes would when she rubbed her teeth with salt. That would be awful! Mindful of that danger, Belle took him as deeply as she dared, and tried to suck him, then to stroke him with her tongue while she had him there. Each effort left her feeling more cramped, her jaw aching horribly, yet the taste of him, and the scent of him, and his hand unwinding her braids as she fumbled at him... it was all good.

The sensation of his cock, the soft head against the roof of her mouth, began to be comfortable. Against her tongue it felt less so, and she felt that her little jaw might snap if she tried to take any more of him. Flustered, Belle drew back, sat back on her heels and pushed back the hair that had fallen all about her face, adding to the smothering heat and to her unladylike flush and sweat. Rumpelstiltskin had her ribbons clutched in his left hand, up beneath his chin, while his right hand caressed her, and he watched her with wonder and love. It was something beyond lust, now, yet it smouldered just the same - there in his eyes, his unique eyes that could be so terrible and cold. They were burning for her, and for what she had done.

"It's nice," she offered, awkwardly, apologetic. "But it's so big."

Rumpelstiltskin threw back his head and laughed. Stung for just a moment, Belle soon realised that he did not laugh at _her_ , and joined him with a breathless chuckle of her own, relieved.

"You know how to compliment a man," he laughed, beckoning her towards him with his ribbon hand. "Come here, before I beg for mercy."

Belle did, letting him settle her atop him and catch up her nightgown, glad for the familiar. She wanted nothing more than to join with him, to reassure them both that the world had not trembled at their hesitant new game; to have him inside her while the taste of him was on her tongue. She bit her lip, anticipating the slow glide of flesh into flesh, but when she grasped Rumpelstiltskin's cock and guided him towards her slick opening, she felt him pulse in her hand; felt him come, hot splashes on her inner thigh, coating her outer lips with a heat that made her shudder with pleasure. Her disappointment was a brief, slight thing. The sight of Rumpelstiltskin stretched out beneath her, smiling freely and wriggling in his pleasure was more than satisfaction enough, and more than enough reassurance that her clumsy mouth had pleased him after all.

He was slippery in her hand, softening and shrinking, and Belle held him, following her curiosity again. Rumpelstiltskin seemed not to mind, any more than he objected to remaining inside her after they had finished; she sat on her heels, she watched, she held him in her hand, and she loved him so fiercely that it hurt.

It was Belle's turn to lie on top while they kissed. She felt Rumpelstiltskin take the taste of himself from her mouth, his 'mmm' of approval a pleasant buzz against her swollen lips. She could not kiss him for very long before pleasant became too sore to be pleasant at all, and copied him by burying her face against his throat and snuggling close while they cooled together. Rumpelstiltskin could take all of her weight, so easily; his arms circled her, his hands stroking her back through thin, smooth silk. After a while, the wandering hands moved to her hair, lifting and playing with the long tresses, sorting them, combing them with his fingers, and locating a stray pin which he plucked out with a little 'tsk' sound.

"How many ribbons did you find?" Belle asked, trying to playact at innocence, but with her face pressed so close to him, only slurring as she smiled.

"Two," Rumpelstiltskin declared. "A pair. Not as soft as your usual delights, my treasure, but so pretty." He sounded pleased.

Belle nodded. She had chosen the woven cotton with the little flowers. Although beautifully made, their texture was coarse compared to her plain ones. Next time, she would choose silk, and perhaps prevent him from stealing it if she liked it well enough. Prevent him for a little while, anyway, until he understood that she liked the ribbon better than most, and he must treasure it more than most.

Blinking, she remembered her gift. The handkerchief, tucked away beneath the pillow! Wriggling free, earning a quiet 'oof' of protest as her knee jabbed Rumpelstiltskin in the thigh, Belle crossed the bed and drew out her little gift, and felt him follow her, eager to have her back in his arms.

"Close your eyes," Belle said, shrugging him away with a giggle. "I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" Rumpelstiltskin reached over her shoulder, dangling the ribbons. "I have these."

"You _stole_ those," Belle reminded him, as straight-faced as she could manage. "While I was busy." Rumpelstiltskin withdrew his hand with an offended little grunt, but his mood was as playful as her own. She could feel it between them, like laughter. A joy, a delight, a _glee_ in one another and in what they had just done together; in their game with the ribbons. All of it. "Close your eyes."

"All right."

"Are they closed?" Twisting, Belle could not see his face to be certain.

"Quite closed." Rumpelstiltskin's tone of innocence did not convince her, but Belle turned around, seating herself among the pillows, cross-legged. His eyes were, indeed, closed. A smile quirked his lips upward, and he seemed to have forgotten his nakedness. Smiling Belle brushed his nose with the folded silk handkerchief, causing him to wrinkle it and his closed eyes to crinkle in puzzlement. "What is it?"

Amused, Belle stroked his right shoulder with the cloth, then touched him beneath the chin with it. She touched it to his collarbone, then to each of his nipples; that made him tighten about the shoulders with a little chuckle. Taking his right hand in her left, turning it palm upwards, Belle placed the smooth little bundle into his palm and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

"You can look." She was surprised that he had abided by the rules of her little game. Surprised, and pleased.

Lifting the handkerchief to see it better, Rumpelstiltskin looked bemused at first, until he shook it out of its neat, pressed folds. Then he could see that she had sewn it for him, his initial at the corner worked in his own gold, and Belle watched his lips part, and his jaw tremble slightly as he gazed at her gift. When he raised his eyes to hers, he tried to speak, but made no sound. "You give me so many gifts," Belle said, as pleased as she was unnerved by the reaction. "I wanted to give you something, something to keep."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat. A warmth began to replace the stunned incomprehension in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, weakly. Then he noticed her uncertainty, and reached for her, ribbons in one hand and handkerchief in the other as he grasped her shoulders, drawing her to him for a soft kiss.

He had expected no gifts, Belle could see that. She slipped her arms about his neck and held on tightly, perhaps more moved by his reception than her husband had been by the gift. "I'll treasure it, my treasure," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, kissing her shoulder. "Beyond even ribbons." His voice was small, his sincerity plain. And to think that she'd been afraid that he would _laugh_ at the gift...

Her stomach gurgled. Rumpelstiltskin broke loose to peer down at her belly, then up at her face with a little smile.

"Hungry, little wife?"

"I suppose I am," Belle admitted, laughing. It was not, perhaps, terribly romantic of her, but she had not eaten supper.

"I've given you an appetite," Rumpelstiltskin said, suddenly cocksure and grinning, wicked with his enjoyment of her again. "A feast for my treasure!" He raised his right hand with a flourish, still holding the black handkerchief between thumb and forefinger. Belle caught it, shaking her head.

"A bite to eat," she begged, before he could lay their bed like a table set for the harvest feast. All the same, she was smiling at the thought of it, of how he liked to show off to his 'little wife'. "To share with me." She looked down at them both, and held back a snigger. "And then I think we need another bath."

Rumpelstiltskin flicked the handkerchief in a dismissive little gesture, and magic whispered across Belle's skin. It was far gentler than when he clothed or disrobed her with magic; more a caress. It left her feeling as fresh as when she had bathed and, rather to her disappointment, it also left Rumpelstiltskin sitting in a black nightshirt.

"There," he said, beaming. "Come." Taking her hands, moving with far more grace than she, Rumpelstiltskin drew her from the bed, towards her sitting room. There she saw the table laid with dishes, but it was not the extravagance that she had first feared. When she sat, lifting a silver cover on a huge platter, she giggled to find two small savoury pies beneath. A second, smaller platter revealed an assortment of pickles.

The small room was just as warm as her bedroom, which was just as well if they meant to dine in their nightshirts. Belle saw that Rumpelstiltskin still had his ribbons and his handkerchief, though he tucked them into his lap when he sat down to join her at the meal. He poured mead for each of them, into their silver gilt wedding cups, and they ate together in silence.

Belle _had_ been hungry, though distracted enough by their lovemaking that she had given it no thought. She ate the little pie, and then the crust that Rumpelstiltskin left on his plate as well. That made him smile, as he sat back in the chair to sip at his mead.

"Bae would do that," he said, watching her finish his leavings. "Every crumb. Nothing wasted." Her mouth full, she could only do her best to look politely interested while she chewed. Rumpelstiltskin frowned, as if only then realising that he had raised the subject. _The_ subject, the one that hurt him so much that even his bold and nosy wife left it alone. He said no more, draining his mead and then sitting with his head bowed over his hands, studying the handkerchief she had given him. He stroked his thumb across the embroidery, slowly, and Belle thought that she saw a hint of a smile return to his face.

She wished that she knew what to say to him. There were fond memories, tender memories of his Baelfire within him; it was for the sake of that memory, that father and son, that Rumpelstiltskin held on to all that remained of his humanity. If only she knew how to draw the memories out, so that he might share them with her, and have her love his little boy as he had; have her understand when he sought the comfort of her arms because the memories had turned cruel.

Belle remembered Odstone, then. It was so easy to lose herself in love, and to leave all her troubles at the door of her bedroom while Rumpelstiltskin was beside her. She did not begrudge either of them the happiness, yet the forgetting made her ashamed. She had given not a thought to the child that might be in her, if Wren was right. She had been glad of the opportunity to forget.

Would Rumpelstiltskin welcome another child? Another son? _Her_ son? And would he welcome it _now_ , with the murder in Odstone still confounding him? Someone had surely known of his grief when they killed all those boys... surely?

"My dear?" Rumpelstiltskin placed his hand over hers beside her cup. Her pair of woven ribbons tickled her fingers, trailing from his. He watched her with renewed caution, that worry again. How he worried that she was unhappy! Belle turned over her hand and squeezed his fingers, giving him a smile.

"I'm glad you liked your gift," she said, warmly. "Come back to bed?"

And when she returned from her bathing room, teeth clean and her face splashed with cool water, there Rumpelstiltskin was, waiting for her in bed. Her hairbrush was in his hand, his feet atop the hot water bottle, and he had piled up all the pillows behind him so that if she wanted to share them, she would need to rest close beside him. To sleep in his arms.

Belle wanted that more than anything in the world.


	71. Abandoned

The morning was light and bright before Belle awoke. It was so late that she might have expected to find her husband long gone, but Rumpelstiltskin was beside her. All but beneath her, in fact, since she had slept against him while he lounged on his pile of pillows. Belle felt warm, safe, comfortable. She did not want to move and pretended, just for a little while, that she was still asleep.

Not that Rumpelstiltskin was fooled for a moment. He began to play with her hair, curling it around his fingers, then stroking her from crown to shoulders. Finally, arm clasped about her shoulders, he gave her a tiny shake to stir her. Belle grunted and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut.

"It's late, mistress," he crooned, after a little while. He brought up his other hand to nudge at her cheek. "Past breakfast." Belle muffled an unladylike grunt against his chest, much preferring to hide there than to face the new day, but Rumpelstiltskin eased her away from him with gentle hands. "Forgive me," he said, sitting up and leaving her to kneel beside him, groggy but missing her morning kisses. "Your husband must abandon you for his work."

It was a genuine regret; Belle could see that. He no more wanted to slip from her arms than she wanted to let him go. "I never allowed for a honeymoon," Rumpelstiltskin confided, with the boyish shyness that Belle found so endearing. "For nights spent beside you rather than working."

Mollified, Belle pulled back the bedclothes and would have given him a farewell kiss, had she not seen him staring at her lap. Glancing down, she saw bright spots of blood there on the gown, over her right thigh. Seven, eight of them. Flustered, she tried to pull the stain between her knees and out of sight, but Rumpelstiltskin laid his palm against her cheek and leaned in, kissing her firmly. _No shame,_ she remembered. It was only blood on cloth - the mark of a woman, a wife now. And so little of it. She did not need to hide it from the husband who had seen her gown soaked right through a month ago; who had stolen the blood of her maidenhood and fixed it into her wedding ring to remind her.

"Breakfast without me, today?" Rumpelstiltskin gestured to her sitting room, awkward in his apologetic request. Belle rather liked the thought that, even bleeding, she presented too much temptation for a man to trust his resolve. "And keep away from my laboratory today. I'd not have you see what I must do." That was not a request, and Belle nodded. She had been a distraction, and perhaps a welcome one, but there was his work. Rumpelstiltskin looked relieved that she did not refuse him. "Leave a trail of breadcrumbs, if you go looking for new chambers," he added, smiling faintly as he sought another kiss. This one was softer, and full of how much they would miss one another when they parted. Full, too, of the very temptation that had caused a wizard to neglect his work these past weeks. Belle closed her eyes, making the most of it. She was still battling sleepy yawns when Rumpelstiltskin slipped out of the room, dressed in his forbidding leathers.

Belle never liked to rely upon magic; she feared to take it for granted. Yet when her beautiful nightgowns were soiled and Rumpelstiltskin's magic removed the stains for her, she was grateful. She only felt very slightly guilty about leaving her blue gown on the bed in the hope that magic would attend to it while she bathed.

It did. She shook her head, unable to help but smile at the freshly made bed and the pristine nightgown. And a meal awaited her in the sitting room, as well - a plate of bacon, eggs and fried potatoes, accompanied by a pot of tea and an enormous slice of buttered bread. Rumpelstiltskin might abandon her for his work, but he clearly did not mean to neglect her!

Although she was satisfied after only a few bites, Belle ate most of the meal, knowing that she must not neglect herself again. She liked Rumpelstiltskin's suggestion that she explore the rest of the castle today. Now that the weather was a little warmer, the days longer and lighter, the prospect no longer seemed so grim as it had when first she came to the Dark Castle. On the other hand, there were rooms enough in the main building, and she had explored few enough of those, beyond testing which doors would open for her and which would not.

Belle's room was tucked away on a half-landing below the floor where Rumpelstiltskin had his own room. On the floor above that there was the room kept for Baelfire, and the library. It made more sense to begin looking for their new quarters in the building that Rumpelstiltskin considered to be his home, she supposed. He had chosen to house her here when they married, near to his work and to his own chamber, when he might just as easily have established her on the far side of the castle with her own household, never meaning to see her from week to week!

Before she left her room, Belle made a careful mark on the paper she'd kept for the purpose, folded and tucked inside her copy of _Of Hearth and Stove_. It was only a little bright blood on her cloth - a few drops and quite unlike her usual precipitous and dark flow, but there it was. A mark on the paper, near enough one turn of the moon after her best guess at the last occurrence. Wren had been wrong to frighten her so.

Ought she to feel sorry? She tried, on her way up to the library floor, and found an absence of regret; an equal absence of relief. Belle had hidden herself away from her own fears, hoping that they would come to nothing, and now... now they had. There was nothing she could do to change it.

Beyond Baelfire's room and the library, the corridor turned left. Belle had never been that way except for a short-lived foray with her broom and dustpan, for it had been a lightless, airless place that didn't seem the least bit inviting. This time, Belle began by tugging at the heavy shutters covering the first window. When one side finally gave way to her rattling, it showered her with dust and dead spiders. Coughing, brushing off her shoulders and head with a grimace, Belle stepped back to see if she had bought herself enough light with which to explore the passage properly.

The shadows of the Dark Castle had never alarmed her too much, but Belle did prefer to see where she was putting her feet. The first door sat opposite the next shuttered window, so she battled those shutters as well. They opened rather more easily than the first set, but were just as filthy with dust. The window behind was grimy, but it gave her the daylight that she needed to try the first of the doors.

It was a long and narrow room, sandwiched between the library and that outer corridor. Perhaps as wide across as Belle's own room but three times as long, it stood completely empty. No candles welcomed her, no carpets softened her tread, but, like the library, the floor was of wood rather than stone. She could vaguely make out a connecting door at the far end of the room, and judged it to be near to the next door down the passageway. Thoughtful, Belle went back out into the light. She did not want a room without windows - even her cramped room in her father's old keep boasted two small windows - but if she wished to be warm then a lack of windows could only be an advantage.

Thinking longingly of sunshine and summer gardens, Belle wandered downstairs. She had it in mind to fetch a lantern and perhaps a broom, but found herself sitting at the fireside in the great room rather than doing anything useful. A dull cramping in her belly threatened to lay her low for a while, leaving her glad that she had not struck out for a different wing of the castle. Rumpelstiltskin might have been exaggerating the danger when he suggested leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, but the castle was more than large enough to become lost in for a little while. Belle smirked to herself, imagining herself stranded in some remote room - a ballroom or great dining hall like this one, but dark and hung with cobwebs - and having to resort to calling Rumpelstiltskin's name three times in the hope of rescue.

Would he come to her if she called him like that? Rumpelstiltskin would enjoy being her rescuer, sweeping her up in his arms to carry her to safety. He would kiss her, so very pleased with himself that he'd walk with that little strut in his stride, coat-tails flapping behind him.

Another wave of cramping subdued Belle's smile, but not her imagination. Perhaps she might confess her daydream to her husband when next she saw him? He would like that, she thought, and if she could not give herself to him while she bled she could at least whisper to him of the things that she _wished_ to do. Would he like that too? He had enjoyed hearing about how she touched herself, thinking of him. He might like her flattering daydreams just as much.

Sore, the pains making her queasy, Belle got up and made an aimless tour of the great room. Several of the pedestals held new treasures from Rumpelstiltskin's collection, since last she paid them any attention, while others had been moved. The severed hand made her wrinkle up her nose in distaste, as did the grotesque puppets, while a battle axe of silvery-white metal captivated her, being engraved with such artistry that she thought it would be a crime to ever use the blade in anger. A tall shape had appeared in one corner of the room, near to the door, covered with a heavy drape. A mirror, she'd guessed without really thinking about it, and now worked her hand beneath the cloth to tap upon it to make sure. Wood and glass - yes. An enormous looking glass, and covered up so that nobody could use it.

She wondered if she ought to be more interested in Rumpelstiltskin's collection. If these objects pleased him enough to put them on display, they might at least be a subject for conversation and a means to get to know her husband better. Yet Belle disliked them - avoided them. Those that were not disturbing were ostentatious, as though boasting of their magical properties or their rarity. She did not think that her husband prized them as he did her ribbons or his new black handkerchief - as things to be fond of for their own sake. Those were trophies of their affection and nothing that another man might envy, while the collection... well, did he own these strange things simply to prove that he _could?_

Whatever it represented, whatever it was all for and whatever it meant to Rumpelstiltskin, the collection gathered _dust_. Belle made up her mind and started for the kitchen to find her dusters. If she kept herself busy, the pains would be gone before she knew it.

Belle had just started down the stone steps to her kitchen when she heard a loud knocking at the castle's main door. For a moment or two, she was so startled that she paused with one foot dangling over the next step down. Pulling herself together, Belle went back the way she had come and out into the chilly marble hall. She half expected to find Rumpelstiltskin there, ready to meet whoever dared knock at his door unannounced, but it was left to Belle to pull open one of the huge double doors and find out who had come calling.

"Belle, dear!" Queen Regina stood on the step, resplendent in her mourning blacks. She had dispensed with the veil, Belle saw, and wore glossy black feathers in her hair instead. "I really must have a word with Rumple, if he has you answering the door. You're not his maidservant!"

Caught off balance, and suddenly far too aware of her dusty grey dress and unbound hair, Belle stepped back to admit the woman. She bit her lip as Regina passed her, trying to summon a smile. "It doesn't do to let a husband mistake one for a servant," the Queen continued, tugging off the finest black lace gloves and turning to give Belle her almost-warm smile.

Belle could only imagine what the woman saw. Pale, untidy and recently dusted with dead spiders - she looked even worse than the last time Regina came calling!

"It's no trouble to welcome a guest, Your Majesty," she managed, but it was with the treacherous accompanying thought that, had she a servant to answer the door for her, she might make herself look _presentable_ before appearing to greet a visitor herself!

"Is he home, that husband of yours?" The gloves dangling elegantly from her hand, Regina faced her and pretended not to notice anything amiss. It was so obvious a pretence between them that Belle could almost taste the insincerity. It made her feel all at sea.

"Yes. Would you wait while I go and tell him you've arrived?" Belle indicated the warmth and light of the great room. Should she fetch some tea? But... no. She could hardly leave the visitor alone to attend to it herself - Rumpelstiltskin had watched her like a hawk for the entirety of her last visit. Why had he not come down? He had known when the townsfolk left gifts outside the gates; surely he knew that someone new had set foot inside his castle? Someone with magical power?

Following Regina towards the fireplace, Belle tried to feel less like a foolish little girl and more like the mistress of this place. Whatever she was wearing, and even if she had been caught utterly off her guard, this was her home! She was Rumpelstiltskin's wife!

"Sit with me," the Queen urged, patting the arm of the lefthand chair as she lowered herself into the right. She did so without disturbing her mass of shiny black skirts, Belle noted; the woman had been better schooled in deportment than Belle had. Or, possibly, she had merely been more receptive to lessons about how to be a true lady. "You don't know how much it troubled me to leave you here," the woman said as Belle sat too. She tried not to stare at the smudge of dust on her right knee. "All alone, with _him_. I've thought of you often, child."

"This is my home," Belle said, wishing that she felt more capable of playing this game today. She felt sick from the cramping, which had no doubt left her even more pale and sorry looking than she had been since the journey. She had barely felt equal to exploring a deserted corridor, let alone to the machinations of a witch. "He's my husband. Don't trouble yourself on my account, Your Majesty."

"What _did_ he do, in return for your hand in marriage?" The Queen leaned towards her slightly, frowning. She knew the answer, Belle was sure. The circumstances of her marriage were no secret and queens made it their business to know what was going on in the world.

"He sent away the ogres that had overrun my father's lands," Belle answered, evenly. "It was a price that I was happy to pay, believe me."

"So dutiful." For a moment, the woman sounded... disappointed? Sad? Belle stood up, meaning to fetch Rumpelstiltskin out of his turret whether he liked it or not, and to leave him to his cat-and-mouse games with queens. Regina caught her wrist as she stepped past, rising as well in a rustle of crisp silks. "Are you well, my dear? You look so pale."

"A woman's troubles," Belle said, irritated by these false questions - by this false woman. She had not Rumpelstiltskin's showmanship; when she deceived, she seemed only cloying and cruel. "I'll tell Rumpelstiltskin that you've arrived."

"Oh, he knows," Regina laughed, feigning mild surprise. "He's probably avoiding me. But tell me about your troubles, Lady Belle," she urged, keeping hold of Belle's wrist so that she could not politely slip away. "Are you expecting his child?"

Belle tugged her arm free, anger getting the better of her, and moved a few paces away from the Queen. Even if the question did not touch upon feelings that were too recent and too raw, the answer was none of this woman's business!

"Why did you say that I would be soon?" she asked, unashamed about answering a question with a question, if this stranger's questions were going to be so impertinent. Regina was not a queen here in Rumpelstiltskin's lands, and Belle owed her no more than courtesy and hospitality. Not answers. Not _truths._ "When you left, before, you said that it would be soon. Why?"

"My dear," Regina chuckled, "you were as ripe as a little peach when I was here last." Belle's shock made her draw a sharp breath, but at least she didn't blush! What a thing to say! "Unless Rumple's a better man than I think he is, he's had you doing your duty." The smile that had been humouring Belle twisted into something darker. "Fulfilling your _contract._

Belle meant to give no answer, but folded her arms in front of her and then realised, too late, that her body had answered anyway with the sulky, defensive gesture. Let the Queen interpret it how she wished - as insolence, as fear... anything she liked. The world would fall around Belle's ears before she shared a hint of her passion and joy with _this_ woman.

"You seem to know him very well," she said, managing to keep her tone from matching her posture. "Why do you hate him?"

"I wouldn't say that." Something like true mirth warmed the Queen's dark eyes for just a moment. "We've had our dealings. Our moments. You have no magic?"

"I'm sorry?" Belle shook her head, thrown by the question. "No. No, I don't." No, she decided; she did not care to leave this uninvited guest alone while she went off to fetch Rumpelstiltskin. Here with Rumpelstiltskin's collection, here in his favourite room. She did not want to turn her back on Queen Regina for a single moment. "I'll take you to my husband. He's working."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself dear," Regina smiled, white teeth showing behind red-painted lips. "I know the way." Her skirts brushed against Belle as she swept past, heading out into the marble hall and turning towards the stairs.

And know the way she did. Fearing that she would only look weak and foolish if she protested to no avail, and certain that the Queen would not obey her if told to stay where she was, Belle hurried to keep pace with Regina instead.

"I was thinking," the older woman said, not even slightly breathless from climbing the staircases, "that you really must visit with me, Belle."

"Oh yes?" It was all Belle could do not to sound out of breath herself. There was a forceful strength to the woman that reminded her of Rumpelstiltskin's unnatural vigour, yet lacked its manic edge. Magic was not the witch-queen's only strength. Belle wondered, glumly, if such a woman even noticed the monthly trials of her sex - if she ever felt weak and wan and uncharacteristically incapable. Probably not, Belle thought, and stopped herself from clutching at her belly when another wave of sick pain took her. "I'd be of little use at court," she said. Today, aching and off-balance, she could think of little that she would like less than to spend a visit at court. And the court of a murderess and a usurper, if Rumpelstiltskin was to be believed.

"You were to marry the son of Duke Hubert." Regina smiled, slowing a little to look at her as they drew level with the door to Belle's room. To her dismay, she had left it standing open. Her prized blue nightgown lay spread upon the bed along with the silk ribbon that she wished to wear for Rumpelstiltskin, later. All was neat and tidy, except for a tangle of mismatched stockings draped over Belle's big trunk, and a tatty assortment of shoes beside the bed where she had tried and discarded them, earlier. She saw the Queen looking as they paused there, on the landing, and could do nothing to prevent her. "That would have brought you to court. _My_ court is a lot less dull than dear George's," Regina assured her. "Women need not turn themselves into pretty shadows. I need a lady-in-waiting," she went on, lifting her skirts delicately as she continued upwards. Her pointed button boots were of the deepest purple, Belle saw, and trimmed with silver chain, but they lacked the extravagantly tall heels that she had worn on her last visit. Belle still felt dwarfed by her, scurrying along beside the Queen as if she were, indeed, a servant. "Someone I can rely on. Think about it," Regina urged. Her knowing smile never faltered.

"I will," Belle assured her, quite sincerely. Such an offer gave her a great deal to think about, even if she would not think for one moment about accepting! Were Rumpelstiltskin and this woman on better terms, it would not have been an unreasonable suggestion. An honoured place at a royal court for a wife who was, perhaps, unwanted for herself or for any service beyond bringing a husband's sons into the world. To offer such an honour to the new bride of an enemy, on the other hand...

To Belle's private delight, Regina was brought up short at the foot of the winding staircase that led to Rumpelstiltskin's turret. Some invisible barrier bounced her not ungently away when she strode into it, and the Queen lost her footing for a moment. The barrier across the foot of the staircase glowed very briefly with blue light before it faded again to invisibility. Now that she knew it was there, Belle could feel it - like a slight warmth, a slight hum in the air, just beneath her hearing. She sensed that it was no danger - merely a stronger version of the gentle warnings that had occasionally deterred her from setting foot in the turret before now.

At the Queen's flustered glance, Belle smiled. "He wasn't to be disturbed," she explained. Whether the barrier was for her benefit or because Rumpelstiltskin knew full well that they had a visitor, she could not say. It had given her a rather malicious pleasure to see the woman and her smooth arrogance walk into a wall of Rumpelstiltskin's magic.

"Really?" Squaring her shoulders, tucking her gloves into a pocket, Regina looked up the stairs with a determined expression. "And I came all this way." Grimacing, though more with displeasure than with effort if Belle was any judge, Regina pushed her hands through the barrier. It buzzed and glowed angrily around her hands, then her wrists, and then she stepped through bodily and managed not to stumble on the steps when she popped out like a cork being suddenly released underwater. She turned back to Belle with a happy sigh, patting her hair. "Don't pander to him dear. He doesn't like it," she advised, and lifted her skirts daintily before she climbed up and out of sight.

"I know," Belle said, but only under her breath. She placed a hand against the barrier until it glowed, but when she gave a cautious push, it only pushed her gently back a step or two before returning to invisibility.

Above, she heard her husband speak, and then the Queen. She could not make out the words.

Irritated, offended, Belle turned on her heel and went back down to her own chambers. Let Rumpelstiltskin deal with the dreadful woman himself!

Closing and locking the door behind her, Belle caught up her hairbrush from the top of her trunk and began to pull it through her hair. She was free enough of tangles, after Rumpelstiltskin's careful attentions of the night before, but the mere presence of Queen Regina and her finery made Belle feel shabby. And it was not that she had not dressed nicely, today. It was an old dress and perhaps a little tight for her shoulders and bosom, but the smoke grey was the very finest lambswool, heavy and rich. The sleeveless gown had been her mother's, and Belle wore it over a chemise of soft white cotton that had been edged with exquisite lace. Fine clothes, _practical_ clothes that were made to last and to be worn, to be _useful_ , not... not showy, beautiful things such as Regina wore! Who travelled in such clothing, anyway?!

But with magic, practicality need not feature at all. Belle thought of her lovely jewels and gowns - of all the silly, gorgeous little embellishments that Rumpelstiltskin had added for her eyes alone. And for his own, of course. With magic, a person could change out of her dusty dress before answering the door.

Tight lipped, Belle attended to her cloth. She had been sure that it would be soaked through, after such cruel cramping, but there was but a smear of bright blood on the creamy soft cloth - not even enough to soak through the folded layers. Confused, Belle left it to soak and took a fresh one from her little stack. The pain always came while she bled most heavily, then passed quickly as her flow began to lighten. It had been so for three years or more - a familiar inconvenience. The unfamiliar bothered her infinitely more.

The pain had faded to a sick ache in the small of her back, since the arrival of the Queen. Belle would have liked to lie down and tuck the big stone hot water bottle against her back until that pain left her, too, but she could hardly hide herself away in her room. She _knew_ that Regina toyed with her, played a game with her, and although Belle did not know all the rules, she understood that she had been the loser today.

As tidy as she was likely to be without actually changing her dress - which would be too desperately obvious an attempt to make up lost ground - Belle went back downstairs to resume her seat beside the big fireplace. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would not bring Regina back down and expect her to entertain - at least, not if he meant to abandon her to the conversation, as he had on the last visit. Ignorant of the history between Rumpelstiltskin and the Queen, Belle could only endanger her husband's position by unwittingly revealing something. Besides, she didn't _want_ to talk to the woman!

It was only a little while before Belle heard footsteps descending the stairs. Belle could hear that there was some debate going on, but could make out only the occasional word. The two of them were baiting one another, just as they had before. Belle couldn't help but notice the familiarity in it, where before she had noted only the depth of petty spite between the pair. Just how long had Rumpelstiltskin known the Queen? And how well?

She rose when Rumpelstiltskin came into the room, doing her best to look as if she had been sitting at ease rather than fretting. Queen Regina remained in the marble hall; Belle could see her pulling on her gloves again with fingertip delicacy. She looked terribly pleased with herself.

"My dear." Rumpelstiltskin was cheerful, coming to stand beside her near the fire. Too cheerful, Belle noted; there was something frantic about his smile, genuine as it seemed. "Her Majesty has need of my services."

"Don't flatter yourself, Rumple," Regina called back, with a chuckle that sounded almost warm. "Don't stretch expediency to flattery."

Rumpelstiltskin waved a dismissive hand, his eyes never leaving Belle.

"Stay out of my tower, little wife. Nasty things." He made a face, though it was a pathetic attempt if he meant to frighten her with it. He was too anxious, too keen to keep the conversation light and free of any substance. Belle glanced again at the back of Queen Regina's head, and set her jaw. "Nasty. I'll be gone no more than a day."

"Gone?" She almost reached for Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders, but stopped herself. No affection, not in front of this... what? What was Regina? Enemy? Ally? _Expedient?_ "Where are you going?"

"Not far," Rumpelstiltskin's face had fallen at the sight of Belle's dismay. "A deal is a deal."

"Yes," Belle said, because what else could she say? Challenge him for answers and she undermined him before the Queen. Beg him to stay and she revealed her fondness for him. "Of course, husband," she said, her tone as neutral as she could possibly make it while her heart hammered so. "Safe journey, then."

"I hope you don't mind me stealing him for a little while," Regina called, ready in the doorway and still smiling. Still smiling that tart little smile. It made Belle clench her teeth to see it, the mockery in it.

"Of course she doesn't," Rumpelstiltskin said, jovially, before Belle could muster a reply. Perhaps he did not trust her to make it a polite one. "Plenty of me to go around." He giggled, half-turning and looking between the two women. "A moment with my wife," he said, flicking one finger towards the outer doors. "If you please."

Eyebrow raised, Regina gave Belle a nod before going outside. The castle's doors slammed firmly behind her. "It's not for long, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin said, reaching for her at once. "Keep to the castle grounds while I'm gone and you'll be perfectly safe."

Did Rumpelstiltskin really believe that she was worried for her own safety? He was excited at the prospect of going, Belle could tell... but at least he did not seem eager to leave _her_. His hands fluttered about at her elbows, half holding and half caressing there.

"That woman means us ill," Belle said, managing to contain her indignation and her irrational hurt at being abandoned. She had not objected when it was for his turret and his work there; she ought not object now that one of his infamous deals drew him from her side. "She's waiting for me to be with child."

"Is she now?" Rumpelstiltskin deflated somewhat at that news, and his eyes narrowed, looking through Belle as if he had already left her.

"She wants to invite me to court. To be her lady in waiting."

"Oh, really?" He laughed as he said it. "I shouldn't take her up on it, my dear," he added, meeting her gaze again and watching her shrewdly. "If ever there was a nest of vipers, it's Queen Regina's court."

"I can imagine," Belle said, and caught herself folding her arms again, sulky. "Of course I won't take her up on it."

"Of course you won't." Rumpelstiltskin gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then, struggling to tear himself away, lingered to give her a much better one on the lips. Belle's resentment could not altogether resist the affection, and she pressed back before she pushed him away with her hands at his shoulders.

"Be careful," she pleaded. "I don't..."

"Don't like her?" Rumpelstiltskin's smile grew crooked. "Don't trust her?"

"Yes," Belle said, guilty for being so sullen with her husband when it was the Queen who had annoyed her - the Queen who came into her home and knew it as if it had once been her own. Who knew her husband...

A still-more guilty thought took Belle's breath away, as she trailed behind her husband into the marble hallway and watched him throw open the double doors with an unnecessary flourish of magic. How well acquainted _were_ they, her husband and this... this visitor? The mere thought felt like a fist closing around her heart - a hot and terrifying hurt that left her breathless. How had the Queen, the wife of King Leopold, come to know her way about the Dark Castle?

"I'll bring you a gift," Rumpelstiltskin promised, beaming, and then followed after Regina with a spring in his step, eager for whatever task awaited him. Whatever deal.

Belle watched them go, dismissing the royal coachmen and guards with a few words at the gate. Then Rumpelstiltskin caught Regina by the arm, drew her a step forward, and the two of them vanished into a wall of dark purple smoke. When it faded, they had gone.

Gone where? And why? Belle wished that she had asked, as she went back upstairs to her room. It was her own thoughts that distressed her, not her husband's sudden absence; it was not knowing, and the dark speculation that Queen Regina knew Rumpelstiltskin far better than Belle herself did - and with her magic, perhaps better than Belle ever could.


	72. Changing Things

It took all of Belle's willpower to keep her childish hurt from ruling her head. She wanted to stamp her way up to Rumpelstiltskin's turret, brushing aside his protective barrier just as the Queen had. She wanted to kick something. She wanted to march alone to Odstone, just to show him that she did not fear to go without his protection! But Belle did none of those things, and retreated instead to her kitchen. Something told her that Regina had never troubled herself to set foot down _there_ , at least.

Belle felt guilty that she had found so little use for her new stove. She doubted that Rumpelstiltskin would mind whether or not she made use of it, so long as she enjoyed owning it, but it was a thing that ought to be used. With the big ovens she might bake bread and cakes, or roast fowl and joints of meat. With the stove top and the huge assortment of new copper pots and pans, she was equipped to tackle more or less anything mentioned in her recipe books.

 _Of Hearth and Stove_ warned against making pastry or bread dough while in a poor temper, lest it turn out tough and chewy. It warned against doing any number of household chores while enduring the monthly visitor, leading Belle to suspect that the author had been a very foolish woman indeed. No harm had ever come to Belle for washing her hair whilst she bled, and she was reasonably sure that no ill would befall her castle if she served a loaf made with her own hands today. Superstition and silliness!

To keep herself occupied, and from acting on her black and selfish thoughts, Belle fetched out a handful of vegetables from the larder and set to making a soup. As an afterthought, she chopped a little smoked bacon to add to the pot, then sat beside her fire while the copper pan simmered gently on her black stove, filling her kitchen with wonderful smells.

Somewhat calmer by the time the soup was ready, Belle still had spiteful little thoughts towards the Queen, and towards Rumpelstiltskin too. She did not think, in her heart of hearts, that the husband who had been so desperately shy with her had ever... that Queen Regina was the sort of woman he might look to for...

All the same, it made her stomach knot to think of it; partly with shame that she had even entertained the idea, and partly with fear that it might be true. Regina _was_ beautiful, and could converse about the things that truly interested Rumpelstiltskin - magic, and power. Whatever the nature of their relationship, she had spent time at the Dark Castle - enough to know her way around, and to be shameless when it came to draping herself across any piece of furniture that she liked. And, for all their evident animosity, Rumpelstiltskin would go with her at no notice, leaving behind the all-important work that took him from his wife's side.

Belle was unnecessarily rough about mashing the vegetables in her soup to pulp. She splashed the front of her apron, and the table too, and felt a little better for letting out some of her temper. It made for a nice thick soup, in any case. She had stuffed herself full at breakfast and wasn't remotely hungry, but she tried a little of the soup. It was comforting, and the addition of the bacon had given it a richness. She decided to write it down as the first recipe of her own invention, if 'invention' could be stretched to mean seizing a double-handful of vegetables and putting them to use.

More comfortable in her cosy kitchen than she had felt upstairs, Belle fetched down her letter box, paper, pen, ink and her book. A reply from her father awaited her inside the box - brief lines assuring her that he was keeping well, and hoping that she was resting after her long journey. Sir Maurice made no mention of his search for a wife. Belle doubted that he would ever be the one to mention it first, so embarrassed was he by the whole business. Her father would not disobey King George. He would seek a wife young enough to bear him sons, or a widow with a brood of children in want of a new father, and for the woman's sake he would try to do it with a glad heart.

How strange it would be, Belle thought, pausing with her glass pen poised over the paper; how strange it would be to see her father with a new son or daughter, a babe in arms, while she... Her hand strayed to her belly, where the pains of the morning had settled to a low and nauseating ache between her hips. Sir Maurice would be waiting for the news of a grandson, even if he dreaded what kind of creature her child with Rumpelstiltskin might be. Perhaps a new wife and new children of his own would distract him from wondering, and asking? Belle hoped so. She did not want to have to explain that Rumpelstiltskin was unable to give her a child, nor that she, in her selfishness, had been more afraid than glad when it seemed that there might be a chance.

She could not tell either of them that.

For the first time, Belle wondered if Rumpelstiltskin hoped. Secretly. He spoke of Baelfire with such passion and love. Did he want that again, in his heart of hearts, even as his words tried to make their barrenness seem a blessing? Did he long for her to place a new infant in his arms, and to know that love again? She had not dared to ask him, after he spoke so roughly to her that night; after he mocked the monster that their child might be.

Regina was wrong about one thing - Rumpelstiltskin had _not_ purchased his new bride in the hope of sons. If it had been in his mind at all, his resolve had failed him on their journey to the inn where they consummated their marriage. Regina was wrong about that, as well. Rumpelstiltskin had never required that Belle do her duty as his wife, nor by the contract she'd made with him.

It felt good to know that the confident queen could be so _wrong_ about Rumpelstiltskin. And she was wrong about Belle, as well! Wrong to think her a hapless victim, and to suggest that she was little better than Rumpelstiltskin's maidservant! Wrong, above all, to think her so desperate as to accept a place at court to escape her marriage.

But still, what did the woman _want_ with her? To taunt and inconvenience Rumpelstiltskin? To take his prize from him the way a child might steal another's doll? And what sort of magic did she have that drew Rumpelstiltskin away with her, when he barely seemed to tolerate her company at all?

Unable to think of what to put in her letter, Belle tidied up after her impromptu cookery, her hands trembling with the force of her unwelcome emotions. Oh, she didn't really imagine that Rumpelstiltskin preferred the glittering queen to his patient wife... not _really_... but that he knew Regina well, and shared the secrets of his magic and his work with her - _that_ Belle could believe.

And why not? From the very beginning - from their very wedding night - his wife had rejected his magic. He had told her that his magic would be her servant, and Belle had tolerated it only when it proved convenient for her! Rumpelstiltskin was a creature of magic, and if there remained a man at the centre of all that potent power, that man was not the whole of her husband. She ought to love the magic as well - the darker nature that Rumpelstiltskin kept so carefully contained, in her presence.

Biting her lip, trying to think on it without upsetting herself, Belle dried her hands and went to comfort herself beside the kitchen hearth. Her red blanket was there, though she did not recall fetching it down from her room. Had Rumpelstiltskin thought to put it there, knowing how she enjoyed her fireside? Belle tucked the blanket about her before opening her book. She could not make herself comfortable, with her aches and pains, but at least she was cosy.

Staring at her page without taking in the words, Belle leaned right back in the chair. A rocking chair would be nice, she thought; a rocking chair beside the kitchen fire, as Wren had. Perhaps there could be another in her new rooms. Belle tried to imagine Rumpelstiltskin in a rocking chair and grinned to herself; the image refused to fit comfortably into her brain. While her husband was capable of relaxing his body to a state of decadent sprawl, he seldom did so unless he was beside her in bed. Even at his leisure, he perched on his little spinner's stool with his back straight. All the same, Belle enjoyed thinking of how they would take their ease together beside their new fireplace - their new chambers _would_ have an enormous fireplace - and imagining Rumpelstiltskin with his heeled boots up on a footstool.

What did Regina picture, when she thought of them together? Not that, Belle was certain; not Rumpelstiltskin's ever-changing array of smiles, and definitely not his gentle hands on Belle's body. No more could Belle imagine King Leopold caressing Regina, nor know how his loving had been received. But Belle did not presume to know, nor mock the Queen for her choices.

Rumpelstiltskin had taken the woman's ugly allusions to heart, before. Would he this time? Was she tormenting him now with cruel words about how his little bride could not possibly want him? Could she find worse poison to sow, as well?

Belle closed her eyes, slipping one hand behind her to rub her aching back. She had only just coaxed her husband into openness, into risking her rejections and refusals when they were alone. Would the honey-voiced witch give him new doubts and fears to replace the old? Would she remind him of his looks, and of the things maidens looked for in their husband?

Perhaps she would not dare. Belle sensed no fear in Regina, but there seemed to be some grudging respect on her part for Rumpelstiltskin's power and influence, if not for his person. Perhaps she would go too far, and he would remind her that a mortal's magic could not protect against his own?

She shocked herself by smiling, grimly, at that notion. A woman irritated and offended her, and suddenly Belle wished the wrath of the Dark One upon her?! That was shameful! Words were only words, and if Rumpelstiltskin was swayed by cruel suggestions after all the acceptance his wife had shown him, then shame on him as well!

But... no. The misery reclaimed her, like a dark wave. Not shame on him, but shame on those who had taught Rumpelstiltskin to mistrust love and affection; to mistrust the very world. Had he ever known love, before?

His son, of course. His Baelfire. But that was a love cut with the agony of loss. It was plain that Rumpelstiltskin blamed himself for that. And not his wife, who had given him a son only to abandon them both. How could such a betrayal not leave an unhealing tear in a man's heart?

 _Elbows and dashed hopes,_ Belle remembered. She understood properly, now, and it brought tears to her eyes to imagine her husband coming to understand it, in that long ago, lost life of his.

Her kindness, Belle's kindness, was a thing beyond Rumpelstiltskin's experience. Even if there was no passion, ought there not be _kindness?_

Cross with her black thoughts, Belle pushed aside her blanket and stood up. She did not know where she meant to go, or what she might do to distract herself if a book could not do so, but in her impatience she could not be still. She tried deep breaths, as she plodded up the winding stairways to her chamber. When that had no effect, Belle tried giving herself a cheery talking-to about how fortunate she was. That didn't work either, only reminded her of how Regina sneered at her, and she found herself grabbing for clothes that needed washing and carrying them back downstairs to the laundry room. It was really too late in the day to begin such heavy work, but if the effort would absorb her and let her mind go still...

Belle was shivering with her skirts wet through by the time her small pile of clothing was scrubbed and rinsed. She sat down on the edge of the big rinsing tub to catch her breath before turning to the mangle, rubbing her half-numb hands together. Rumpelstiltskin would be upset with her, Belle realised, dully. He had told her that she should at least have hot water if she meant to do her own laundry, but the firebox beneath the big copper looked horribly dangerous, lacking ventilation or any means of control better than dumping the contents of a washing tub over it should the fire run away. She did not want to see the _look_ her husband would give her if she asked him to use his magic and, besides, he hadn't offered. Had he?

So set had she been on avoiding magic as far as possible, Belle had dismissed his reminders that his magic was her servant. He had not said that _he_ was her servant... not in _that_ way. Too cold and worn out to move herself, Belle rubbed at chilly wet arms and tried to think back to the things Rumpelstiltskin had said. That magic was the only servant she would need here. That the castle would see to her comforts.

Well, it did. The fires, the larder, her bath, her stool, the candles and lanterns. Even the doors swung open to make way as she reached for their handles! Her bedlinens were fresh each day, though always the same ones, and when she left her nightgown upon the bed and hoped that it would be clean...

Hers to call upon, Rumpelstiltskin had said. For her comfort or her vanity. His choice of words had so outraged her, in the heat of that quarrel, that Belle had never paused to consider his meaning. He had conjured her a dress there and then, squirming visibly at being asked to choose for her. It had been a wonderful dress, but he had willed it into being around her. That had not been what he meant when he said that his magic was hers to call upon, had it?

Belle felt lightheaded and thinking was a struggle, as if she had exhausted her brain with her spiteful little thoughts about the Queen. Feeling ridiculous, but too curious to stop herself now that the thought had entered her mind, Belle leaned forward to touch the rim of the washing copper. She thought of her bath, and of how the blissfully hot water rose and drained at her touch - had done from her first morning in the castle.

"The water could be a bit warmer," she said, apologetic as she stroked the copper rim with a reddened hand. She was apologising to a castle, as if reluctant to be seen to find fault with it! Clearing her throat, Belle gripped the rim and tried again. "Hot water," she said, trying to sound as imperious as she thought a wielder of mighty magic ought to sound. "Please?" she added, spoiling the effect utterly. Nothing happened, but... but as Belle sat back to regard the tub, she saw steam begin to rise, just gently. There had not been so much as a ripple on the dark surface of the water, but it had _obeyed_ her!

Disbelieving, Belle stood up and stuck her hand into the still water, only to snatch it back with a hiss of pain as her chilled flesh met hot water - even hotter than her bath!

"Oh!" Shocked, thrilled, frightened and giddy as a child with a new toy, Belle clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at the tub. She hadn't expected anything to happen, least of all exactly what she _wanted_ to happen. She understood _that_ about magic; it did not understand nuance or intention. Magic did as it was directed to do, as it was _willed_ to do.

Belle laughed, to let out a little of her shock and fright, and looked at her sad heap of soggy smalls. Bending, steadying herself on the rapidly warming tub, she picked one up and shook it out; her plainest pair of drawers, comfortable and so old that they were wearing to threadbare at the drawstring and in the gusset.

"Dry, please," she tried, once again embarrassed at the sound of her words. Nothing happened. She chewed her lip, regarding the soggy garment as she thought about it. Asking politely might be in her nature, but that wasn't the trick. Rumpelstiltskin said that magic knew naught of shame. It probably knew nothing about good manners either, or sheepish hesitation. "Dry drawers," she said, as firmly as she could, and thought of how they had been when she last put them on - fresh and clean, crisp and dry.

And they were.

One by one, the dripping wet garments and cloths dried for her. When she had the right thought in her mind, they dried as if they had been pressed with a flat iron, too. When her concentration wavered - which it did far too readily, in her excitement, with her mind racing ahead to what she might try to do next - all she got was exactly what she demanded - dry cloth, with the folds and wrinkles set just as they had been when it hung wet in her hand.

Lastly, when her laundry was a neat pile upon the kitchen table, Belle took off her wet apron and spread it across the fireside chair. That would dry well enough overnight, but the dress beneath was wet through from breasts to thighs. Belle looked down at herself, still shivering in spite of the hearth and the stove, and bit her lip again. Perhaps she ought to speak to Rumpelstiltskin about her discovery before she tried magic on herself. Supposing it went wrong and he wasn't here to save her from her mistake? But... clothes were clothes, whether she wore them or held them in her hand.

"Dry my dress," she said, near-chattering teeth making the words rather indistinct, but the magic understood her. Or was it the castle that understood her? Rumpelstiltskin's magic castle? In a moment, her dress was dry. The layers she wore beneath it were not. Belle laughed. It would not do to make unthinking requests, she noted. It could be a curse to get _exactly_ what you asked for. She spread her arms wide, looking down again. "Dress me in my cream nightdress."

Belle half expected the nightgown to appear over her dress, but the magic seemed to find some of its guidance from her thoughts, just as with the laundry. A tickle of magic all over, feeling only a little like it did when Rumpelstiltskin dressed or undressed her, and Belle wore the cream nightgown, just as she had wanted. As she had pictured in her mind. She glanced around, but there was no sign of her other clothes.

"Oh dear," she said to the empty kitchen. "Where did _that_ go?"

Much warmer without the wet clothing to chill her, Belle nevertheless picked up her red blanket and, folding it in half to form a triangle, draped it about her shoulders as a shawl. Her feet were bare and it was quite a long walk to her own room. The hot water bottle awaited her, she remembered, and her bed seemed suddenly much more appealing.

Carrying her bundle of clean laundry, Belle made her way upstairs. She still felt lightheaded, and realised only when she reached her room, with its large and uncovered windows, that she was once again readying herself for bed before it was truly dark outside.

Well, why not? Other than the letter she had struggled to write, what duties had she to keep her from curling up in bed if she wanted to? Even her husband did not require her attention, tonight.

Belle took one of the freshly clean cloths to wear, though she still bled hardly at all. Even that did not matter, she supposed; not if the castle's magic would obey her commands. If she stained the bed or her nightclothes she could mend everything with a word, just as Rumpelstiltskin could. The notion was unappealing, and Belle fetched one of her thick towels from beside the bath as well, to spread beneath her while she slept.

She closed the curtains, and then the drapes around the bed too - all but the end that faced the fireplace. Peeking into her wardrobe, she found the clothes that she had been wearing earlier and, yes, the petticoat and smalls were still wet, just as she had left them. Belle left them to dry on the fireside chair, grateful that her clothes had not found their way into Rumpelstiltskin's magical 'pockets' instead.

It was only when Belle got beneath the covers that she missed him. The hot water bottle had warmed the perfect spot for her feet. Now she wrapped the sheepskin around it and settled it against the small of her back to chase away the ache that had settled like a lead weight between her hips since the cramping stopped. After a moment or two, Belle tugged one of the many spare pillows beneath the bedclothes with her and hugged it to her chest.

How absurd, she thought; how absurd to miss him when he had been gone only a few hours! And when she had been so annoyed with him as well - more likely to snap at him and stamp her foot than to embrace him, as she longed to embrace him now. She shut her eyes and brought to mind the way he had held her that morning. How he had felt beneath her cheek, her arm and her knee. How he had stroked her hair, rousing her slowly to waking when she would have preferred to sleep on. The memory was a comfort that warmed beneath her breastbone, softening a little of the tight worry that had knotted up there.

"Blow out the candles," she tried, concentrating on having her thoughts right rather than articulating the words clearly. At once, her bedroom was in darkness.

Belle hoped that the castle wasn't getting cross about being ordered around.

Snuggling down, hugging the pillow tightly, Belle pushed aside the unwanted thoughts of the day. She did not want to think about Queen Regina and her barbs, or about a husband who itched to be off on some adventure with the woman. She tried to remember how she had felt last night; how touched and elated she had been when Rumpelstiltskin asked for a favour that he feared to ask; how her love for him had ached when he spoke of Baelfire, all unheeding.

If Rumpelstiltskin were beside her now... Belle wriggled, happy in the thought, and found that she had spread her palm against the cotton of the pillowcase as if to stroke. His skin, his hair or his silk nightshirt - she didn't mind. She loved to soothe him that way, or to excite him that way; to feel the strength beneath his extreme caution when he held her to him. She loved how he sighed at her touch, and how he turned his face towards her hand if she touched his hair.

Not long ago, such thoughts would have quickened her breathing and left her uncomfortable with wanting. Tonight, they were only a welcome comfort, soothing her on her way to sleep.

~/~/~

Breakfast awaited her the moment she woke up. Belle could smell bacon and other fried things, and wrinkled up her nose before burying it in the pillow she still clutched. She had scarcely moved a muscle in the night, which spoke plainly of just how much she had needed the long sleep.

Belle uncurled herself after a long while, recollections both pleasant and unwelcome flooding in to disturb her cosy comfort. She would have preferred kisses to awaken her, Rumpelstiltskin close and attentive and yearning for her. She had wanted to see if she could content him with her hand while she bled; the bleeding seemed to cool her own ardour, in any case. It would be nice to concentrate on his pleasure and to see what she might learn if her loving brought him another unguarded moment of plain speaking. She wouldn't have minded trying with her mouth again, as awkward and silly as she had felt before; he had liked it so much and wanted it so very badly.

But Rumpelstiltskin was not here, and once Belle was awake enough that she could not daydream otherwise, she sat up in bed and looked around, groggily. She had made quite the nest for herself in her canopied bed, walled off from the world by the curtains. The room beyond was still dark, another feature of waking up alone; when Rumpelstiltskin was here, he often let in a little light before she opened her eyes. Did he do it to ease her towards waking, or to see her better while she slept? Her heart skipped a beat at the second notion; that her husband enjoyed watching her before she awoke.

She peeked into her bright sitting room before doing anything else. The breakfast was still more generous than yesterday, Rumpelstiltskin apparently determined that his wife should not fade away through his neglect. She could not fault him for that, she supposed; not for coddling the silly girl who had missed so many meals that others could tell by simply looking at her. The food appealed to her no more than yesterday, but it would undoubtedly stay hot for her, so she went to enjoy her bath instead.

Where she had expected a flood of dark blood during the night, again there was nothing but a few smears; she barely needed the cloth for it. The pains had all lifted during the night and Belle felt as she often did after her worst bleeding came and went; calmer and somehow more certain of herself, and more comfortable without having previously realised her discomfort. She lounged in the bathwater, hair floating loose around her head and shoulders, and wondered if Rumpelstiltskin's magic would bring her new lotions and potions for her hair and skin if she asked it to. She had fetched her nightgown to the kitchen and sent away her day clothes; could she conjure things as he did, or would they merely arrive from further away?

Nervous of later discovering that she had snatched what she needed from the faraway dressing table of some unsuspecting woman, Belle thought better of it. Even if the poor lady found a pile of silver or gold in place of her hair tonic, she would be unhappy about it. Frightened out of her wits about the intruder in her chambers, at the very least! Rumpelstiltskin would probably find that amusing.

Only when her fingertips began to wrinkle and go a pasty white did Belle surrender the bath and wrap herself up in towels. She hurried to the fireside, dripping as she went, and crouched there until she was scorching her calves and hands.

Would Rumpelstiltskin come home today? He had said that his errand would take no more than a day. Belle took a deep breath, less eager for her husband's return than she expected to be. She still simmered inside about the manner of his going, and about Regina's provocation. It still gnawed at her that the woman was so familiar with Rumpelstiltskin, and with his home. It _hurt_ , and Belle could not understand why that should be. Rumpelstiltskin had been tender at their parting but... but she had felt his excitement, his anticipation. He had gone off to do who knew what with a woman who, unlike his wife, did not turn feeble when travelling by magic. And the Queen was such a beauty.

Vanity, Belle thought, dismayed, as she clutched her towels about her and looked at the dresses in her wardrobe. It was pure vanity to be upset that another woman outshone her! She was upset, nevertheless.

Love was certainly madness. It had changed her, marriage had _changed_ her, and how could she hope to earn Rumpelstiltskin's love if she kept changing when he tried to know her? Belle had come to him as his wife possessed of a quiet dignity, and all the certainty of knowing her purpose. He had admired her for it, for her determination and all that stubborn, _stubborn_ trust she had shown. She had worn him down with that; his bitterness and all his resolve, and lastly his fears of scorn and rejection. What would he do, what would he think of her, if she could not pull herself together and manage better than she had at being his wife?

Belle could wish all she liked that the world would leave them alone, together and absorbed with one another and _alone_ , but it could never be so. Rumpelstiltskin would not want that. Nor, in truth, would she.

Suppose that the Queen was with him when he returned? Belle fingered plain, sensible dress after plain, sensible dress until she came to her finery at the far left of her wardrobe. Her wedding gown and betrothal gown, and the plum coloured, hooded cloak with its smoke grey fur trim and its beautiful golden clasp. She liked the last best of all, and not only because Rumpelstiltskin had made it for her. Both the golden betrothal gown and her white wedding dress had made her feel something that she was not. The seamstresses had argued that she only displayed herself to her best advantage, but... but Rumpelstiltskin had understood her better, when he conjured her those gowns of magic for their journey. He had covered her shoulders, made her comfortable, seen to it that she was warm. Belle's very modesty, and perhaps her husband's jealousy of all that she possessed beneath, had been in the cut of the cloth and the lack of... of _display_. Yet they had not been plain, like her old dresses from home. Without any of Queen Regina's glitter, Belle had gone out into the world robed in her husband's wealth and power - in her own taste for simplicity but seen through her husband's eyes. A thing that enhanced her loveliness.

Belle had seen how beautiful he thought her, then.

Comforted by that, she took out yesterday's grey dress. It was in one piece, to be worn over a corset and petticoats that gave it its shape. She had always liked it, since she grew big enough to make use of her mother's old clothes, but it had already been altered and altered again to fit her. Now that the little sleeve straps were too tight and the lacing squashed her breasts a little too firmly, it required altering again. Or...

When Belle had declined any more clothing spun from magic, lest she find herself naked in public again, Rumpelstiltskin had mentioned that her existing clothes might be used. Changed, so that if his magic unwound she would find herself wearing an old dress rather than bare to the skin.

Hers to call upon... for her comfort or her vanity...

Belle held up the dress before her, trying to imagine what it might become. A brighter colour? A richer cloth? No, she realised; she was being too small in her thinking - too limited. Rumpelstiltskin's magic could do _anything_ , including enchanting an entire castle to obey his wife.

She brought to mind the dresses that her friend Leorna had worn during her courtship. There had been bows and flounces, ruffles... a seduction sewn into a dress without the finished garment ever being too showy for the status of Leorna's family. If she began there... and the dress must fasten where Belle could reach for herself... and the colours that flattered Leorna would not flatter her...

For one brief and bright moment, she saw it in her mind; saw the dress that hung in her hands become something new, and she pounced on the thought. "Change," she said, confidently.

And change it did.


	73. Just Belle

Belle passed the day upstairs, sweeping and dusting in the long corridor beyond the library. By the time she had finished, all of the shutters stood open and the glass windows behind them were sparkling clean. She called upon no magic other than to keep the water in her bucket clean and one cloth dry, and thoroughly enjoyed the breathless hard work of rubbing and scrubbing until the corridor was bathed in daylight.

The dim and dusty long room was swept, as was the smaller and even darker room beyond it. That room opened both onto the corridor and the longer room, but with both doors shut it was pitch black within. A pity, Belle thought, when she came to rest back out in the corridor with everything clean and tidy in her wake; if not for the lack of natural light the two rooms would be perfect for what she had in mind.

Oh well - it was clean, now, and the unshuttered windows brought a new life to the entire floor. Even around the corner towards the library, it seemed less gloomy. Belle thought of the ground floor, where every room was in perpetual twilight whether Rumpelstiltskin made use of it or not, and blew out her cheeks. He _had_ reminded her that his castle ought to have a certain atmosphere, and perhaps he was right about that. He would not begrudge Belle her bright and airy spaces, she was sure, but perhaps she ought not begrudge him his shadows and cobwebs, elsewhere?

She missed him, today. Yesterday had been the indignation, the hurt confusion. Last night she had missed his arms about her, the nearness of him and the comfort he gave her. Today... Belle _missed_ Rumpelstiltskin. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing. He was her husband after all, forever and always. Better to miss him when he was gone than to wish him gone when he was there!

Her mother had told her that she would be her husband's strength and comfort. No mention had been made of her husband doing her the same service in return. But, then, who else could understand the changes that had been thrust upon each of them? Happy or unhappy, in love or in loathing, they were in this together and had only each other to turn to.

Was Rumpelstiltskin missing her in return? Belle went and sat at the top of the stairs, skirts tucked neatly about her knees and with her bucket and mop beside her. What was he doing with Regina, and what deal had persuaded him away from his work? Rumpelstiltskin was certainly not in the business of helping people simply because they asked it of him. Whatever his past with the Queen, he would exact his price. Belle was sure of it.

Resting her chin in her cupped palms, Belle looked down at her shoes. She had meant to be more practical in her choice - far more - but they were so smart, and they raised her a full inch taller than she had been. That would be useful in the kitchen and elsewhere, where she struggled to reach the shelves.

Her belated and enormous breakfast had caused Belle to forget about lunch entirely. The dusty work had made her thirsty, however, so she gathered her things and made her way to the kitchen. Instead of making tea, Belle warmed some milk in her smallest copper saucepan, then took off her apron and settled in her fireside chair. Well past lunchtime, it was almost time for afternoon tea - the appointment with her husband that had fallen by the wayside, since their journey together. Belle minded that less now that Rumpelstiltskin was willing to spend his nights with her; it had been companionship that she longed for, and perhaps the simplicity of sharing something as mundane as a meal with the stranger she had married. With _anyone_.

And Rumpelstiltskin _was_ still a stranger to her, in so many ways. She knew his flesh, his fondness and his sorrow. She knew a little of his haughty power, his disregard for mortal affairs and something of his bitter temper. She knew that he cared for her far more than he had ever meant to or allowed for, and that to care for her conflicted with the work that he held more important than anything.

He sheltered her from that, her strange husband. Belle had thought that he meant to protect her, and had been as touched as she was infuriated by the notion, but now... now she suspected that he feared what she would say or do. That barrier at the foot of the turret stairs, the one that Regina had pushed her way through with insolent ease, had given way to Belle's will at a push once she called upon the castle to give her her own way. But she valued what trust Rumpelstiltskin showed her and had contented herself with finding out that the barrier would allow her hand through. If she wanted him to trust her with his work, with his 'nasty' secrets, she could not simply force her way upstairs and satisfy her curiosity.

Besides, given her present mood, Belle was not at all sure that she was ready to be trusted with such things.

The longer Rumpelstiltskin was absent, the more Belle despised herself for doubting him. The one thing that _everyone_ knew about the Spinner was that he honoured his deals to the letter, and had he not made it abundantly clear from the beginning that marriage was to him, above all, a contract? He would not deceive her in _that_ way, and if she asked about Regina - about their past together - Belle suspected that he would tell her. Hoped that he would, yet feared the hurt if he would not.

It all made her feel sick and weary - such fruitless irritation, such undirected bitterness. Belle liked it not one little bit. She liked this hitherto unrecognised aspect of herself not at all.

Soothed by the mug of warm milk, Belle sat at the kitchen table and managed to pen a few lines to her father. It need not be anything of substance, she supposed; better to receive a few lines about her thoughts on windowless chambers and vegetable soup than not to hear from her at all because she could not think of what to say. Belle found it difficult to comprehend that her father - her big, dauntless father - was a sickly man now. If her letters could ease any of his worry, and with it ease the burden on his failing heart, she would write of trivial nothings until her fingers bled.

Just as before her visit home, she did not know where to begin writing of her marriage, nor how much it was even proper for her to say. Papa had _needed_ to know that Rumpelstiltskin did not force himself upon her before he could begin to understand her refusal to be parted from her new husband, but how could Belle ever have put that in a letter? It was not done, not spoken of, in the same way that maidens were never told exactly what their wedding night might or should hold for them.

To remind Sir Maurice as best she could of their conversation, Belle mentioned that she had made Rumpelstiltskin a gift and that he had seemed touched by the gesture. It sounded so formal, so _empty_ on the page like that! The memory of Rumpelstiltskin's unguarded gratitude made Belle's innards squirm; made her want to throw her arms about his neck, to cling, to kiss him. None of that passion or happiness filtered down to the words she had written, but it would have to do. When she saw Papa again, she would remind him of Rumpelstiltskin's care; of how Papa had glimpsed one private moment and seen her husband tending to her hair.

Belle lifted a hand to touch her hair, remembering. She had bound it simply today, a smooth and neat ponytail at the nape of her neck that she'd tied with a silken ribbon. As ever, wisps of hair had escaped as the day progressed and framed her face now. She had been so long without a looking glass that she could scarcely recall how that looked - but it was how she often looked, how she had _always_ looked. It was Belle.

Unable to think of what to add to her letter, Belle wrote her good wishes to Lotte and to everyone, then signed her name. Just as she was tipping a drop of blue sealing wax onto the folded letter, she heard the slamming of the castle's main door. The result was an unfortunate twitch of her hand that gave her seal two smaller companions, and Belle waited impatiently for the wax to dry before dropping the messy letter into the magical box and, with rather more care, closing the lid.

Pulling off her apron and leaving it over the back of her kitchen chair, Belle hurried upstairs. She enjoyed the sound her new heels made upon the stones as she went, and the fresh breeze about her ankles where her dress and petticoats stopped mid-calf. The freedom of movement was lovely and so was the lightness of her new skirts.

Belle's eagerness flagged a little at the sound of Regina's rich laughter echoing in the marble hall. But she took a deep breath and crossed the enormous carpet in the great room, determined to relish her husband's homecoming anyway.

Rumpelstiltskin was at the far side of the table, watching the Queen with an unreadable expression, his hands folded neatly behind his back. Regina's sweeping skirts had been hitched up and tied to her belt to reveal skin-tight leggings of soft leather beneath, and she was caked with mud halfway up to her knee. _Adventure,_ Belle supposed, and went to Rumpelstiltskin's side.

"Ah, my dear," he said, and his voice was edging towards one of his tense, high-pitched giggles. Belle saw his gaze sweep over her, taking in the neatness and the cut of her bodice, the tempting black cord that laced it closed over her modest white blouse, and the expanse of skirts that ended at her calves to reveal fine, white stockings above her smart silvery shoes. His lips twitched with... what? Belle was not sure. Amusement, but more than that. She did not doubt that he liked what he saw. "I trust that you weren't too lonely?"

"For want of you?" Regina asked, her laughter sounding false. "Unlikely, Rumple." Belle turned to face her, frowning, and felt Rumpelstiltskin place a hand at the small of her back.

"It does get lonely here," Belle said, simply. "How was your journey?"

"Well, it's not the travel," Regina said, bending to shake out her skirts so that they fell and concealed both shapely legs and muddy shoes. "It's when one gets there." She gave Rumpelstiltskin a suspicious look. "Sometimes, I think your husband enjoys sabotaging my plans because he has nothing else to occupy his time."

"You came to me," Rumpelstiltskin reminded her, curtly, pointing first to Regina and then to his own chest. "And your _plans_ generally need some improvement. You don't need more magic, you need the application of an ounce of common sense." He stabbed his finger back towards her, hard.

"Improvement," Regina spat, all pretence at pleasant conversation failing her. She glared at Rumpelstiltskin, her dark eyes hard and cold. "I was almost _eaten_." She leaned forward as she said it, emphasising the word as though she thought Rumpelstiltskin hard of understanding.

Rumpelstiltskin made an impatient sound, his hand slipping across to curl at Belle's waist, drawing her to his side.

"That was _before_ I changed the plan," he said, easily. "Pay up, dearie."

"You--"

"No," Rumpelstiltskin grated. In an instant, moving impossibly fast to stand before the Queen, Rumpelstiltskin captured her gaze and held it. Regina's angry contempt gave way to a resentful fear, Belle saw; she _did_ fear the Spinner's wrath, if nothing else. "Negotiating's over, the deal is done, and _no-one_ breaks a deal with me," he said, standing so close to her that anyone less proud would have attempted to step back. Regina merely held his gaze, her fists clenched at her sides and her jaw tight.

For one dreadful moment, Belle thought that the Queen would add magic to the battle of words, and her heart was in her throat. She had no reason to doubt the outcome, should her husband fight a fellow sorcerer, but she did not want such a thing to happen. Not even to Queen Regina and her dripping contempt.

"I'll make some tea," Belle said brightly. Witch and wizard turned to look at her across the table, each too startled to give an immediate response. "Shall I?"

Regina could not have looked more astonished had Belle drawn a concealed sword. Rumpelstiltskin laughed, but stepped back from the Queen and gave her a tiny bow.

"My wife has spoken, Your Majesty," he said, gesturing gallantly to the open doors to Regina's left. "Shall we discuss it over tea?"

"Certainly," Regina managed, hiding her perplexity quite well - but not completely. She gave Belle a puzzled half-glance, then turned and swept through the double doors into the warmth and light of the carpeted room.

"Are you cross with me?" Belle whispered, when Rumpelstiltskin came and took her by the waist again to lead her after the Queen.

"I could devour you, mistress," Rumpelstiltskin whispered back, leaning towards her so that his breath tickled her cheek, and when Belle dared to look at his face, he was grinning.

Ridiculously pleased with that, Belle felt her cheeks burn with a blush.

Regina had seated herself at the head of the table again, legs crossed at the knee. Her painted fingernails drummed upon the polished wood of the table.

For one moment, Belle was tempted to show off her new understanding of the castle's magic by conjuring their tea tray with a word. But the moment passed, and Belle made her way quietly to the far door. As she began to descend the kitchen steps, Belle heard Regina say, "I think she's _fond_ of you, Rumple. I'd heard that love is blind, but _really_."

 _Dreadful woman,_ Belle thought, feeling her teeth grind together as she collected the tea things onto a large silver tray. To say such things when she was a guest... but that was it, wasn't it? Regina did not behave as a guest would behave in this castle; she behaved as though it were her home, or once had been.

A remnant of Belle's wounded pride made her bring out the very finest tea from the larder - the slim, blackened leaves that made the sweetest and most flavourful brew. Unlike the other supplies, this one did not replenish as she used it. Four or five more pots, she judged, and it would be all gone. A further remnant of her petulance made her hesitate with the silver spoon poised over the pot, begrudging the Queen even a taste of the tea that Rumpelstiltskin loved so. Belle rolled her eyes at herself and heaped four spoons of leaves into the teapot, just as her copper kettle began to whistle on the stove.

She returned to the great room to find a prickly silence between her husband and Regina. The Queen had not moved, but Rumpelstiltskin stood beside the fire, his back to the woman.

"Here we are," Belle announced, placing her tray near to the empty seat at the table and busying herself with laying out cups, saucers, sugar and the milk jug. "I'm afraid there are no pastries today," she went on. "They're best eaten fresh from the market."

"Odstone is such a quaint little village," Regina said. Her courtesy could have etched glass. "And so loyal to their master."

"Tested that, have we?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, sourly. Regina laughed, and this laugh did, at least, have some genuine amusement behind it.

"Of course I have." Regina nodded politely enough when Belle set a cup and saucer before her.

Rumpelstiltskin turned to face them when Belle brought his cup to him - the chipped one, just as he liked - but his nod of thanks was taut and he ignored his tea in favour of watching Regina drink hers. Belle poured her own last, while Regina sweetened and stirred her cup with dainty movements. Two lumps of sugar, Belle noted; one white, one brown, and plenty of milk. She would remember, because something told her that there would be other visits. Whatever was between them - whatever _had_ been between them - this woman was a part of Rumpelstiltskin's life.

"Tell me," Rumpelstiltskin said, while Regina and Belle sat and sipped at their tea. "If you wished to come to a village - a district - protected by the most powerful magic, and do mischief there..." Belle could almost see him in her mind's eye, pantomiming casual indifference with a wave of his right hand, "...say, to slay every boy-child while harming no other. How would you go about it?"

Regina arched a well-plucked eyebrow at Rumpelstiltskin.

"Is that your way of asking for a favour?" Belle watched her, curiously. There had been not a flicker of recognition in Regina's expression as Rumpelstiltskin spoke; certainly nothing that might indicate guilt or fear. It was as if she had not even _known_ of Odstone's tragedy. "It's not like you to hesitate to dirty your hands."

"A theoretical question," Rumpelstiltskin assured her. Belle could _feel_ how intently he watched the other woman - perhaps with senses that went far beyond mere sight, too. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "A puzzle. How would you go about it?"

"I know you better than that," Regina reminded him, and took a slow sip of her tea. "But perhaps not so well as I thought," she added, her gaze straying to Belle for a moment. "Well, something would need to be brought within the area of protection, wouldn't it? Something more powerful than y--" she bared her white teeth in a terrible little smile. "Than the protection in question."

"And concealed how?"

Regina gave a delicate shrug.

"Perhaps someone took advantage of a moment of weakness? No boundary is flawless. You taught me that." She turned her gaze from Rumpelstiltskin to Belle and back again, then placed her palm at her throat as if recoiling in sudden realisation. " _All_ the boy-children?"

It was her indifference that truly appalled Belle. That she would mock the tragedy seemed merely a part of the game in progress between Rumpelstiltskin and this woman, but there had been not a hint in Regina's eyes or expression that the murder of children concerned her. She did not know them; they were nothing to her. All that interested her was that Rumpelstiltskin had been bested.

"My payment if you please," Rumpelstiltskin said, darkly. He put his cup and saucer down beside Belle's left elbow, his tea untouched. "You've kept me from my wife long enough."

"What a tragedy," Regina said, deadpan. She held out her right hand as if demanding something of Belle, but there was a cloud of smoky magic there. It faded quickly to leave a small, slipper-shaped brass lamp in the palm of the Queen's hand. "I can't think what you want with it," she said, placing it on the table and sitting back. "Nobody's home."

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin said, leaning past Belle to take up the lamp. "A fine addition to my collection." He sounded thrilled, and Belle could not tell, without looking at him, whether that was genuine or otherwise. "Do let me know," he went on, walking to the far end of the room to his glass fronted cabinet, "next time you have something of interest to me."

Regina laughed, and for all that it was false it was still a musical sound - a lovely sound. Belle rose when the Queen did, and followed her out into the hall. A glance over her shoulder showed Rumpelstiltskin engrossed in the contents of his cabinet, as though Regina had been forgotten entirely.

"Goodbye then," Belle said, unable to let the visitor leave without some small courtesy on her own part.

"Goodbye, Belle." Regina stopped in the doorway, turning to face her. "Love is weakness," she said, not unkindly. "He taught me that. When he remembers, you may have need of me."

Belle did not know how to respond to that, so she did not. She stood, her expression stubbornly still, and waited for the Queen to leave, then watched her stride down the gravel path to the gates. Belle barely dared take a breath. Once outside the gates, Regina vanished in the same cloud of magic that Rumpelstiltskin used to travel.

Swallowing, Belle closed the door and leaned her back against it, breathing hard.

Rumpelstiltskin remained at the open cabinet, rearranging this and that as he looked for a spot for his latest treasure. Belle hurried to him, half afraid that he would be angry with her for interfering in his business and half overcome with relief that they were alone together once more. She stopped at the edge of the carpet, watching her husband's hands drift over several of the objects he had moved.

"Seen her off, treasure?" Rumpelstiltskin settled the brass lamp on the middle shelf and stepped back to swing the big glass doors shut.

"Yes," Belle said, nervously. "Ought you to have told her about the children?"

He turned to face her, then, and Belle could see that he was still bristling.

"I had to be certain that it wasn't her doing. Besides, she might have had a bright idea. Your husband has none."

Belle nodded, bowing her head. All the hateful questions were coming back to her; all of the remembered hurt and anger and spite. All the humiliation and doubt. Only memories, for the most part, but they had _burned_ in her yesterday until she was driven to distraction.

All she could feel now was shame and confusion.

"Shall we have our tea, now she's been driven from our halls?" Rumpelstiltskin put his arm about her shoulders as she turned to go with him, back to the table and the fireside. "Are you well, my dear?"

"Yes," Belle said, even that simple answer faltering on her lips. "I missed you," she said, feeling the need to let those words out before she burst. "I did." She would not have Regina's words poisoning Rumpelstiltskin's thoughts.

Rumpelstiltskin moved the tea things out of the way, then lifted Belle gently by the waist and sat her upon the table. He perched upon the armrest of her abandoned chair, himself, and offered his hand for her to hold among the folds of her skirt. Belle looked down to watch their hands join, both of hers wrapping around his left and clutching at him. She remembered her attire, saw Rumpelstiltskin studying her linen skirt curiously, and felt a new blush begin.

"The castle does whatever I say," Belle said, small voiced. "I didn't realise. I didn't think, before."

"Husband and wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, with a crooked little smile. He gazed up at her face without a trace of condemnation. "All that's mine is yours, my sweet. Certainly my castle is yours. My magic will serve you. Gowns, jewels... whatever you desire."

Belle saw him look to her dress again, as if to ask, without actually being so indelicate as to _ask_ , why a girl discovering such power at her fingertips had dressed herself like a modest provincial maid.

"I don't want that," Belle confessed, feeling wretched. His careless generosity frightened her. His _magic_ frightened her. "Whatever I need, but not..." How could she explain? How could she put into words the realisation that had arrived with the transformation of her ill-fitting grey dress into this airy outfit of blue? "I wanted to be beautiful, like her," she said, after a moment. Before Rumpelstiltskin could say anything, she shook her head. "I tried... I wanted... I'm still _me_ ," she explained, urgently. "Gowns and jewels, pointless riches... I'd still be Belle, just the same, underneath. What's the use in hiding and hoping you don't notice?" Her throat had tightened horribly. "I'll never _glitter_."

Rumpelstiltskin's jaw had gone slack. He stared at her, plainly not having the first idea of what to say. Neither did Belle. Reddening, her ears burning, Belle looked down again at their joined hands.

"Like her?" he asked, after far too long. His voice was thin and hesitant. He gestured to the place at the head of the table, the abandoned teacup. " _Her?_ " Belle nodded, chewing her bottom lip. "What made you think I want that?" Not one ounce of his shock was exaggeration, Belle realised. She had rendered her nimble-tongued husband near speechless with her pitiful little confession.

"She did, I suppose." Ashamed, afraid that she would cry, Belle turned her face away from him. She clutched at his hand all the harder as she did so. "She knows this place. Acts like she _belongs_ here."

After a little while, Belle tried to look at him again. Rumpelstiltskin's head was slightly bowed, his brow knotted in the deepest of frowns. Belle could feel her palms sweating and loosened her desperate grip on his hand, but Rumpelstiltskin withdrew the hand only as far as her left knee.

"If she is unkind to you then I will punish her," he said, finally. Fresh malice hardened his expression and his eyes when he lifted his head again.

"No!" Belle gasped, and saw the certainty crumble away from his face again to be replaced with a frowning frustration. "You can't... you don't punish someone for having a cruel _tongue_!"

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, withdrawing his hand and straightening on his wooden perch.

"What, then?" he asked, rather tartly. "What am I to do?"

"Do?" Belle shook her head, blinking back tears. They were at cross purposes now, and she had stung him, and he must think her so foolish for indulging herself in such hollow thoughts! "You don't have to _do_ anything," she choked. "You... you give me your arms and... and tell me not to cry and... and make me feel less _stupid_ for doubting you when you've been so kind."

Hesitantly, Rumpelstiltskin did as she said, but he touched her so lightly that it was as if he feared she might explode. Ready to scream at herself, Belle reached her arms around him above the waist and buried her face against his leather coat. He tightened his arms, then, and comforted her, though one of his hands resorted to nervously ineffectual little pats between her shoulder blades, and his breathing was shallow, careful, as though he feared that the least thing might provoke her further.

"What is it that you doubt?" he asked, when Belle was no longer snuffling back tears and clinging quite so hard to him. "What have I done? I don't understand, Belle." There was something pleading beneath the softly spoken words.

"Nothing," Belle managed, pushing suddenly at his chest until he let her go. She slid down from the table, shook out her skirts and hastily wiped her cheeks with her hands. They were mostly dry. "Nothing. I'm being a stupid, selfish little child. I'm sorry." She went to the fireside, unable to face Rumpelstiltskin, but he trailed behind her and just stood there in the circle of firelight with her, waiting. Out of the corner of her eye, Belle could see him clenching and unclenching his hands by his sides. "I want to be a good wife," she told him, trying to steady her voice. "Not this."

After a long pause, Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the right-hand chair. He'd want to be anywhere but here, now, Belle thought. She remembered their first days, and how pained he had looked while trying to negotiate her moods and objections; how tender he had been in accommodating her, for all that she frustrated and alarmed him, and how her honesty had unlocked his heart to her. Slowly, afraid to see what he thought of her now, Belle turned around and faced him.

"When my first wife and I quarrelled," he said, gingerly offering her his right hand, "she was always _very_ clear about what I'd done wrong." He tried a rueful, hopeful little smile.

"Oh..." Belle went to him at once, took the offered hand and clasped it against her belly. "No, no. I'm sorry." She managed a deep breath without snivelling. "Your friend Regina makes me feel that she belongs here more than I do," she explained, not sure that the words were right, but certain that she could not leave her husband fishing in dark waters. "She's so beautiful, and she has magic, and she knows you better than I do. I was jealous."

"Jealous?" he echoed, weakly. "Treasure, if you want to be a queen, a queen you shall be," Rumpelstiltskin promised. "I cannot give you magic. I wouldn't if I could, but what's mine is yours." His voice was soft, strained. Belle knew that he was afraid of doing and saying the wrong thing, just as she was. "And as for beauty... oh, Belle." Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin tore his gaze from hers and looked at his knees. He let go of her hand, his own falling. "You've been too long without a looking glass."

Belle managed a damp little laugh. "Yes, I have," she agreed, her voice steadier than before. Making a decision, Belle sat herself primly on her husband's knees, facing to his left, and heard him let out a breath of relief as she did so. "I'm not jealous of Regina's beauty," she explained, Rumpelstiltskin's honest inability to take her meaning giving her patience. "Not of her magic, and not of her _crown_ ," she stressed, trying hard not to laugh at the idea of Queen Belle. "But she brings those things here and... and sits in your chair, and goes up to your tower as if the barrier isn't there, and my husband goes away with her for... for an adventure, and a _lamp_."

"It's a _magic_ lamp," Rumpelstiltskin explained, eagerly. "Don't polish it," he added, more soberly. "I prefer it empty."

Belle turned herself to look at him, and watched him reach for her waist with timid slowness. When his hands were there, one at her back and one at her belly, he met her eyes.

"Were you hers before you were mine?" Belle asked, quietly. "Is that why she scorns me so, and knows her way around the castle?" _And around my husband,_ Belle thought, but the thought felt shameful.

Rumpelstiltskin's naked shock was her answer. He just stared at her.

"Hers?" he managed, after a few breaths, his eyes growing ever wider. "No!"

 _Groping in the darkness,_ Belle thought, aching with guilt and guilty relief. _Both of us, not knowing how to find our way._

In the terribly awkward silence, Belle bit her lip. Rumpelstiltskin moved his hands, cautiously - one to the small of her back, where the slight padding beneath the skirt emphasised her womanly shape, and the other up so that he could trace the slender trim of tan suede that finished her bodice. Curious hands, and an innocent touch, Belle realised. The thought filled her with warmth. He only wanted to explore her neat new dress, and find out what had given his wife a new fullness at the hips. Once satisfied that she was not encased in whalebone nor too stiffened with reeds to allow such a thing, Rumpelstiltskin hitched her nearer with a jog of his knees, and put his arms around her properly. Belle slipped her arm behind his neck and rested her head against his, closing her eyes at the familiar scent of his hair, and the softness against her cheek.

"Not for a lamp," Rumpelstiltskin said, when they had been still for long enough to relax their limbs and breathe normally after their mutual relief. "I need Regina alive, and had I not gone with her she would be dead. She is... necessary." He spoke with slow care. Belle listened with care, as well. "And now that I've won the lamp from her, I can keep her sad pet of a genie from spying on your mirror."

"You can?"

"I think I can," Rumpelstiltskin said. He was trying not to sound too smug, but it wasn't working. Belle kissed his temple. "Even a freed genie has a connection with his lamp."

"She freed him?" That didn't sound like the haughty Queen.

"Her husband did." Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her, carefully. "Never trust in wishes, little wife. They bite." He emphasised the words with a tiny pinch to her ribs that made Belle squirm and stifle a giggle. "Now," he said, sitting up straighter and adjusting Belle upon his knees again. "If you've stopped being an unfathomable mystery, my dear, I'll beg a kiss?"

"I'm sorry," Belle said, shamefaced, and bent to touch her lips to his. Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, pressing back at her, lingering just as long as she allowed him against her lips. "I thought such ugly things," she admitted, not feeling that she deserved a kiss, nor any of this wary understanding. "I'll try not to be so unfathomable. Or so silly."

"I don't abandon you lightly," Rumpelstiltskin promised, still looking rather hunted. Frustrated. "I promise you. You are... temptation, my sweet. Sweet temptation." He ran his fingertip down the lacing of her bodice. Belle watched his face; watched him follow the fingertip with his eyes, and with such longing. "And one day things can change."

Belle gave him another kiss, holding his face between her palms this time and parting her lips at the nudge of his tongue. His regret was as genuine as her own shame.

Kisses led them to rapid breathing, to greedy little touches, and it was with an unsteady sigh that Rumpelstiltskin eased her away from him. His wide-eyed alarm at her behaviour had calmed into something soft. He was watchful and worried for her, but no longer poised as though he wanted to flee.

"Let me find you a looking glass," he said, tipping her from his knees as he stood up, then taking her left hand and leading her towards the hall. "I won't have my wife doubting that she's the most beautiful woman in the world."

As always happened when Rumpelstiltskin said such things, Belle's stomach seemed to flip over and her breath caught in her throat. She could have floated all the way up the stairs.

In her room, a covered mirror stood near to the window, angled to catch a good light on a fine day. Rumpelstiltskin gave her a mischievous smile, leaving her at the bed to approach the tall mirror himself. After a moment's hesitation, he tore away the dusty brocade covering and faced his own reflection, hands on hips.

"Regina has her genie bottled all over again," Rumpelstiltskin explained, running his fingertips down the sides of the curved wooden frame, in just the same way that he sometimes touched Belle. The sight made her shiver. "I don't know how she managed that. He's in the mirrors. Any mirror near to her. Impressive," he said, with a sarcastic little bow to the glass. "Anyone with a little magic can watch through a looking glass, but it's... difficult. Tiresome magic. More trouble than it's worth. Suppose you're sleeping when something good happens? One can't be watchful _all_ the time. Can't be looking in the right place all the time. But her pet genie can."

"That's terrible," Belle protested, suddenly very glad that she had opted for obedience when it came to mirrors. Queen Regina watching her put up her hair or paint her lips... well, let the creature watch. But a _man_ with a view into her _bedroom_... "Why doesn't he refuse? If he's a prisoner... has he no honour?"

"Good question." Rumpelstiltskin wore a look of rapt concentration as he ran a fingertip right around the margins of the glass, bending gracefully to reach the lower edges. "I imagine Her Majesty can be persuasive, when she wants to." As he completed the circuit of the glass, a yellow glow began at the edges. When he stepped back, hands spread before him as if in readiness to catch something, the golden-yellow glow ran inwards towards the centre of the mirror, filling the glass entirely.

The brass lamp appeared in Rumpelstiltskin's waiting hands, and he regarded it with his head cocked to one side. Belle grasped the bedpost, thrilled to witness such magic and her imagination captured by his tale of a trapped genie. Slowly, like a man dipping a vessel in a pool to fill it, Rumpelstiltskin brought the lamp towards the glass. The yellow glow began, very slowly at first, to swirl around the point where the brass touched the glass. It grew faster, then faster still, and Belle took two steps nearer for a better view.

She almost jumped out of her skin when a face - a man's face, bearded and dark - appeared huge in the glass. He looked confused.

"Genie," Rumpelstiltskin said, as though welcoming a long lost friend. "Remember me?"

The genie scowled, dark eyes hardening above strong cheekbones.

"Rumpelstiltskin," he said, with contempt for the name that others feared even to speak aloud.

"I have your lamp," Rumpelstiltskin said, knocking it lightly against the swirling centre of the mirror. The genie tried to look down at a body that he did not appear to possess, then glared at Rumpelstiltskin anew. "Visit _this_ mirror again and you'll be sucked back inside," he said, in a pleasant sing-song of a voice. "Mortal, and so very, very tiny." Rumpelstiltskin held up the thumb and forefinger of his free hand to demonstrate a height of just over an inch, his voice turning high and squeaky. He twisted his face into a parody of a man admiring something small and adorable. "And then I'll wish you into hell for trying to spy on my wife. Or I might just set the cat on you. Are we clear?"

"I'll be sure and tell Her Majesty to pay this mirror _special_ attention herself," the genie sneered.

"You do that," Rumpelstiltskin snapped, and with an irritable wave of his hand the face was gone. Slowly and carefully, he bent and lowered the brass lamp towards the narrow shelf at the base of the mirror frame. The fading golden swirl of magic followed it, dragged out like the wake of a boat. By the time he had placed the lamp upon the shelf, there was only the glass of the mirror, still and ordinary. "Regina's easy," Rumpelstiltskin muttered.

Belle rather doubted that anything concerning the Queen would be _easy_. She went closer, and stood at Rumpelstiltskin's elbow. The excitement of his magic was upon him, and the smile he gave her was all terrible teeth and glinting eyes.

"If you would, my dear?" He gave her a very small bottle of what looked like murky water. "Off with the top, now."

As Belle removed the glass stopper, Rumpelstiltskin opened his palm again and one of the teacups appeared there, still three-quarters filled with tea. It was almost white with milk, and had one perfect impression of red-painted lips astride the rim. Regina's cup. Belle gave her husband a questioning look.

"Regina believes that to will a thing is to make it happen," Rumpelstiltskin explained, delicately picking something from the inner rim of the cup where it had caught on the rouge mark. "Little details tend to escape her. Much like the Princess Snow," he added, with another cruel grin. He beckoned for Belle to raise the little bottle, and dropped in one tiny, curled eyelash. The murky brown water turned a fizzing green, then perfectly clear.

Once it seemed that nothing more would happen to it, Belle gingerly offered her husband the bottle.

"Drink it down, my treasure," he urged, the teacup vanishing from his hand. He rubbed both hands together, excitedly. "Drink it down and the witch can't touch you."

Belle gave the bottle a wary look.

"Drink it?" He nodded, eagerly, his eyes shining. "It's got bits of Regina in it," Belle pointed out, wrinkling her nose.

"Needs must," Rumpelstiltskin said, shrugging. "You're an irritation to her, little wife. A puzzle she cannot solve. An annoyance, an affront. She'll try to use you, and if she fails at that... I can protect you well enough from the likes of her, at least." He tipped his hand towards his lips in a sipping motion, looking hopeful. "Drink, treasure, and be safe. Please?"

It would put his mind at rest, Belle could see. Nodding, bracing herself, Belle gulped the potion down in one. It tasted of nothing but pure water, and fizzed slightly in her throat on the way down. Rumpelstiltskin's happy smile made Belle smile too.

Gently, he drew her to stand before the mirror, watching her reflection over her shoulder. His hands were at her waist. Belle stared. She _had_ been too long without a looking glass. She looked... older. Just that. Older, and smart in her blue dress and the white sleeves that fastened at her wrists with three, tiny pearl buttons apiece. She looked like Belle. Just Belle.

Rumpelstiltskin gazed at her reflection, enraptured. By Belle.

A thought struck her, and Belle glanced down at the brass lamp at the foot of the mirror.

"You don't have a cat," she said, frowning. Meeting Rumpelstiltskin's questioning look in the mirror, sighing with enjoyment when he circled her waist with his arms and rested his temple against hers, Belle nodded to the lamp. "You said you'd set the cat on him."

"I'll get one," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. "A dozen. They'll keep down the mice."

"We don't have mice," Belle laughed, remembering that she was not the only unfathomable mystery, here.

"We'll get some," he said again, and squeezed her hard, planting a wet kiss where her soft lace collar met her neck. It tickled, making her squeal and squirm and remember just how much she loved him.

The Queen would grow old and grey before she ever solved _that_ puzzle. Belle would spend the rest of her life trying to solve it as well. But Belle didn't mind one little bit.


	74. The Wall

"Now," Rumpelstiltskin said, when he could tear his gaze from Belle's reflection. "Your gift." He turned her to face him, hands at her waist, and whatever he saw in her expression made his cheeks darken rather.

"I thought the mirror was my gift," Belle managed, too swept away by his magic and his admiration of her beauty to think clearly. She wanted to kiss Rumpelstiltskin; throw her arms around his neck and clasp him to her. She wanted to make amends 

"That one was overdue," he said, wrinkling his nose and flapping his hands in dismissal. "A matter of opportunity and need. I brought you a taste of far-off lands, my treasure."

"Oh?" Intrigued, Belle followed him to the door of her sitting room. She very much liked the sound of far-off lands. "Is that where you went with the Queen? Far-off lands?"

"Not so very far," Rumpelstiltskin said, "but to the sea, where a trading ship had docked." He pointed to the small table, and to the glass bowl that sat upon it filled with... well, Belle supposed that they must be fruits! She had never seen the like, and went to pick up the largest of them. They were roughly oval, as large as her palm and heavy, their mottled skins green and glossy, shading to yellow and orange at one end.

"A taste of far-off lands!" Belle laughed, turning it over and over in her hands. "Thank you!"

"I'm told that they're prized for their flavour and their health-giving qualities," Rumpelstiltskin said, still behind her in the doorway.

Belle put the big fruit carefully back among the others, then turned to give her husband the kiss that she had longed to give him since he stared at her reflection in the looking glass. He leaned back against the door and caught her against his body, hands against her back. They both closed their eyes and kissed. Just kissed, without the temptation of wandering hands this time. They were getting quite good at kissing, Belle thought, and the extra height lent by her new shoes did no harm there.

"Mmm," he mumbled, after a long while, turning his face to deny them both the next kiss. "Temptress."

Resting in the circle of his arms, her weight against his chest, Belle smiled. "I'll stop." Rumpelstiltskin's hands tightened on her back at once.

"No need for that." He kissed her cheek, her temple. "I wasn't objecting."

"Then tell me about your adventure," Belle said, breaking free of his arms only to catch him by the hands and, walking backwards, draw him into the bedroom. She would have led him to the bed, but remembered her blood with a little pang of disappointment. She could not love him as she wanted to, not today. Instead, she took him to the fireside, kneeling beside the chair while he sat. "Tell me what almost ate Regina?"

Rumpelstiltskin chuckled, folding his hands together in front of him.

"An extremely large crab," he said, without a shred of concern, "that was guarding an extremely large and magical pearl." He made snapping motions with thumbs and forefingers, clicking his teeth together. "She'd barely have rated as a snack."

Wide-eyed, her imagination suddenly crowded, Belle stared up at him. "She risked her life for a jewel?"

"A _magical_ jewel," Rumpelstiltskin corrected, unfurling his index fingers and wagging them at her. "It's power she wants, not trinkets. Don't be fooled by the glitter, little wife. Power's the thing."

Slightly crestfallen, Belle sat back on her heels.

"What about the adventure?"

He blinked at her, then tilted his head to the right, studying her.

"Anything trying to eat me would be sorry," he said, thoughtfully. "I'm not sure that's adventure, my dear, even so."

"I suppose not." Belle looked at her knees. Was it silly of her to want to see such things? Not magical pearls and enormous crabs, as wondrous as those things sounded; the trading ship with its cargo of exotic fruit would have been enough. The newness of the place by the sea. _Experience._ And hadn't she had that here, with Rumpelstiltskin, in this very room? In that very chair where he now sat, watching her with slightly worried eyes as he tried to comprehend the unfathomable mystery that was Belle. He had shown her wondrous things, new things, undreamed of things inside herself.

It wasn't the same. Experience, but not _adventure._ Why did she long for that, when adventure included the likelihood of being eaten by something bigger than she was? Yet again, Belle felt too young and foolish for this new life of hers. This husband.

Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward and lifted her chin. "My little wife who wants to see the world."

"Who can't spend a day in a carriage without feeling sick," Belle said, sadly. "I think I'd have to walk to my adventures."

"Now, now." Rumpelstiltskin stroked his knuckles against her cheek. "First Odstone," he reminded her. "Then the Kingdoms. Then across the sea. If you don't mind your old monster coming with you, that is." He tried to look appealing, playful, but to Belle's eye he looked unsure. She rubbed her cheek against his hand.

"Of course I don't." His shyness made her shy in turn, and his sweetness made her ache beneath her breastbone. "Adventures must be better with two."

Belle wanted to kiss him again, and to lose herself in kisses until her jaw hurt too much to continue, but Rumpelstiltskin sat back in the chair again, grasping the armrests and watching her. He was nervous, and nervousness strained his gentleness with her into something that made Belle uneasy.

"You can't really think that _Regina_..." he began, in the tones of one begging for understanding while apologising for the very question itself. He got no further, but she understood.

Chewing her lip, Belle shook her head, too ashamed to look him in the eye.

"You were so eager to go with her," she explained, her voice thick. She had felt his magic dance about him like a pack of overexcited hounds before, and always at the prospect of going, of making his mischief in the world. "That was all." But that wasn't all, was it? "Has... has she ever lived here, in the castle?"

"Would that upset you?" Hunted again, falling back onto pantomime and silly voices, Rumpelstiltskin spread his hands. "If she once haunted these halls as she learned her craft from the master?"

"Did she?" Belle had never managed to be as careful with the truth as Rumpelstiltskin tried to be. Truth was truth. You found it out and went from there. Faced it for what it was. Rumpelstiltskin danced around it, as though it might burn him if he kept still.

"Sometimes." Unhappy that she had brushed aside his evasion, he tucked his hands into the opposite sleeves, looking fixedly at where the leather cuffs touched together. "As my guest. My pupil." He sneered the last, but quietly, the bitterness turned inward. "Not the triumph I anticipated."

"She seems powerful to me," Belle said, but rather meekly. She knew little of magic, after all, and all that she knew of Regina's magic was how _present_ it felt when the woman touched her.

"She is that." Restless, Rumpelstiltskin returned his hands to the armrests, tapping with his fingers. "Why such an interest in the Queen, my dear?" Although he spoke gently enough, there was a new sternness in his voice - something sharp that had not been there for a good while. "You've no interest in my work."

Belle stared at him, lips parted on an indrawn breath, as speechless as Rumpelstiltskin had been when she asked if his heart had once belonged to Regina.

"You don't tell me anything about your work to be interested _in!"_ she protested, eventually, her voice more shrill than she would have liked. "It's all such a big secret, up there in your tower. Too _nasty_ for your little wife."

Rumpelstiltskin flinched. So did Belle. She had never thought herself such a dreadful scold! "Of _course_ I'm interested in your work," she added, quickly, trying to reach for reason, but afraid that she had done too much harm already. "It frightens me, the things you've said. But it frightens me not to know, as well. More, if _she_ knows and I don't."

"Regina again." He stood up, quickly, throwing his arms wide in frustration, but he did not go far. He stood at the end of the mantelpiece with his back to her, right hand grasping the stonework while the other flexed at his side. "She is no threat to your position, my Lady. No rival for my devotion. Can that not be enough?"

It would need to be enough, Belle could see. Perhaps he would tell her all, if she forced his hand, but he would not thank her for it, nor love her for it. Did he not deserve the trust that he asked for?

"Forgive me," Belle said, steadying herself on the chair as she climbed to her feet. She felt shaken by her own depth of feeling, and by the realisation that Rumpelstiltskin was trying extremely hard to keep his temper with her. She was infuriating him! How could he entrust the work of lifetimes to her if she questioned his motives for something as trivial as entertaining the Queen? "I think she brings out the worst in me."

To her relief, Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders dropped by an inch and he nodded, swallowing before he turned to face her again.

"And in me," he said, gravely. "The very worst. I cannot--" Wringing his hands at his sides, Rumpelstiltskin briefly met her gaze. "You are too dear to me to be touched by this. By any of it. You are..." He shook his head, struggling for the words. "You cannot know the things I must do, Belle. The things I've done."

Belle reached for his hands, left then right, and grasped them gently while she watched his face. His words only saddened her.

"You were sure that I wouldn't want to share my bed with this," she reminded him, lifting his hands to her chin and giving each an impulsive little kiss; green-grey and mottled hands, the skin raised and ridged and pebbled so strangely; the hands that gesticulated and fidgeted when he was anxious, and that stroked her skin until she sighed with want. "That I'd leave the moment you stopped the castle keeping me here. Why are you so _afraid?"_

Rumpelstiltskin tried to twist his hands from hers, but Belle held on. Squeezed harder. She feared for a moment that he might vanish in his cloud of purple smoke rather than stay to face her earnest question, but stay he did. His eyes held hers, big and unblinking, and Belle could _feel_ the weight of lifetimes upon him. _A heavy life,_ Wren had called it, and she had sounded sorry for it. She had been right.

"One mistake," he breathed, eyes crinkling with the pain of things remembered. "One misstep. One rash choice. That's all it ever takes to ruin everything." He was pleading with her to stop, now; she could see it in his eyes. Stop, kiss him, or let him flee, but press him no further. Belle's heart was hammering away, half in her throat she had frightened herself so badly. Her mouth felt dry and her stomach heavy as lead.

"Is that what I am?" Oh, she hadn't meant to say that! The words seemed to drift out of her, sounding hollow to her own ears; her voice gone weak with the fear that his answer might be 'yes'. She had pushed him for truth, and what if he gave it and she couldn't bear it?

"You are... the only bright thing in the world," he said, finally freeing his hands as her grip went weak. "I tread in fear of snuffing you out, mistress." Rumpelstiltskin leaned towards her as he spoke, the words a soft snarl. "Be _thankful_ that your husband is so afraid." He made to push past her towards the door, but Belle caught at him - one hand seizing the front of his coat, the other his left arm, and pulled him to her for a kiss. His growl of dissent was muffled by her mouth, her frantic kiss that tried to convey apology and forgiveness, terror and certainty. Belle only knew that she would scream if she did not _show_ him what words kept twisting up and making wrong between them.

Perhaps there _were_ no words for it, or perhaps it was only that Rumpelstiltskin took the wrong ones to heart. He gave the kiss back to her in a rough and grasping silence, hurting her arms where he gripped her above the elbows; startling the breath out of her when he pushed her back against the warm wall beside the hearth and dragged the kiss from her lips down to her jaw, then her throat. Belle gasped, touching her own lips with her tongue for the taste of him while he denied her his mouth. She had one hand behind his neck, buried under his stiff collars, and the other beneath his coat, behind him, clutching at the top of his breeches to pull him harder against her.

Belle could sense the weight of those lifetimes upon her husband; feel it in the raw desperation of his kisses and hear it in the noisy, ragged breath against her skin; it was in the way he ground himself against her belly while he growled his frustration, as if seeking for something just beyond his reach. She longed to comfort him, to wrap herself so tightly around him and never let go, to _reach_ him across the gulf that separated him from his happiness.

"Oh," she moaned, excited by the fierceness and the haste of it. When his lower teeth grazed her throat between rough kisses, Belle felt her toes curl up inside her new shoes. "Rumpelstiltskin," she croaked, shaking as hard as he ever had in her arms - so much that it turned her fingers to water, leaving her grip feeble and fumbling, so that her shifting hands excited him all the more.

When she could, she kissed him. His ear, his temple, his hair - the thin air where he had been but a moment before. Rumpelstiltskin did not return to her mouth, devoting himself instead to claiming every inch of bare flesh between her throat and the collar of her modest white blouse. Belle felt dizzy from the heat of his mouth, the insistent grinding against her lower belly. He was hard, inside the supple leather of his breeches; had grown hard from rubbing against her like that, from kissing her like that. Her own excitement was bunching up deep inside her, ready to grasp at him when he entered her. The very fact that he denied her any generous touch below excited her. Her fear excited her. His panting urgency excited her. Belle let her head fall back against the wall, giving herself a hard knock, and surrendered her body to all of it, floating on the joy of _experience_ , while an obnoxiously rational little part of her mind clung on and twittered, asking if it were possible to come without anything more than this between them.

It felt as though she might, when she felt his hands pulling up skirts and petticoats, and heard him groan when she whispered a feeble 'oh, yes' in response.

Rumpelstiltskin hoisted her up by the waist and pressed her back against the wall, gasping when she wrapped her legs about his thighs; it brought her the pressure where she wanted it, albeit through her drawers and a thrice-folded cloth, and tore an uncontrollable little laugh from her throat. Face to face with him and pinned, safe in his strength, Belle wrapped her arms about Rumpelstiltskin's neck and gazed into his eyes. He was burning for her, maddened for her, and when she tightened her legs about him and locked her ankles behind him, he kissed her as if she had withheld her kisses for a month. He shoved his cock between her legs as if she'd never let him touch her before.

It was hardly comfortable, clinging to him and being squashed against the wall while he ground between her legs, but it felt blissfully good; wicked and free. It made Rumpelstiltskin all the more _hers_ in a way that her addled thoughts could recognise but not comprehend. It was as well that their tongues and lips were frantically busy, because Belle would have spoiled it with words otherwise; she could feel them building up as her climax built, ready to spill out of her and complicate something that, for his sake, should be left raw and pure between them.

His fingertips were bruising where he gripped beneath her thighs, supporting her weight without effort even as his kisses became feeble and clumsy; his thrusts between her legs short and sharp. It was his gasp that finished it for Belle - a shuddering, open-mouthed gasp with his lips against hers, as if Rumpelstiltskin sought to devour even the breath in her. Belle squirmed, helplessly seeking more sensation as she came in his arms. It shook her all over, locking her limbs about him and driving her to bury her face against his shoulder to muffle a squeal of both frustration and absolute elation. Were it not for his heavy coat, she would have clawed the flesh behind his shoulders as she clung and wriggled and tugged.

Belle's knees buckled when Rumpelstiltskin let her slip down to the ground again, and she plopped to her backside in an undignified heap beside her husband's boots, skirts and petticoats bundled all about her thighs, a small 'oof!' of surprise escaping her. Above her, Rumpelstiltskin put his arm against the wall and buried his face against it to lean there, panting.

Covering her mouth with her hand, Belle wasn't sure whether she was about to laugh, sob or whimper. She kept the hand there until she was sure that she could control herself, then tried to climb to her feet. Stepping on the back of her own skirt, she ended up where she'd started, grunting her surprise.

"Are you all right?" Rumpelstiltskin sank to his knees before her, reaching for her then pulling his hands back, unsure. Belle nodded, still not trusting in words. His relief passed over his entire body, then, unlocking the rigid shoulders and back. He bowed his head, exhaling a shaken breath and nodding.

Oh, he looked so lost! So defeated! Belle swallowed to moisten her throat and managed to coordinate her limbs for long enough to straighten out her skirts, covering her knees and stockings with her blue linen skirt which, now, was rather tellingly crumpled.

And to think, she had feared he might have shared _this_ with the Queen. His hope and his frailty came hand in hand with his passion, and his heart not far behind. The Dark One, on his knees. He showed this aspect of his nature to no-one. No-one else. Belle touched Rumpelstiltskin's cheek, hesitantly. It would not have surprised her to find his skin wet with tears, but there were none. She tucked a lock of hair back behind his ear, where it would never stay no matter how often she put it there.

"I love you, Rumpelstiltskin." Her voice was deep and husky with weariness. It was a pleasant weariness, spreading from the overworked muscles in her legs and softening as it found the rest of her, leaving her heavy-limbed and perfectly content to sit on the floor where she had landed. As long as Rumpelstiltskin was there too, at any rate.

Closing his eyes, he turned his head and clumsily kissed her wrist, then her palm, then raised his own hand to keep hers there at his cheek. Such tenderness after that wanton struggle of limbs and... and other parts. Belle watched his face, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb while Rumpelstiltskin calmed himself. Or perhaps it was her touch that calmed him, until his jaw slackened and his brow lost its furrows, and he lifted his eyes to hers, afraid of what he would find in answer to his unspoken question.

Belle felt as if she was _glowing_ with her contentment, and hoped that he could see it. She hadn't the energy for a smile, but knew that he must see in her eyes that he'd done nothing that required apology or forgiveness - that his wife was elated, quite apart from being unharmed. Her hand shook with the effort of reaching out to him. "I think you've worn me out," she confessed, letting her arm fall to her side. She felt spent as she had never been spent before, her head full of clouds. It was marvellous.

Without a word, Rumpelstiltskin got to his feet; stooped; lifted her in his arms. He looked so serious, Belle thought, touching his face with a dreamlike absorption. He was being so careful, as slow in his movements as he had been when first he touched her. "Come to bed with me," Belle whispered, afraid to let him leave her when it was like this between them - when she could feel his fears and regrets so near and ready to consume him.

He met her gaze at last, surprised but not hunted this time. Still silent, he let the magic play over them both and then tucked her between the sheets, following close after her and meeting her when she reached for him with arms and legs. With every fibre of her being. Her hands found silk against his back, wonderful silk. Her own arm was clad in the thick buttermilk silk of her nightgown, and it was only then - only as she fumbled for a drowsy kiss with Rumpelstiltskin - that she remembered cloths and blood and bedsheets. Belle bit her lip, nose to nose with her husband. There had been so little blood, but...

"What's wrong?" Concern at her sudden stiffening dragged Rumpelstiltskin from his silence. "Did I hurt you?"

"No!" Belle clutched at his back, as if by holding on tightly enough she could keep his doubts from crawling back and coming between them again. "It's not that." She gave him the delayed kiss, sighing when Rumpelstiltskin plucked at her lower lip with his teeth - so gently now that it brought tears to her eyes. "I didn't know about..." she smirked, embarrassed. "About doing it _that_ way."

A little smile lifted Rumpelstiltskin's grave expression, then. He nudged some of the escaped hair away from her cheeks although, by now, Belle could feel that she had more escaped hair than she had ponytail left. The ribbon was somewhere at the level of her shoulders.

"Did you like it?" he asked, his voice small with bashfulness.

Belle nodded, her mild embarrassment transforming into a scarlet blush. There hadn't been time to think about it, about how he could have been _in_ her instead of leaving them to struggle for satisfaction through their clothing, but even _that_ had been exciting. She felt as shaken as the first time; as much transformed as the first time he'd made her come. That had been beside the fire, too. Perhaps there was something about it. Perhaps it was _their_ place - the place for new truths. Her blush deepened as she remembered a night at the inn, with fur cloaks upon the hearth rug and Rumpelstiltskin's busy mouth _everywhere_ , their skin washed with warm firelight.

"I like everything," she confessed, a deep, warm chuckle finding its way into her voice. "Belle the wanton."

"Belle the beauty," countered Rumpelstiltskin, his smile widening. There was a sense of relief between them; of a fragile moment having been negotiated without mishap, and safety on the other side of the chasm. "The most beautiful woman in the world."

She touched her forehead to his, closing her eyes. They had tangled their arms and legs when they came together beneath the bedclothes, trying to be as close as they could possibly be. Belle drew herself away, now, with a sharp sense of regret at being the one to break the wonderful moment.

"Wait for me," she urged, not certain that he would stay if she didn't ask it of him. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, staying still when she climbed over him and out of bed to slip into her bathing room. A cloth, and then she could curl up and sleep beside him without having to think about the sheets. But Belle found that she needed no cloth. Although she was slick from her pleasure, not a trace of blood was upon her thighs nor staining her nightdress.

That couldn't be right, could it? Belle frowned, trying to put her unease down to the slight strangeness of it, but for it to stop so soon...

It was in a thoughtful mood that she returned to Rumpelstiltskin, easing herself into the bed beside him. He had moved to the middle to await her return, and she could see the lump of her hot water bottle caught between his feet. He welcomed her into the comfort of strong arms and plump pillows, kissing the top of her head when she settled her back against his side.

Belle wanted to feel glad that she could invite his touch again, but it couldn't be right. Not bleeding for only a day or two like that, and so lightly that she could have managed without her cloths. It had never happened to her before, not even when she first came to womanhood.

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her, burying his face in the nape of her neck. He was drowsy; he would sleep a while if she did not disturb him. Belle was glad - glad that he would rest and glad of the peace between them after such an exchange of words. Of truths. She found his left hand, draped at her hip, and squeezed it. He pushed closer to her in response, a contented little sound in the back of his throat.

Sleep took her for a little while, but it was shallow and restless. She never lost her awareness of Rumpelstiltskin behind her, and her mind kept picking over the memory of their quarrel - if that was what it had been - and of the Queen's visit. She dreamed of a huge crab that snapped one monstrous claw at Rumpelstiltskin, guarding a cave mouth piled high with glossy fruits, and she dreamed of Regina's laughing voice. "I'd heard love was blind, but _really."_

When she woke up, Belle was lying on her front, half smothered in a pillow, and she could not tell whether she had dozed for an hour or slept the day away. Heart pounding, sweat-soaked and baking, she twisted and sat up, sighing out a breath when she found Rumpelstiltskin at her side, asleep with one arm flung up behind his head on his slope of pillows. He had slipped down almost as far as Belle had, so that only his face and the outflung hand protruded from beneath the bedclothes.

Her Majesty had never seen that, Belle thought, wiping perspiration from her face with her sleeve and waiting for her heartbeat to slow after the strange jumble of half-dreams. Regina had never seen Rumpelstiltskin sated and sleeping this way, no matter what secrets she knew about his magic, or what adventures they had shared. Had anyone seen him like this? Belle longed to touch his face, but he slept so little and she did not want to disturb him. Had his first wife sat and watched him sleep, her heart ready to burst with all that she felt towards him? Had she ever had to tighten her hands into fists to keep from reaching for him, waking him so that she could love him again and remind herself that he was real?

It was never the sorrow of grief, when Rumpelstiltskin spoke of Baelfire's mother. It was a hunted look, such as he had shown when Belle questioned him about Regina; it was bitter in a way that his grief for Baelfire was not. There had been betrayal, not loss, and recent events had given Belle an inkling of what an agony it would be to be betrayed that way. Abandoned for another. But had they ever been lovers, Rumpelstiltskin and the wife who betrayed him? They had made Baelfire together, but that wasn't the same thing. Belle knew now that it wasn't the same thing at all. _Elbows and dashed hopes,_ she remembered, bending slightly at the waist to watch him more closely. His eyelids were twitching slightly in his sleep. _Every bit as tiresome as I remember._

Belle sighed. These were things that Rumpelstiltskin did not wish to share with her. His other wife, his past, the _reasons_ for his fears and doubts. He was so unlike her, this man who guarded his heart and hoarded his hurts; her openness and her trust were as baffling to Rumpelstiltskin as his reticence and mistrust were to her. And somewhere in the middle they met and... and were wonderful together. Chance, Belle supposed. All the willingness and effort in the world couldn't give birth to passion. Perhaps to a comfortable affection, a lasting fondness, but not to this _burning_ that she felt for him, and he for her.

If Belle was honest with herself, it frightened her too. All that emotion, so big that one heart seemed fit to burst with it. It _was_ madness. But it _was_ love.

"I can feel you watching," Rumpelstiltskin murmured, making Belle jump slightly. He'd given not the least sign of moving from sleep into wakefulness, until he spoke. "Hear your mind going tick, tick, tick." He opened his eyes, stretching himself and slithering back up to occupy his pile of pillows. "My Lady?"

"I like to watch you," Belle reminded him, joining him and resting her head on his arm. Rumpelstiltskin fingered her sleeve, delicately. "You know that. I think about you, too."

"What do you think about me?"

"What you're afraid of. What you want from a wife. How it feels when you kiss me and do things I never imagined." She smirked helplessly, saying the last part. It was all so much easier to _do_ than it was to talk about! "The things you've told me about your life." That felt dishonest. Frowning, Belle gripped the front of his nightshirt and added, "And the things you haven't."

Rumpelstiltskin cupped the back of her head in his hand, sighing.

"I have my reasons, treasure."

"I know." She hadn't meant to renew that quarrel - oh, _truly_ she hadn't! Only to speak honestly to him! "I... I'd like to know one thing," she went on, faltering. "Her name. Your wife. Your first wife. Seems a bit disrespectful to always think of her as 'she'."

His fingers curled, nails catching at her scalp for just a moment before he checked himself.

"Milah." Belle felt his chest rise and fall more rapidly for a few breaths, but then he began to pet her hair, calmly. "You need not think of her at all."

"How can I not?" Working a fingertip beneath the braided gold cord that closed his nightshirt, Belle frowned as she considered it. "She broke your heart."

A laugh burst from Rumpelstiltskin, harsh and heartfelt. It seemed to startle him every bit as much as it startled Belle.

"No, treasure," he said, the dark merriment still in his voice. "Not that." The hand that was not toying with her hair gestured as he spoke, emphasising his struggle to put words to the thing. "She left me my heart, my boy. It was everything else she broke."

Hurting for his bitterness, Belle curled herself closer to his side and slid her arms around him; one beneath his back, burrowing across the pillows, the other across his belly to hold on tightly.

"I shouldn't be curious, I know," she said, weary at herself. "I always want to know everything, to understand things properly. But I shouldn't pry, and remind you when you want to forget. I'm sorry." She shut her eyes, tightly, and turned her face to press against his nightgown for a moment, leaving a kiss behind when she turned her cheek again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't upset yourself," pleaded Rumpelstiltskin, giving what remained of her ponytail a couple of gentle tugs to emphasise his words. He spoke so gently; sounded so anxious. So _ordinary_ , for a moment, that Belle could imagine lifting her head and finding that Rumpelstiltskin was once more a man, pale-fleshed and careworn in place of her magical husband. Her mystery. _Hers._

"I can't seem to do anything else, lately," Belle laughed, slightly damply. "I'm always making myself cry for no reason. It's so silly."

With gentle insistence, Rumpelstiltskin peeled her away from him and had her sit up. Belle straddled his thighs rather than let herself be dislodged entirely, and knelt there with her hands upon his shoulders, his hands upon her hips.

"You're unhappy," he said, watching her intently. In the fading afternoon light, all the colour seemed washed out of him, and his pupils were huge and dark in their overlarge irises, drinking her in.

"I'm not," Belle protested. "That's just it, it's _silly_ crying. And then I'm with you and I'm so happy that I can hardly bear it."

"Treasure." It was only a whisper. Rumpelstiltskin reached up, his right hand brushing back her messy hair. "How does a man make his wife happy?" He shook his head. "I never knew. Not even when I _was_ a man." He caught her elbows, urgently. "I can give you _anything_ you desire."

Belle nodded. He could. It was no boast. Anything. Everything. His magic could give her anything she might desire or dream of, but that wasn't happiness. Dresses and jewels were lovely things, objects to be enjoyed, but that wasn't _happiness_. Did Rumpelstiltskin _know_ that?

"I know you can," she promised, leaning down slowly to kiss his brow. "Even your castle spoils me, and it's _wonderful,_ " she stressed, not wanting him to doubt it. "I'm not unhappy being Rumpelstiltskin's wife." Belle touched her lips to his, relieved when he answered with the brush of his lower lip against hers, closing his eyes. Words failed them and frustrated them, but this didn't. Not kisses.

Pulling her against his body, hugging her tightly, Rumpelstiltskin teased her mouth in shameless encouragement. Belle needed little enough of that, but she liked to witness his wanting; to know that he ached as she did when they were parted, even for a little while.

He was gentler than before, though no less passionate. Hands beneath her nightgown, Rumpelstiltskin seemed to want to touch her everywhere at once, while Belle was content to be touched, and to express her approval in deep, intimate kisses that filled her head with pleasant clouds.

Too soon, though, Rumpelstiltskin turned his face away and stilled his hands, quivering slightly beneath her with the effort of reining in his hunger. Belle heard her own protest, a faint sound of dismay that came quite unbidden, and pushed herself away so that she could see his face again.

"You bleed," he said, breathless with regret. "It doesn't trouble me, but..." he let the sentence die, his expression crumpling in apology. Belle had been so carried away that it took her a few moments to understand. She licked her lips, then swallowed, trying to think again.

"It stopped," she said, and felt the pang of worry again. Her _husband_ knew that it ought to have been longer before... "Is that... is it done?" she asked, and felt her face come alight with a flaming blush. "I thought..." Belle remembered _Of Hearth and Stove,_ with its silly admonitions about baking and washing her hair while her blood flowed.

Rumpelstiltskin had blushed a little too, she was relieved to see. Amusement was replacing his nervous dismay, however, and a wicked gleam crept into his unblinking eyes while he watched her squirm. Belle tried to look stern, but spoiled it by fingering the curls that tickled his left cheek. _Rumpelstiltskin,_ she thought, watching the gleam in his eye spread and become a quirky little smile, all intrigued and unapologetic. _The Spinner, the Dark One, the Stealer of Babes. He's hardly afraid of a little blood, is he? Not even that blood._

Only her sensibilities concerned him, Belle supposed, her insides a-flutter as she recalled how gallant he had been last month. He had missed her terribly, but he had waited, obedient to her unspoken wishes. She had been so grateful for his silent understanding - for not needing to _explain_ herself to her new husband. She had liked that, liked the tender concern and the distance of his respect, until the last day or two when she found herself checking her cloth and cursing her own flesh for keeping her parted from him. "I thought that it wasn't done," she declared, finally, and Rumpelstiltskin's teasing smile became an evil grin. Belle flicked him across the cheek with a hank of his own hair. "That silly book you gave me says that I mustn't bake bread or brew beer, or do anything but sit around and look martyred when the blood comes," she protested. "How am I supposed to know if nobody tells me? Nobody tells girls anything!"

Laughing at her outrage, but so fondly that she could not be cross with him, Rumpelstiltskin patted her rump, gently.

"Perhaps we should find you another book, my sweet. I fear you may not be innocent enough for that one, any longer."

"Oh!" Belle shoved at his shoulders, laughing; blushing as hard as she ever had in her innocence, but laughing with him at the folly of the world, and at herself, and at his gleeful relish for her despoiling. "It would take a whole _library_ for me to catch up with you!"

Rumpelstiltskin only looked more delighted. Lacking any words that could match him, in her flustered state, Belle bent and gave him another kiss instead.


	75. A Puff of Smoke

For all that his precious work awaited him upstairs, Rumpelstiltskin seemed in no hurry to leave her bed. Belle relished that, while they kissed each other to breathless distraction. Daylight became soft candlelight, and kisses became unhurried loving with Belle astride him, Rumpelstiltskin's hands busy everywhere beneath her nightgown. She felt full up with words again, but contented herself with sighs - with watching her husband surrender slowly to the pleasure that she brought him.

Afterwards, he conjured a tray of tea things with a careless wave and sprawled among the pillows while Belle ate bread and jam, cross-legged atop the bedclothes. He accepted a cup of sweetened tea with a lazy smile, but waved away any offer of food.

"It must be a waste of magic," Belle said, cradling her cup between her palms and watching the candlelight reflected in the liquid. "To live without eating, without sleep. It must use up magic when you do that, keeping you strong."

"It's mine to waste," Rumpelstiltskin said, shrugging. "You might say that the price was paid long ago. What have I to lose?"

Belle watched him, over a few sips of her tea. He'd conjured the very best for her - the black, fragrant tea that had been wasted on their unwelcome guest. Belle liked it with a tiny dash of milk and one lump of sugar; it was reviving, and a luxury that Rumpelstiltskin seemed content to enjoy with her.

"Everyone has something to lose," she decided, eventually. It was hard to think of it when they were together this way; when Rumpelstiltskin occupied the head of her bed in a state of palpable relaxation. Even if she tried, she could barely perceive his magic, now. He was just a man, reclining there with his tea and humouring his wife in idle conversation. Just a man, with the skin of a toad and the eyes of a hawk, and the power to tear down the world if he so chose. Belle shivered, curling herself around the warmth of her cup. "Regina said that love is weakness," she said, thinking aloud without knowing where the thought was going. "That you taught her that."

"So it is," Rumpelstiltskin said, ruffled out of his lazy indifference. He bought himself time with a long drink from his cup. "What you love, you can lose. The fear of loss is weakness. Better to be without love, I'd say."

"But here you are," Belle pointed out, indicating her luxurious bed, and the room that he had meant to be her retreat from all dealings with him. "You don't want to be without love any more than I do."

"Such dark thoughts." He twisted his right hand in a showy gesture, his face taking on one of his endless masks. This one was not quite a mockery of concern.

"If you wanted an empty headed wife who thinks only the pretty thoughts," Belle said, firmly, "you made the wrong choice."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, gently enough. "I can think of nothing I wanted less," he assured her. "But can I not fill you up with happy thoughts?" He waggled his fingers at her, as though casting some spell. A spell for happiness, Belle thought; that _would_ be a trick worth knowing. "What does my wife want?"

"Happiness isn't about the things you want." He kept offering her things - wonderful things, welcome things - as if they could bring happiness with them. "It's... it's something you find," she decided, contriving to sound more certain than she felt. "Something you cultivate and then try to share."

Holding out his cup with an appealing expression, Rumpelstiltskin smiled when Belle took it and filled it again from the pot. He was tired, she thought; they ought to curl up and sleep together, and share happiness while it was theirs to share.

"Do my gifts not make you happy?" he asked, as she returned the cup to him, full again and sweetened just as he liked. His eyes avoided hers, then, and Belle sighed to herself. Contentment, perhaps. Pleasure, oh yes. But understanding seemed so far beyond their reach.

"That you thought to give them," she said, gently. "That you think of me, treasure me. That makes me happy. That you thought of me while you were having your adventure with the crab and the pearl. That you knew I'd love to try the fruit because it was from far away."

"Of course I thought of you." He looked so innocently puzzled by the suggestion that he might not; that a husband leaving on important business might not give a second thought to the wife he left at home. "I think of you often. Too often," Rumpelstiltskin admitted, ducking his head over his cup and trying to hide a sheepish smile.

"Well _that_ makes me happy," Belle said, trying to sound sober about it but unable to contain her smile. "I think of you too."

They finished their tea in a bashful silence. Busy arranging things on the tray and sucking a smudge of jam from her thumb, Belle did not notice that Rumpelstiltskin had moved until his arms came about her waist from behind, his head nudging against hers.

"And this?" He slid his hands upward from her waist to her breasts, covering them lightly with cupped palms. "Are you content in our bed, treasure?" Rumpelstiltskin asked easily enough, yet Belle knew better than to give an easy answer. Of all the truths, she could be sure that _this_ truth mattered to him. She covered his hands with her own, pressing his palms to her breasts.

"More than content," she promised. Even confessing to that much still brought colour to her cheeks, but Belle remembered how she had regretted not telling him. If her sighs and moans and grasping limbs were not enough to put his mind at ease, she would find the words for him as well. It would probably be a lot easier if she did it while he knelt behind her, out of sight and unable to see her flaming cheeks. "It amazes me," she said, telling herself firmly that the words were not false just because she had to reach for them, and double check her meaning before she spoke them aloud. "I hoped to find contentment when I married. I never expected to find it in my husband's arms. In _bed_." Belle wrapped her arms across her chest, pinning his hands beneath. "Thank you," she said, with a hushed sincerity. "Thank you for being patient and kind, and generous, and for showing me..." she had to laugh at herself. "Adventure."

Well, it was one. Every time, an adventure in his arms.

Rumpelstiltskin kissed her shoulder, where her gown had slipped to expose bare skin. It was almost chaste, as kisses went, and certainly as kisses went while Rumpelstiltskin had his hands on her breasts. Belle tightened her clasping arms. "Are you content?"

"Most satisfied, dear wife." She felt him smile against her skin, soft and tickling. "Most... gratified." Another kiss. "Most willing to accompany you in your quest for the new and the exotic." A quiet laugh shook both of them, rattling the tea things on their tray at Belle's knees. "Most fortunate." Another kiss, this one where her shoulder joined her neck, and lingering, moist and warm. Belle's limbs went weak so easily at such small gestures of seduction. Rumpelstiltskin could chase away her very thoughts, just by speaking softly, playfully, and nuzzling at her skin. "And most easily distracted from my work."

"I could lock the door," Belle mused, controlling her smirk. "Shut you out. Would that help?"

"Probably not," he conceded, failing to sound particularly remorseful. "But work I must." Sighing, Rumpelstiltskin sat back and took away his hands. After a moment, Belle felt him slide the ribbon from her hair, where it had been doing little enough to keep her neat and tidy. "Yet not neglect my wife. Not leave her lonely. What am I to do?"

"Perhaps," Belle said, turning herself around slowly and feeling magic tickle the soles of her feet as Rumpelstiltskin made the tray vanish, "you ought to have finished your work before you took a wife?" It was the gentlest of jibes, yet Rumpelstiltskin nodded in glum agreement, as if Belle had spoken in all seriousness. Cross-legged, he looked down at the long ribbon he now held, still tied into a loop where he had slid it from the end of her hair. Once again, he seemed so _ordinary_ in his moment of reflection; brow furrowed, mouth tightened, hands toying fretfully with her ribbon. "One day you'll be able to tell me," she said, with determined good cheer. She leaned forward and took him by the hand, just as Rumpelstiltskin drew the bow from her ribbon and pulled it taut. "And then it will all be all right."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin did not look up. He studied the back of Belle's hand, instead, as if he meant to memorise every tiny feature of her skin there. His expression was suddenly frozen.

"One day might be a long time in coming," he said, so quietly and so seriously. "There's been so much to do. So many... missteps." Bringing his hands together, dislodging hers and balling up the length of silk ribbon, Rumpelstiltskin dropped it into her lap and made to rise. Belle watched him shrug his shoulders, nightgown becoming his well-tailored shirt and waistcoat over leather breeches and elegant boots. He stood with his back to her, but half-turned over his shoulder when he spoke again. "Your husband fails, mistress, and fails again. Regina doesn't know _that_ about me."

 _And I won't tell her,_ Belle thought, more pleased than she felt she ought to be with the confidence. No man admitted abject failure lightly, or to just anyone. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, she laid her hand at the small of Rumpelstiltskin's back. When he turned, reaching for her, she pressed her face against his chest and hugged him tightly around the waist, the metal buttons of his waistcoat digging in everywhere. Unhurried, Rumpelstiltskin rubbed her back and petted her hair, then clasped her close and held her for a long while.

"I'll return to warm your feet," he promised, eventually easing free of her. "I take my duties as your husband seriously," he added, quirking a tiny, playful smile at her. "Rest yourself, treasure," he urged, playful becoming an apologetic pleading. "You have some colour again." He nudged beneath her chin with a crooked finger, studying her face. What he could see of her colour in candlelight, Belle could only guess. She nodded, anyway. He was right, she _did_ feel better, even if she did not think that rest was the cause. She had been busy and quite cheerful, sweeping and cleaning, until Rumpelstiltskin returned home. Her weariness now was well-earned; the healthy kind that promised a deep and refreshing sleep. Rest she would.

Belle did not know what to make of her husband's mood, as he left her. He seemed calm, as calm and contained as she had ever seen him, yet resigned somehow. Resigned to Belle and to her troubling, inconvenient ways? She sat a while and gnawed at her lip, after Rumpelstiltskin had trudged upward towards his work. He wanted her, Belle _knew_ that he did; he cherished her, _enjoyed_ her oddities and the puzzle of her, but time and again she felt that he would breathe a sigh of relief if she simply... went. Home to her father, perhaps. If she took it upon herself to reverse his misstep in marrying her, Belle felt that he would be _grateful_.

The thought brought a lump to her throat, but there were no tears. Whatever Rumpelstiltskin's regrets, he did not blame her for them. That was easier to bear than the unspoken sense of a bristling resentment in him, whenever she failed to do as he had expected of her. It was not what he _wanted_ of her. Rumpelstiltskin expected the world to slight him - waited for it to do so with a vicious, self-defeating relish where another man might have held dread or feigned indifference.

It was too early to go to bed, Belle decided. Then, as she opened her wardrobe and looked for something to wrap above her nightgown, she corrected herself; it was too early to go to bed unless Rumpelstiltskin cared to join her. Long, lazy evenings abed with her husband had gone from seeming shamefully self-indulgent to seeming... comfortable. Smiling, Belle found her thickest shawl, another of her mother's things, and wrapped it about her shoulders. Not so long ago, she would not have dreamed of spending the evening wandering about the castle in her flimsy nightgown. Now, in an old green shawl and her thickest hairy stockings, Belle went slowly downstairs.

She had meant to go to the kitchen, but the warm light of the great room drew and held her. The kitchen would be warmer, and she was goosefleshed from her brief minutes in the cold passages and stairways, but there was the fireplace. Two chairs, now, where there had been one. Two chairs at the table where there had been one. Rumpelstiltskin had given her no clearer sign that she was wanted here in his castle, his home; to share his life and his future. Two chairs where there had been one. Belle curled herself up in the nearest of them, extending a hand towards the fire. "Burn hotter," she said, and felt watched again, self-conscious and silly, as she always did when she commanded the castle. Perhaps she would get used to it, if she did it often enough, but Belle preferred to squirm and to _remember_ that it was very strange to ask a fire to give more heat, or a washing copper to boil.

Wren would disapprove, Belle thought, as the crackling flames made a warm nest of her armchair. Wren seemed to disapprove of all magic. She had accepted the potion to still her choking cough only because Belle begged her to do so, as a favour.

Belle would have to go back. The knowledge came to her dully - bald fact devoid of meaning. She had counted her days, she had bled when she ought, but...

But. She pushed aside the tassels of her shawl, flattened the silk over her belly and stared down at the shape she made. But you couldn't know by looking, could you? Not for months, and she had been a wife for mere weeks. A month ago she had bled, the same as always, so if there was a child...

Pulling the shawl back, crossly, Belle drew up her knees beneath the loose skirt of the gown and hugged her legs. If there was a child in her, it had been made not a month since. She could know _that_. Her belly would be flat if it had happened or not, wouldn't it? From what Mistress Elena had told her, it could be months before you could be certain, even if there was every reason to suppose that a child would come.

And Rumpelstiltskin had given her every reason to suppose that no child would _ever_ come.

Wren had seemed pleased at the prospect of a child for the castle. Belle could not share her guilty hopes with the older woman - the hope for reassuring blood, and welcome normalcy with it. She might be wishing away Rumpelstiltskin's child, mightn't she?

Closing her eyes, Belle let her head fall back against the upholstery. She tried to relax her body, but the fright had hold of her; that old, mindless fright that came when she remembered Mama's cries in childbed. Like mother, like daughter. Everyone said it - that Belle took after her mother in stature and in her looks, albeit not in her nature. In that she was more Sir Maurice's daughter - stubborn to the point of fault, but resilient with it. Would that help?

Worry would not. At least Belle knew that much. It was a thing beyond her power to change, and the sensible course would be to put it from her mind; to wait and see. Another month, two, and she would be certain just as Elena had said, wouldn't she? Belle twisted herself sideways, until all of her was tucked up on the seat of the chair and most of her was wrapped up in her mother's shawl. Her head rested on velvet and the roaring fire warmed her to the bone.

It would be a thing, though, wouldn't it, to give Rumpelstiltskin that news? He was so certain that the dark magic in him made a child impossible, but he had been a father before, and spoke of his son with love. With longing. If a beggar's trick had made Rumpelstiltskin a monster in the flesh, it had made him no less a father in his heart. Would a new child be a comfort to him? Belle remembered her father embracing her often in the months after his wife and new son died; Belle's very existence had given him solace and strength, and a reason to muster his courage and continue on in the face of his grief. Would a babe in arms give Rumpelstiltskin that same solace?

 _You bed a monster, a_ beast _, so be glad nothing will come of it. Think of what deformed and desperate creature might grow in your belly, if it came from me._

Belle hadn't been glad of it. Not for that reason, though she could not deny her relief at the prospect of never enduring a birthing. A child who resembled Rumpelstiltskin, or a child who possessed magic... no, she had never loathed that thought. And how could a child be born with darkness in his heart? She would not believe that. A new life was a pure thing, a perfect thing, no matter whence it came. Even Rumpelstiltskin _chose_ what to be - the power that had corrupted him had not taken his will from him. He could set it aside, just as he did when he came to her bed and became Belle's lover, and the husband that he wished to be. It would be a hard thing for a child to resemble Rumpelstiltskin, but Belle could love it no less for that. Would he?

The warmth from the hearth made her sleepy, in spite of her awkward huddle in the chair. Belle felt her thoughts begin to drift, her worries soothed to a safe distance by the crackling of the big logs.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was with a gasp and a start, an then a small whimper of pain as her body remembered being curled up in an unnatural position for too long. Blinking, drowsy and muddled, Belle lifted her head. How long had she slept? Minutes? Hours? Her only clue was her aching legs, which she stretched out and straightened with a wince.

The creak of the spinning wheel soon distracted her from her tingling limbs, and she stumbled to her feet. Rumpelstiltskin was at the wheel in the corner, slowly drawing out his golden thread. He raised his head when Belle moved, his smile faint.

"I went to warm your feet," he said, in a soft singsong. "And there you weren't."

Rubbing the back of her neck, sleepy enough that everything seemed strangely muffled to her, Belle crossed the room to join him at the wheel. Without a word, Rumpelstiltskin abandoned his straw and welcomed her onto his lap, his smile growing when she linked her hands behind his neck and gave his brow a sleepy kiss.

"I must have fallen asleep." Belle felt too muzzy to do better than to state the obvious. "Is it late?"

"Past midnight. It's unlike you to be absent from your bed at this hour, sweet."

 _No,_ Belle thought, blinking slowly and watching his face. _It was unlike me to leave my book before midnight and go to bed._

"We slept earlier," she reminded him. Even her own voice sounded strange to her - the distance of a dream. Or _was_ she dreaming? "Will you come and warm my feet now?"

"Of course." Rumpelstiltskin tightened his arms about her. Belle expected to be lifted, but there was magic and then... then they were in the dark, in her bed that was chilly except for the warm island of her hot water bottle, and her husband was snuggling up behind her wearing only a nightgown. His bare shins and ankles tangled with hers, squabbling gently over the warmth of the bottle.

"To Odstone next time," Belle said, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy. Words were too difficult. She was too cosy, in his arms. "Then the kingdoms."

"Yes. And then the world." Rumpelstiltskin kissed the back of her head, his voice a tender lullaby. "I can give you that much."

It was a bright morning before Belle surfaced again. She had slept so deeply that she had been unmoving during the night, leaving her neck stiff and her head throbbing. When she rolled over to put her back to the window and the sunlight, she found that Rumpelstiltskin had gone, but he had left her...

Frowning, propping herself up on her elbow and reaching for it, Belle explored an expanse of cloth. It was blue, a darker shade than her transformed dress, and trimmed with a brown to match the trim of that dress. She had to sit up to see it properly, to realise that it was a long robe, not dissimilar in shape to the one she had borrowed from Rumpelstiltskin back at the inn. His fitted his lithe shape sinfully, a heavy fabric and very warm, while this was looser and lighter - a wrap against the chill. Belle was caught between a surprised smile and a bemused frown, until she recalled that Rumpelstiltskin had found her, last night, downstairs in a flimsy nightdress, hairy white stockings and a battered old shawl.

She probably had looked a bit silly; like a little girl who had dressed herself with more enthusiasm than common sense. Belle folded the coat over her arm and admired the copper fastenings - more than half a dozen of them from collar to waist, where the fabric flared to allow for skirt and petticoats. Each little copper clasp was shaped like a rosebud. The whole thing was beautifully light in her hands.

A pair of satin slippers in a matching blue awaited her on the floor beside the bed, neatly placed exactly where she tended to kick off her shoes.

His sweetness could still bring tears to her eyes. Belle hoped that would never change - not his wide-eyed wonder at her affection, nor the way her heart burst with fondness when he showed her tenderness in return. She ought not forget that Rumpelstiltskin might have furnished her with everything a wife could reasonably wish for, yet kept himself distant from her and cold. He had meant to, hadn't he? His gifts had begun as apologies; as condolences for becoming his bride. What were they now?

Belle played with her wedding ring while she bathed, twisting it slowly on a soapy finger. It was the softest gold, but nothing she had done had marked it in any way; not washing pans, not scrubbing floors. It had the same warm sheen as when Rumpelstiltskin had placed it upon her finger. She bunched up inside, remembering the way he had bowed his head over her hands. It made her recall their wedding night, as well, and any thought of that hesitant embrace made her flutter pleasantly within. Her husband had thought it an imposition to claim her, to leave her maiden's blood upon the pristine white nightgown. An _imposition._

 _And so he gave it back to me,_ she thought, swirling her hand in the water to be rid of the soap, then lifting it again to gaze at the ring. _What sort of a man thinks of that, wizard or not?_

She took a long time about putting up her hair, perching on a chair before her new mirror. Belle kept stealing glances at her face, while she worked with ribbons and hairpins; she _did_ seem older than when she had taken her reflection for granted. Was it in her expression, her bearing? Or had she truly changed so much? Paying attention to her meals had seen off the gaunt and haunted look that had greeted her in the mirror of her childhood room, and Lotte's lotions had put back the plump softness of her cheeks and the gloss of her auburn hair. It was in her eyes, Belle decided, watching them while she pushed in the last pair of pins to hold her plaits in place. Something in the eyes that had not been there before. Belle the wife, she supposed, where Belle the daughter had been. She saw her eyes widen in sudden realisation, and quickly looked away. Would Belle the mother look different again?

Recalling the severe face of the genie, Belle could not quite bring herself to change her clothing in front of the mirror, for all Rumpelstiltskin's smug assurances that this mirror, at least, was safe for her to use now. She found her new blue dress in her wardrobe, hanging neatly where the grey woollen dress had hung before. The petticoat and silk stockings were neatly in place among her others, while the neat heeled shoes sat at the bottom of the cupboard, lined up with her other pairs. Those all looked tatty and dreadful beside the new ones and the slippers Rumpelstiltskin had just given her.

Odstone would have a cobbler to its name, she supposed. She did not need magic to provide her with respectable shoes, nor with boots that suited the winter here in her new home. If she found a seamstress, she could show them her blue dress and have them copy the shape. And of course she must pay a visit to Wren. The keepers of the tavern had been eager to see that Wren had food and firewood - or perhaps simply eager to see that Rumpelstiltskin's wife was swiftly obeyed - but Belle ought to visit her. She ought to take her piece of paper, too, marked with days and weeks, and ask Wren if she thought it possible to bleed a little and still...

Dressed and decent, Belle stood in stockinged feet before the looking glass and tried on the quilted robe that Rumpelstiltskin had given her. It was forgiving in its fit, allowing for the bulk of whatever she might choose to wear beneath, but she could see that he had meant it to compliment the blue silk nightdress she had worn last night. It was a fraction longer than that gown, the colour matching its original ribbon, and the deep blue made a wonderful contrast when she held the paler silk up against her chest. Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin liked to think of his new wife lounging about in her nightgown before roaring fires, indulging herself in comfort? He would likely prefer that to finding her on her knees with a scrubbing brush, anyway.

The robe was surprisingly warm for its weight, and if it did not flatter her calf-length dress of blue linen then it did no harm either. Belle fastened the rosebud clasps up to the throat, pushed her feet into the matching slippers, and went to see about breakfast.

To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin awaited her in the great room, with covered silver platters and fine crockery spread before him at the near end of the big table. He had promised to see that she had a hearty breakfast each day, and Belle could not deny that it had contributed to restoring the flesh to her face and the colour to her cheeks. Porridge might suit her just as well, but it pleased Rumpelstiltskin to provide for her in his own way - with magic and extravagance. Belle went to stand beside his chair, to bend and give him a kiss of greeting.

Rumpelstiltskin had been reading, the book cupped in both hands upon his knees and his head bowed over the pages. He must have heard her coming, but stirred only when she arrived beside him, raising his head to meet her kiss and returning another to her, upon the left cheek. His smile was faint, his manner quiet. He smelled of his sweet pipe smoke.

"You slept well?"

"Yes, thank you." Belle remembered the gift, and smoothed her hands down her sides as she stood to let him look at her. "It's wonderfully warm," she said, warmed further by the pleasure she saw in his eyes. At his encouraging gesture with a finger, Belle turned slowly on the spot to show him the whole thing before she sat down. "Thank you."

"Thank my invisible spinners," Rumpelstiltskin said, with sudden enthusiasm. "Their silk gives the best loft you can imagine."

Seated to his left, Belle looked down at her lap. The cloth was silk satin, but something incredibly light and warm had been sandwiched between the layers and quilted into a subtle pattern of diamonds.

"Your spiders?"

"Invisible cloth is quite hard to work with," Rumpelstiltskin said, merriment flickering about the edges of a solemn expression. "A pity they can't weave as well as spin."

Belle laughed at his sudden grin of delight, and reached for the teapot.

"Have I kept you waiting for very long?"

"Hmm?" Rumpelstiltskin had been drawn back to his book. He closed it and set it aside on the table at her question, pouring himself a cup of the powerful-smelling black coffee from a tall pot. "No, no." Belle thought that she had, regardless. She filed away the pleasant new knowledge that Rumpelstiltskin was as capable of becoming lost in the pages of a book as she was herself.

The breakfast platters were more extravagant, today. Shrimp in a thick peppery omelette, oysters on ice and thick slices of crumbly, salty ham filled Belle up before she had even finished her first cup of tea. Rumpelstiltskin ate a couple of the oysters, slurping them from their shells with apparent relish, but the coffee interested him far more than the food. He had three cups.

"May I try it?" Belle gestured to the tall silver pot. "The coffee?"

Wordlessly, Rumpelstiltskin refilled his cup and offered it to her. He picked at a triangle of omelette while Belle, remembering her initial dislike of the coffee's smell, cautiously brought the cup to her lips and tried a tiny sip.

She had expected it to be oversweet, like his tea, but it was bitter and thin, with a slightly burnt taste to it. It felt somewhat gritty on her tongue, but it was refreshing. Gingerly, she took another sip, then returned Rumpelstiltskin's cup to him with a shake of her head.

"I think I prefer the tea."

"You have a taste for acquired tastes, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin said, lifting his eyebrows playfully. "I'm one."

"You taste better than coffee," Belle heard herself say, unthinking, and then turned beetroot over her knife and fork, unable to look at him.

"And you taste better than _anything_ ," he said, leaning as close as the table would allow and lowering his voice to a bedroom murmur.

By the time Belle had recovered from her excruciating blushes, Rumpelstiltskin had emptied his meagre breakfast plate and sat back in his chair, coffee in one hand and his book open in the other.

"I'd like to go to town," she said, not certain that he would welcome this news. He wanted her to consult Wren, but he wanted her to remain safe within these walls as well. He might not welcome being asked to leave his work to accompany her on... female errands. Dresses, shoes and wise women - none of it the concern of any husband, really, let alone hers. She did not _want_ him to come with her. "You worried that I wouldn't be safe, going alone."

She tried not to feel nervous as she forced herself to meet Rumpelstiltskin's gaze. Even when he had wished to keep her from leaving the castle, for fear that she would simply run away, he had shown no interest in being her jailer, nor in keeping her from doing just as she pleased with her time.

Rumpelstiltskin did look troubled, but he closed his book on his thumb and seemed to consider a while.

"I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls, if I am not with you."

"I can't go everywhere with the Dark One in tow," Belle said, getting to the bottom of her own concern as she spoke the words. "I must make my way here. It's my home now. You don't want their love," she added, reaching out to place her hand on his wrist among the plates. "I don't want their fear and suspicion, or to feel a stranger among them." She could see Rumpelstiltskin's hesitation. He wanted to humour her, please her, yet he wanted to be certain of her safety. "Don't worry about me," she urged, squeezing his wrist and trying to reassure him with a confidence that she did not feel. "Please."

"As you wish," Rumpelstiltskin said, attempting to hide the depth of his reluctance. He would honour her wishes, but he would worry all the same. "But you travel by magic. The carriage will await your return."

"All right." Excited at the thought of fresh air and fresh faces, Belle rose and stopped to give her husband another kiss before she went to ready herself. She would have preferred to walk to town, but Rumpelstiltskin's concerns were not without foundation. And it would not be forever; he was bound to find out who had taken to tormenting Odstone, and deal with them. He was Rumpelstiltskin.

Anticipating his request, Belle wore the plain cloak that Rumpelstiltskin had enchanted for her protection before their last visit to town. She wore her only boots, but placed her new silver shoes into her basket; the fit was perfect, and when she found a cobbler she would be able to show him exactly what she required. In the pocket of her cloak, beside her purse of money, she carried the folded paper where she had marked off her days.

Rumpelstiltskin awaited her in the marble hall, pacing restlessly up and down beside the table. He looked particularly fine today, Belle thought, pausing at the top of the last flight of stairs to watch him. His shirt was a dull gold with voluminous sleeves, a soft and luxurious thing, while a copper-brown waistcoat gave him the tall, stiff collar that he preferred. Boots and breeches were of soft brown leather, as well. Belle caught herself staring with rather more interest than she had meant to, and cleared her throat as she descended the final few stairs.

"Ah, good," Rumpelstiltskin turned on his heel, smartly, and waited for her to join him next to the table. His hands were restless at his sides, as though he wanted to reach out for her. "Your cloak. Yes, very good." Nervous excitement gave his voice a higher pitch, with the sense that he might at any moment break into his queer, manic giggle. "Take care, my dear. Take good care."

"I will," Belle promised, reaching for his hand. She gave him a warm kiss to seal the promise, and felt his fingers tighten painfully around her own for the barest moment as she did so. "Shall I give Wren your regards?"

Taken aback, Rumpelstiltskin took a long moment to realise that she was teasing him. He dropped her hand and wagged his finger in her face, sternly.

"Give her anything she needs, mistress," he said, with dignity, "but leave _me_ out of it."

"Yes, husband," Belle said, controlling her smirk rather well.

"The carriage will await you at the crossroads," Rumpelstiltskin said. It went unsaid that he would be awaiting her return with anxiety. He caught her by the elbows as she made to pass him, to reach the outer doors. "First Odstone," he said, finding a smile for her in the midst of his discomfort. "Then the kingdoms, and then the world. I keep my promises, little wife."

Belle opened her mouth to reply, but the air was forced from her lungs and she had a disturbing sensation of falling at great speed. She could no longer feel Rumpelstiltskin's hands upon her arms. Before she could even attempt to cry out, she appeared on Wren's doorstep, staggering slightly and looking around her, wildly.

 _A puff of smoke,_ she thought, reaching weakly for the wall of Wren's cottage to steady herself. _He might have warned me!_


	76. Tea With Wren

"Magic!" Wren pushed a steaming mug of tea into Belle's hands, bustling about crossly in her tiny parlour. Belle took a grateful sip of the thick brew and waited for her hands to stop shaking. "You take my advice, girl, and tell our master to keep it to himself!"

There was something comforting in Wren's mild outrage on her behalf. Belle felt... mothered, and found that she liked the experience. As her shock at being deposited by magic on the old woman's doorstep wore off, however, Belle began to notice how unsteady Wren was on her feet. She was walking with the aid of a stout oak stick, and even with all her layers of dark clothing, Wren looked slight and frail.

Belle looked away quickly, when Wren caught her staring in distress.

"I'm old and I'm dying, girl," Wren said, firmly. "Best get used to it. Our master's potion can't turn back the clock."

 _It could,_ Belle thought, treacherously. _He could do that. He could do anything if he chose to._ But there would be a price, and the price for life itself would be high. No-one in their right mind would accept that deal, and someone of Wren's character would never ask for it.

"I'm glad that it eases the pain," she said, small-voiced, and hid herself behind the big clay mug for a little while.

"It does that." Finally settling herself into her rocking chair, Wren studied her visitor. "You tell him that. It's a mercy to breathe, to eat without choking, to walk with no pain. You tell him that, yes? Wren's grateful to 'im."

"I will," Belle promised, sadly. There was no use suggesting that Wren tell Rumpelstiltskin herself, she knew, any more than Rumpelstiltskin would unbend so far as to come and see to Wren himself. He might have left her to die as a newborn but had brought her to Odstone instead. There was no deal; Wren's mother only spoke his name as she died. There was no obligation, and yet Rumpelstiltskin had seen to it that Wren was cared for. Why pretend that he had no heart, when the evidence suggested otherwise?

Now that she was recovering from the shock of being sent in a puff of smoke, Belle felt better. She had expected to feel dreadful after that particular magic, since Rumpelstiltskin had warned her that it would affect her, but perhaps that was the wisdom in his plan? First within the castle, then between the castle and the town. She could grow used to the magic, slowly, and go a little further each time without any ill effect? She felt no more weary than if she had walked the distance.

Wren was watching her, rocking slowly in her chair. She was knitting a sock from thick and knobbly grey yarn, her bent fingers still strong for all that they must pain her. Or perhaps not. Did Rumpelstiltskin's potion spare her that as well?

"I counted," Belle said, trying to sound matter-of-fact about it. Wren nodded, smiling slightly. "And I bled, only..." Belle grew tongue-tied, not sure how to give voice to her concerns. They seemed so slight and so silly when she tried to speak them to a dying woman.

"No point in being bashful, duckling," Wren said, mildly. "We're all alike under the apron."

"It's not that." It was difficult to be bashful, with Wren. You spent too much of your concentration merely keeping up with her. "This month has been strange, but there's nothing..." She trailed off again, frustrated with the vagueness of her fears. "I bled for two days, but only a little bit. I haven't been myself at all. Is that enough?"

"What do you think?" Wren stopped the rocking, stilled her knitting, and watched her shrewdly. "What does your heart tell you?"

Belle looked down at her cup.

"That my husband wouldn't have said that there would be no child unless he was certain. He's a learned man, he's..."

"That's your head, girl. I said your heart."

Wren wasn't being unkind. Just firm, no-nonsense. Belle told herself that equally firmly as she battled a surge of irritation. Nonsense probably took on another light entirely when your days were numbered.

"I'm... not myself," she said again, for it was all she could think of. "But what does that prove? I'm in a new place with a new husband. I'm... idle. I loathe being feared here in Odstone - everyone but you is too afraid to speak with me. How could I be myself, from before?"

"Tell me about your moontime," Wren said, much more gently than before. She began to rock her chair again, and to knit with a soothing click-click of wooden needles.

She listened to everything that Belle told her without interruption, her eyes never leaving the knitting. Only when Belle had finished, stumbling as she tried to include mention of every passing thought and insight, did Wren push the needles into her ball of yarn and sit back to look at her.

"There's small signs and then there's big ones," she said, watching Belle's anxious face. "You've plenty of the small ones, my Lady. A little blood don't mean much, really. Might only be baby settling in, like."

"Oh." Belle swallowed, determined not to start crying whatever was said. "I see."

"It can be stopped, if you choose." Wren said it flatly, without inflection, as if reading a statement from a book. "Best done soonest. Before you're sure."

Something inside Belle recoiled from the suggestion.

"No," she said, quietly. Across the way, she thought she heard Wren exhale a breath that had been held too long. "I don't want that. I'm afraid, that's all."

"'Course you are."

"He... he thinks that his child would be a monster," Belle confided, although she hardly dared to. Even with Wren, the things that passed between husband and wife seemed too private; the trust too sacred.

"No child is born a monster," Wren declared, with the reassurance of certainty. "None. Our master's not the finest looking fellow in the world, but that ain't what makes him a monster."

Belle nodded, staring at the dregs of her tea because she did not dare to look at the other woman. "You do think he is one, then."

"He can be. And he likes it."

"Yes." She could not help but remember his gloating cruelty; his moments of terrifying rage. Belle herself might be protected from his darker nature, but no-one else was. "There's so much more to him, Wren," she said, weak in the face of her fears. "I know there is."

"I'm living proof of that," Wren agreed, nodding. "Make us a fresh pot, duckling. There's a chill in the air."

Grateful for something to do, Belle set to work with the kettle on the little potbellied stove. Wren kept a delicious blend of nettle and peppermint, sweetened only with chamomile flowers. The taste was reminiscent of the smells of the cottage itself; dried, fragrant herbs were everywhere.

"Who taught you the medicines, Wren?"

"She was the the grandma of the folks who raised me. Some from our master, too, and travellers. Wren listens and learns."

"I wish I'd learned a trade," Belle admitted, prodding the leaves in the big brown pot with a battered old silver spoon.

"Learn one then."

Laughing, Belle poured two mugs and carried the first to Wren, settling it carefully on her knee between her waiting hands. She took the second back to the other chair, imagining what the local blacksmith might say if she walked up and demanded to be taught their skills. Wren smiled, but she wasn't laughing. She sat back in her chair and let it begin to rock again, slowly, the tea as steady as anything in her hands.

"Your husband's not a man to say a woman didn't ought to do this or that," Wren said. "I'll give him that. If you want a trade he'll find someone to teach you." Then she did laugh, the chair rocking harder and her tea sloshing dangerously in the mug. "Whether they want to or not, I expect."

"He doesn't much like me scrubbing floors," Belle admitted, sheepishly. "But he doesn't try to stop me." Wren's laughter deepened.

"Sometimes he comes here and plays the gentleman," she cackled. "All in his silk and finery with his big carriage. When he remembers."

"Yes. And I was to be another prop in the play. The stolen bride, awash with tears." It was awful to say it aloud, but it was the truth.

"He didn't count on the likes of you, my Lady, and that's the truth." Wren's face was streaming with tears of mirth. She balanced her tea carefully upon one knee while fishing out a handkerchief from a pocket with her free hand, then mopped at her cheeks It was the one Belle had given her, and seeing that made Belle's spirits lift. _One_ person here in Odstone valued her friendship and accepted her kindnesses.

They fell into a peaceful silence for a little while, each sipping her tea and watching the fire in the small grate. Belle was pleased to see an enormous bucket overflowing with wood, and plenty of food in Wren's tiny larder. The innkeepers had been as good as their word, and Wren had not rejected their help.

"Does he know why our boys died?" Wren asked, when her tea was gone. "Has he told you aught?"

"He doesn't know," Belle said, before she could question whether or not she should. "He's very angry." His frustration, his self-recrimination at being unable to discover the secret she would keep to herself. _Your husband fails, mistress, and fails again._ "Have there been strangers in Odstone?"

"Only the man that went and murdered Yrsa." Wren pursed her lips. "Oh, there's folks in and out often. We've gold here and they come for that, to sell things from far off. But none like him. He didn't run, he all but laid a trail for us to catch up with him after he done it. Got dead drunk and waited for the lads to catch up with him and give him a good hiding, he did." She narrowed her eyes, suddenly staring directly at Belle. "Then come the finish he fought for his life."

Belle shuddered, remembering the sound it had made when Rumpelstiltskin had turned the man to so much water. She could still feel the backs of her calves crawl at the memory of the warm splash.

"Rumpelstiltskin threatened to draw out his death with tortures," Belle said. "Perhaps he only wanted to provoke a cleaner end."

"Perhaps." Wren bent, stiffly, to place her clay mug on the hearthstone. She waved Belle away impatiently when she moved to help. "So you think some stranger brought this curse upon us?"

"I think it was brought among you from outside, yes." Belle had to agree with Queen Regina about _that_ much. If Rumpelstiltskin had not caused it to happen then something had been concealed from him. Smuggled past his defences somehow. And there it became magic - not the sort of smuggling that Belle was accustomed to hearing about. Not the same trick at all. "If anyone believes they know anything, they must tell me." _Us,_ she almost said, but Rumpelstiltskin was adamant about being left alone. The townspeople would not trouble him with anything less than a certainty. His wife could, and would. "Please let it be known, Wren. Anyone acting in good faith is welcome to come to me, for any reason. My husband will do them no harm."

Wren nodded, thoughtfully.

"Your word on that?"

"Yes!"

"And his?"

"He means the people here no harm, I'm sure of it. He wants to be left to himself, that's all." Belle tried to sound more certain of it as she heard the hesitation in her own words. "No-one has anything to fear from _me_. I know that. I won't run to Rumpelstiltskin if I feel hurt or slighted by a misunderstanding. That's what they're truly afraid of, isn't it? That he'll punish them for some innocent mistake? No-one can possibly be afraid of _me!_ "

She thought that Wren might laugh, but the other woman remained grave-faced, watching her.

"Your word could be death to any of us," she said. "Think on that before you make your promises, I should."

Crestfallen, Belle went to put her mug beside the teapot. Out of Wren's sight for a moment, she steadied her trembling lip.

"How can I earn their trust, then? What must I do?"

"Time sees to most things. Time makes things familiar, see. Makes 'em ordinary. Nobody thinks much about the master up at his castle, until he's seen or some stranger comes calling. It's all we've known, him up there minding his business and us here minding ours. Lady Belle will seem ordinary and everyday too, in time, with her smiles and her baskets, her pleases and thank-yous."

Flushing, Belle bowed her head. It was in her nature to be friendly to anyone she met. Rank didn't interest her. But Rumpelstiltskin had made her mistress of Odstone. He had not brought her here to be a friend to all.

"I'm lonely, Wren," she said, the words catching in her throat. She dared not turn back to look at the older woman; to see impatience or a roll of the eyes. "I wouldn't change what's done, I wouldn't be without my husband, but..."

"Little Lulie says you wanted her for the castle." To Belle's surprise, Wren spoke quite gently. "Why her?"

"She..." Belle returned to her chair, stopping herself from speaking before her thoughts made sense. Little Lulie, shivering in the marketplace over her table of strange cheeses and gorgeous butter. "She looks lonely, too. Unhappy."

"Aye."

"And she was one of so many children, before her brothers..."

"Aye," Wren said again, much more quietly. "We've too many little graves. Too many, my Lady. Can you give her a good life, up at the castle?"

"Well... yes." Bemused, Belle studied Wren's filmy eyes. "She would help me. Be my companion. Want for nothing. I'd not keep her from her family, of course." She shook her head, not understanding. "Should I not have asked her?"

"Her father don't like that he wasn't asked."

Belle bridled at that. "No," she said, too sharply. "In any business concerning the castle, people must choose for themselves. If Lulie comes to work for me it must be her choice. Hers alone."

"Is that how things are done where you're from?"

"...No," Belle admitted, frowning. "But it should be."

"Ah." Wren smiled, nodding. It was the slightest movement; her stoop kept her from bending her neck very much at all. "Little Lulie would make a good nursemaid. She's helped raise most of her brothers and sisters. Seen half of 'em born. She wants to learn her letters, can you see to that?"

"Of course!" Confused, for she had been sure that Wren objected to her wanting Lulie to come, Belle sat forward and watched her closely. "I'll school _anyone_ who wants to learn their letters," she said. "Lulie need not come to the castle if that's all she wants."

"Our Lulie's never had the chance to want anything," Wren told her. "She hardly knows how."

"Rumpelstiltskin says that everyone here has a comfortable life," Belle protested, weakly. Wren did roll her eyes, then.

"Compared to most, so we do. But there's still fools among us and her father's one of 'em. Drinks his coin and gives his wife more children than they can feed and clothe. Strikes her, too, though none can prove it of him when she won't speak up."

Nodding, Belle chewed her lip.

"You said that my husband punishes that," she said, carefully.

"No, girl, I said a man hesitates to raise his hand to a woman in these parts. If it was brought to him, our master'd punish the man right enough. But you tell me this; if the punishment might be death or worse when all you wanted was the stocks or a Shaming or just for the blows to stop, would you tell tales? Of the father of your nine children in the dead of winter?" Wren watched her, waiting for her tiny, helpless headshake. "A man hesitates all right, a wiser man who ain't in his cups or so sure of his wife. Dacey Tavish is very sure of his wife, my Lady, and losing five boys has sent him half mad."

At Belle's stricken expression, Wren softened again. She waved a hand, impatiently. "Know where you tread, that's all I'm saying. Know that our Lulie might be running away, 'stead of running towards the life you can give her. And know what you ask her to leave behind. Her ma and three sisters, though in a cottage that has space enough for all, now."

"What should I do?" She felt completely lost, intruding upon this world of which she knew too little! Had her invitation to Lulie caused harm? "I want to help."

"There's no helping grief, duckling. No help for that at all. Let us mourn our sons."

 _May I not even mourn with you?_ Belle wanted to say, but she didn't. "Are the women who miscarried cared for? I won't have them wanting for anything that gold or my word can give." And there was the nervous little thought at the back of her mind: _It might have been me. It might have been my son, if I have a son; he was already in me when this evil happened._

"They're cared for," Wren promised. "You look to yourself, now. Eat well and sleep long."

Swallowing to ease the ache in her throat, her chest, Belle nodded. She could do that.

"What else?" Her hand fluttered for a moment before her belly, but she did not quite touch. It felt silly. "All I know is from gossip and books. One says I mustn't have hot baths or eat raspberries, or let my husband within two rooms of my bedchamber. And that I should wear red flannel drawers."

"Hah!" Wren patted both knees by way of the clap that her curled hands could not manage. "Books! Hot baths is one way girls look to stop a baby, so maybe that one's true. I don't know. Lukewarm's the only bath I ever had." Belle had to nod, at that. Before she married Rumpelstiltskin - before magic was her servant - the same had been true of her. "Baths don't hurt, I'm sure about that. Warm, maybe. Raspberries ain't in season, so I shouldn't trouble yourself there. Red flannel drawers is always warming, so no harm done. I'd hate to see our master's temper if you throw 'im out of your bedchamber, though." Wren began to laugh again, banging her hands upon her knees.

"Wren!" Belle could hardly manage to protest, nor could she contain the smirk that accompanied her renewed blush. "Is it safe to..."

"Yes, yes. So long as you're getting your rest as well. Don't let 'im keep you up all night. I'm thinking our master's not short on stamina, eh?"

"Wren!"

"Well, is he?" Wren grinned at her. "Good thing to have in a husband, stamina."

Dignity was next to impossible in Wren's company. The dignity befitting the mistress of the castle was certainly out of the question. Belle shook her head, sharing the laughter for a moment, even as it shocked her. She had no intention of answering the question, of course.

"There must be so many questions that I haven't even thought of yet," she said, once the giggles had subsided.

"Odstone's not short of women who know what's what." Wren began to fish for her knitting beside her in the chair. "You'll be looked after, don't you worry." From her slight frown, her sudden busyness with the yarn and the sock, Belle realised that there was a gentle warning there. Don't look to old Wren, it said; she won't be here come the birthing. "Don't listen to gossip and don't set too much store by books. Don't let anyone frighten you. Wait and see, and be kind to yourself while you wait. That's a luxury a lot of women never have, that is."

"Yes." Thinking of Lulie's mother, with her nine children and her too-small cottage, Belle looked away. "I need to find a dressmaker who won't be afraid to measure me or prick me with a pin," she said, trying to fill her voice with a matter-of-fact good cheer. "And a shoemaker who'll dare to touch the feet of Rumpelstiltskin's wife."

"The Fitchet girls can see to your dressmaking," Wren answered. "Though Sara lost her baby to the Rot. Egan the shoemaker lost two sons, his apprentices both. They'll be glad of the work and the honour you do them," she continued, quickly, before Belle could retreat in shame. "But perhaps not very chatty, if you'll take my advice. Not now, when we can all taste the funeral wine."

"Of course," Belle said, choking with emotion. Gratitude towards Wren; shame at her selfishness, her lack of understanding; loneliness, still. Hope as well. "I won't trouble them today. Perhaps you might send word that I would like to see them on market day?"

"I shall, duckling. I shall." Wren had been knitting all the while, but slowly. Her mind had not been on the task. She began to rock her chair, now. "And what about our Lulie?"

What about Lulie? Offer her escape from a hard life, but deprive her mother of her eldest surviving child, and perhaps her only comfort?

"If she wants to be my maid, my companion, she should come to the castle," she said, after a while. "She might be too afraid to refuse me if I ask her again. The choice is hers."

Approval gleamed in Wren's smiling eyes.

"That's the way," she nodded.

"Is there anything else I ought to know?" Belle gestured timidly to her midriff. "About..."

"You stop worrying yourself, if you want my advice. No good worrying, whether you want a child or you don't. Do you?"

The sudden question was as sharp as a knife. Belle almost flinched.

"Yes," she said, startled into a simple honesty. Nobody had ever asked her. It had always been the wishes of her future husband that mattered. "I wish they turned up another way, that's all. And when _I_ chose."

"There's herbs for that as well, don't you worry. Should've asked Wren sooner, eh?"

Belle nodded, chastened. But by the time she had understood that Rumpelstiltskin did not expect her to give him children, she had been told that he could not give them to her in any case. The moment when she might have asked for herbs - for time, for a chance to be ready - had never come.

"I should go," she said. She could see that she was tiring Wren, and more than anything Belle wanted to clear her head in the fresh air. "Thank you. Do you have everything you need?"

"I do." Wren didn't attempt to rise from her chair. "There's a thing you could do, if you want Odstone to know you as a friend." She sounded reluctant. Doubtful. She didn't approve at all of the Lord's Lady wanting to be a _friend_ here.

"Yes?" Recovering her cloak, which she had dropped just inside the door upon her dramatic arrival, Belle fussed with it rather than look at Wren.

"Pay your respects at the graveyard before you go. Remember our dead. He never does. He won't stand over Wren's grave, neither. But we're just passing things, to him, your husband. Small people."

"Not to me," Belle said, firmly. "Which way do I go?"

"On past my cottage, duckling. Past the orchard and on towards the slopes. You'll see it. There's many fresh graves."

Belle nodded.

"Thank you," she said. "I will."

Outside the cottage, a glance towards the crossroads confirmed that the carriage was, as Rumpelstiltskin had promised, awaiting her return journey. It looked a dark and forbidding thing, too large for the quaint buildings all around. Although everyone must be used to Rumpelstiltskin's unmoving coachman, she could see that the townsfolk gave him a wide berth. Belle was glad to be going in the opposite direction, even on such a sobering errand.

Odstone remained surrounded by deep snow. The least of the roads and tracks was clear, but fields and trees had yet to yield to the spring thaw. Belle could hear a fast flow of water, once she made her way beyond the orchards, but everything else had the strange muffled quality that she had come to associate with the snows of her new home. If magic did not keep the roads clear, the people might well be trapped above the snow line for months at a time. Having Rumpelstiltskin as their lord and master allowed them to trade the year around. It was a valuable gift, and a generous one even if Rumpelstiltskin had not meant it as such. Belle had taken it as another sign of his disinterest in his people - the abdication of his responsibility to Odstone. Now, walking towards the higher pastures and seeing how deep the snow lay, she suspected that it had been a very carefully considered favour indeed.

Wren had been right: Belle could not mistake the boneyard for anything else. It began at the right of the road, where a path had been cleared with shovels to reveal a narrow foot track. Rough hedges broke from beneath the deep-drifted snow, sometimes, and even the least of them came to the height of Belle's shoulders. As soon as she took this right-hand path, Belle could see a grave marker some way ahead of her. As she approached it, she could see that it was very old. It had been a river boulder, worn to a state of semi-smoothness by the water. To this natural dome shape, which came halfway to Belle's knee, a smooth face had been added and an inscription chiselled upon it with some care. Weather and lichen had done their work, long since, and Belle had to move past the stone and let the light fall differently upon the lettering before she could make it out: Anton Grover.

The well-cleared path came to an end there, but a narrower one began to Belle's left, just past the grave marker. Taking it as a signpost, someone had cut a careful path through the hip-deep snow, just wide enough for a person to place their feet side by side. Belle's skirts and cloak dragged in snow to either side of her as she followed it. The occasional sharp turn proved to mean that the path had met up with another gravestone and had been diverted around it before continuing on in the same general direction as before.

Looking back, Belle could only just make out the highest rooftops of the town, where their chimneys had melted away the snow. It was hardly any distance at all, yet the place was clearly separate from the town - a place set aside for bones, just as the orchards were set aside for late summer fruits. She could not picture the landscape without the snow, although she had heard that mountain meadows were beautiful in summer.

A hundred more paces along the narrow pathway, a wider rectangle had been cleared. The fresh graves had been dug here, and Belle guessed that it would have been a harsh task in the frozen and stony ground. A stone at the back of the cleared area was newly inscribed: Yrsa Littlehip. Hers had been a grave alone, a small and tragic patch of disturbed ground almost dwarfed by its marker stone. Nearer to where Belle stood, one grave had become a grave for many, widening as the sons of Odstone fell. Only the first to die, Jules Tavish, stood apart. It was no careless trench for the others - no hasty mass grave. It was simply that one grave had been dug and then extended as more fell, and the many bodies laid there, each with its marker - a thick branch or log, carved with a name and set deeply so that the location of each grave would not be lost while the permanent river stones were prepared.

All their sons. First Lulie's eldest brother, Jules, and then...

Blinking away tears, Belle made her way along the grim line. The stillborn and miscarried were not accounted for, but perhaps their remains were here with the others, although they came without a name. The ground beneath her feet was hard frozen, today, but Belle could see that there had been a thaw when the funeral gatherings had taken place; the mud beneath her feet was rutted with the impressions of countless pairs of boots.

Wiping her eyes, Belle carefully skirted the fresh graves and went to that of Yrsa Littlehip. Hers had been a frozen funeral - no footmarks disturbed the ground around her settling grave.

Belle's own people did not use stone markers, save for the graves of heroes and nobles. A wooden marker might last half a lifetime or less, giving itself and its name up to the soil just as the bones did. While they lasted, though, those graves might be found with flowers upon them, or some other small token of remembrance. Odstone appeared to use only a name upon a stone.

She returned to the grave of Lulie's brother, Jules, and looked again at the churned up mass of footprints. The space cleared for winter burials was small, but the snow was crushed beyond the rectangle where shovels had been at work. How many people had come to see Jules laid to rest? Had they carried the Rot away with them, the young sons of Odstone? None had been spared, save the one boy saved by Rumpelstiltskin's return, but how had the curse reached them all? Most did not dwell this close to the little town - there were farms for miles among the small, fertile mountain pastures. This terrible thing behaved as a plague did, not as magic did; it was only in its cruel preference for young males and its resistance to Rumpelstiltskin's influence that it behaved like _magic_. And plague spread among people - by touch, by breath, by fouling. How had it found Jules? Had it been his brothers, gathered here, who passed it on to other families?

If they could learn where and how it began, they might learn the why. And who had done such a thing.

Thoughtful, and mindful of Wren's words about looking after herself in case there was a babe, Belle turned back towards the village before she grew too cold. Her new home would be beautiful come the spring and summer, she thought. She would enjoy walking these lands, exploring on a clear day when the distant mountaintops were not so shrouded in cloud. For the moment it seemed a harsh place, tamed only by Rumpelstiltskin's intervention.

Chewing her lip, Belle returned to Wren's doorstep and, knocking gently, let herself in. She was not surprised to find that she had roused Wren from a nap in her rocking chair.

"I'm sorry, Wren," she said, hurrying to the old woman's side and squatting there. The warmth of the fire was a welcome change from the chill outside. Wren blinked at her, patting the hand she offered. "I thought of something. About the boys. Do you know who became ill and when? How the sickness spread?"

"At first," Wren said, frowning. "Our Jules, then his baby brother, then the next eldest. Then it was like wildfire and I was wanted everywhere, duckling. Anyone who could heal was wanted everywhere for miles hereabouts. Why?" She blinked down at Belle, plainly upset by the memories. Belle squeezed her hand.

"It began with Jules. If I can find out where and when, Rumpelstiltskin might be able to find out how."

"It's cruel magic, this," Wren said, fussing urgently and trying to rise. "You don't want to go near whatever caused this, girl. Not when you might have your own on the way! Supposing it's a boy?!"

"You hear everything," Belle soothed. "That's how we'll learn this. People talking about what they know, and what they believe. My husband must hear it all. Please?"

Mollified, but still giving her a doubtful and worried look, Wren nodded. She pressed Belle's hand between both of hers. "He heard what they thought first," she said, gruffly. "That it was a curse for taking your stove up to the castle." Belle nodded, remembering how angry Rumpelstiltskin had been. Their suspicion had cut him, for all that he feigned an uncaring aloofness. He would not hesitate to punish, to alarm, but he did not kill children for his sport. Even the stories about him knew _that_. "I think some enemy of his brought this, instead. We're aught but pawns in the end, us small folk. He don't tax us or bring us into the wars the kings fight, but we're his. That's enough. Someone wants to slight him, and they can't touch him, so they start trouble here."

"Yrsa," Belle murmured, standing up slowly. She added a fresh log to the fire and warmed her hands there, watching the flames. "That's what he thought about the man who murdered her. And the well that was poisoned before I came. Someone... testing his strength. The strength of his protection for Odstone."

"Magic," Wren spat. "There's always a price, even for the likes of him. And it need not be him who pays it." Belle nodded, and wished she wasn't so selfishly glad that magic was keeping Wren from making her journey to the graveyard any sooner than she must. Perhaps the same thought had crossed Wren's mind, because she clambered out of her rocking chair and inched her way towards the little stove, with a brisk: "Let's have that kettle on again, eh?"


	77. A Possibility

Rumpelstiltskin was at his spinning wheel, but rose eagerly when Belle came into the room. She had not been sure whether she would find him working, or anxiously awaiting her safe return. He joined her beside the fire and caught her chilled hands in his own, a faltering smile upon his lips.

"How was your visit, my dear?"

"Unexpected," Belle said, laughing as she remembered being sent by magic all the way to Wren's doorstep. "You might have warned me!" Sheepish, yet plainly pleased with his trick, Rumpelstiltskin turned his cheek to accept her kiss of greeting. He kept her hands tucked against his chest, warming them. "Wren is much better. I don't think she's in any pain. She's grateful."

"No difficulties?" Although he kept his tone light, Belle knew that he had been worried for her safety.

"No ambush, no fairy dust," she promised, grinning. "Just Wren and cups of tea."

"Good." He stooped to give her a kiss on the cheek in return, nervous in his relief. "Very good. My wife ought to be safe on my own lands. Come summer you must be able to go where you like, unafraid."

Belle hadn't been afraid. Should she have been? There was something about Odstone and the Dark Castle; she had always felt that she was under Rumpelstiltskin's protection, even in his absence. But if Queen Regina was correct, then someone had breached Rumpelstiltskin's defences without him ever knowing it, and left behind magic that challenged even his mastery.

"I'll stay at home until market day," she promised, gripping his hands tightly before she drew away. She wanted to huddle beside the fire for a while, for the journey back had left her chilled. "Will you come with me, then?"

"Of course."

"I've kept you from your work," Belle realised. "Even though you didn't come with me, you just sat there and worried for me, didn't you?"

"No." It was such an automatic denial that it barely even rated as a lie. Belle smiled at his hurt tone. A moment later, Rumpelstiltskin took her by the waist and pressed himself close behind her, enfolding her in his arms. "I'd rather you were safe, all the same," he confessed, and squeezed her. "I've grown used to being... to not being alone."

"So have I," Belle said, rocking slightly in his embrace and enjoying his warmth behind, the blaze in front of her. What else was a marriage for, besides children? Companionship, of course, and the sense of belonging that filled her now. She was almost overcome with the urge to tell him what she suspected, then. A man who thought himself incapable of fathering children would want to know as soon as possible, wouldn't he, that his wife might yet prove him wrong? But Belle held her tongue, reminding herself that it would be cruel to raise such hopes only to dash them because she had been mistaken, or had miscounted her days. "I thought about the Rot, and spoke with Wren," she said, instead. "About how it might have been brought to Odstone, as Regina says."

Rumpelstiltskin's arms tightened a moment, then he let her go and took her shoulders, turning her to face him. His cheek twitched, his expression become grim.

"Belle..."

"You think of it as sorcery," she said, quickly. She did not want to be told not to worry, not to trouble herself! "But it behaved as a sickness does, spreading from one to others, from them to many. It began with Lulie's brother, Jules. We must find out where, and how."

Although he drew breath again to protest at her involvement, Rumpelstiltskin stopped himself before he spoke. He frowned, eyes growing distant as he considered her words. He still had her by the shoulders, and his grip now tightened to the point of discomfort.

"You're certain? It began with one boy?"

"The oldest of them," Belle added, not sure whether that mattered or not. "A few more days and he would have passed his sixteenth birthday. Others fell ill only after Jules was buried, I checked with Wren. I wondered if the funeral gathering--"

"Yes. Yes." Rumpelstiltskin released her shoulders as if he'd suddenly noticed his iron grip, backing away from her abruptly, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. "Leave magic to me," he said, darkly, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "To _me._ Must I command it with more than words? Weave spells to protect you from yourself, my Lady?"

Belle's mouth dropped open in automatic outrage, but she kept herself from laughing.

"I leave magic to you already," she said, startled and somewhat thrilled by how unafraid she felt. She had not disobeyed him - why should she fear his displeasure? "I'll leave rational _thinking_ to you when I see that you're doing it for yourself. I'll speak to whomever I please, about whatever I please." As a darkening anger began to replace Rumpelstiltskin's uneasy annoyance, Belle took a deep breath and ploughed on, determined to have her say. "People are the answer to this, not magic. Our people, Rumpelstiltskin."

"My people?" He almost laughed, all bitterness and no humour whatsoever. Belle reached for his hand only to have hers swatted aside before she could soothe him.

"Rumpelstiltskin..." Belle heard her own nervous, appeasing chuckle as she reached for him again. Her heart was suddenly pounding, a sick feeling in her throat as she felt the whisper of his magic, lashing about as it slipped his careful restraint. This time, Rumpelstiltskin held up his hands to forbid her, backing further away from her, his eyes wild.

"The very people who believed _I'd_ cursed their sons," he spat. "They're not _your_ people, they're not even mine!" With a speed that made Belle gasp in alarm, Rumpelstiltskin stood close before her once again, and pushed his face too near to hers as he snarled, "Consider what I'd do to them if they led you to your untimely death, mistress." The words were heated but his magic felt cold, whispering all about her as if it wanted to pull her in a hundred directions at once.

With that, Rumpelstiltskin spun about and strode from the room, leaving Belle speechless. He _threatened_ her! The sound of her own heartbeat drowned out all else and she found that she had clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails bit into her sweating palms. By the time she could think of a suitable retort, her husband had vanished upstairs, leaving her to stew! Infuriated, Belle marched down to her kitchen. How dare he threaten her with that?!

How dare he threaten her at all!

It crept over her, as she warmed herself some milk at the stove, that it was no idle threat. Rumpelstiltskin could revenge himself upon Odstone, should any harm befall her. It was a horrible thought; it left Belle's inclination towards disbelief warring with the icy certainty that, yes, Rumpelstiltskin might do exactly as he had threatened. He might blame Wren, or Lulie and her parents. He might lash out and...

Belle blinked away tears, tipping her milk into a cup with a pinch of nutmeg. She had given him cause to be stern with her about magic, when she inadvertently endangered her own life by taking his pleasure potion. It was a restriction that she had not minded in the least, not wanting anything more to do with magic than necessary. She had _not_ disobeyed him by asking her questions of Wren, nor by _thinking_ about what had happened to the boys of Odstone! She had not endangered herself by offering Rumpelstiltskin the benefit of her insight!

Where she ought to feel angry or afraid, Belle was hurt and revolted instead. He was not to know what preoccupied her, of course, but... but she might be carrying Rumpelstiltskin's child. Belle longed for his tenderness and understanding, now more than ever. But he would protect her all the more, if he learned her news - he might even forbid her to leave the castle at all, and what would she do with herself then?

He would not be unwise to do so, Belle had to admit. Wren, too, had urged her to stay well away from whatever dark influence had killed the children in Odstone, lest it touch her own child. Rumpelstiltskin believed that he had overcome the Rot, saving the last of the boys, but could he be certain? Supposing his wife now carried his own son?

Beyond her pervasive fatigue, there was still no sign that Belle could rely upon, and none that she could point to if she wished to share her suspicions with anyone but Wren. It was a lonely feeling, and a guilty one too. She did not like keeping anything from Rumpelstiltskin, and most especially not this.

Slowly, seated with her milk at the kitchen table, Belle pressed a hand to her lower belly and looked down. No one emotion ruled her at the thought of bearing a child. Always fear. Always. But now that it was a possibility, there was a reluctant hope as well, and a helpless tenderness, and a rather foolish note of pride. If she had Rumpelstiltskin's child in her then she had done what he thought was impossible, after all. If she gave him a son...

Or a daughter, of course. Belle scolded herself for dwelling on the possibility of sons. That was something that she no longer needed to consider. Whatever his faults - and they were many and terrible - Rumpelstiltskin did not dismiss the value of a girl. A woman. He would love a daughter equally, wouldn't he?

Or despise her equally. She snatched her hand away, guiltily, and stared into her milk until she no longer felt like crying. It seemed as wicked to hope for a child as to hope that there was none; a betrayal of her husband either way. She could not put her mind at ease without alerting him to her suspicion, and to offer him false hope - that she _would_ not do.

Besides, just at the moment Belle didn't want to speak to Rumpelstiltskin _at all_. It was no good telling herself that he was motivated by her safety. Should she be harmed, punishing Odstone for it would not help her. It would just be a spiteful and misplaced revenge. The thought that her husband might find some satisfaction in doing just that left Belle cold.

Despite her good intentions and a promise to Wren to treat herself kindly, Belle could not face the thought of any heavy lunch. Nevertheless, she took a knife upstairs with her and cut a wedge from one of the big fruits that Rumpelstiltskin had brought her. The flesh inside was a waxy yellow-orange, putting Belle in mind of sunshine and cheerful days. Its sweetness was extraordinary, the musky flavour quite delicious, and what Belle had taken to be ripening fruits appeared to be well ripened already. She would need to place them in her larder to be sure that they did not spoil. Covered in sweet, sticky juice, Belle had to wash her hands before she touched her letter box or thought of picking up a book.

 _Of Hearth and Stove_ was the only book she had that offered any guidance for a woman expecting a child. Belle mistrusted the book's advice, but having skimmed over the chapters on children when she first read it, she sat with it now, beside her fire, and applied herself to the author's stern advice about warm drawers and easily digested meals. Some of those sounded vile; bread in lukewarm milk, brains in aspic, and a sort of gruel made with barley. No wonder women with child tended to be queasy, Belle thought, staring at the suggestions with a sinking heart. She would much rather fortify herself with good porridge and cream, with eggs, with meat and fresh vegetables! For an uneasy stomach, she liked a salty chicken or beef broth and dry bread.

As the fictitious ideal wife in the book arrived at her confinement - a darkened room with a roaring fire to be kept free of all distractions such as books, conversation and music - Belle snapped the book shut in disgust. Such things did happen, she knew, but she had seen Mistress Elena visit the well in the early hours of her labours; Elena said that the fresh air and the distraction did her good! She did not take to her bed for a week before the birth, neglecting her other children and denying herself the comfort of companionship! Nor had Belle's own mother shut herself away; she had gone with Belle to wander the market not three days before her labour began. It was Belle's last clear memory of her mother - swathed in dark green velvet and quite enormous in spite of her small stature, flushed and determined as she chose lace to embellish the new child's naming gown.

Six days later, Belle had no mother; no brother. She wondered what had become of that half-sewn gown, and of the unflattering dresses that her mother had worn to accommodate her swollen belly. All of her other possessions had come to Belle, some at once and some when she was old enough to have a use for them. The delicate pendant had been given to her in a teary-eyed silence when news of her first womanhood reached Sir Maurice. He had not spoken of it, nor of Belle's mother - only pressed the little silver box into her hand and kissed her brow, as if in farewell to the easy hugs and laughing tickle-games of Belle's childhood.

She missed being a child, today. She would have written to her father, had she not already been awaiting his reply. Questing for a wife would take up much of his time, of course, and he would not risk travelling with the magical box. Belle wished her father good fortune, and a kind wife to stand beside him. She made a face, wondering if she might be able to turn to her new stepmother for guidance about childbearing. In her own mind, Belle was certain that Sir Maurice would choose a widow with sons of her own. He would no more want to _impose_ upon his new bride than Rumpelstiltskin had.

It was extremely unsettling to imagine her father lying with a woman. Belle tried to drive the unwanted pictures from her mind with busy thought, and went upstairs to the library to exchange her few read books for some different ones. If she was to rest, to wait, then at least she could read to pass the time.

While Belle browsed the shelves above the library's walkway, she remembered what Wren had mentioned about Lulie wishing to learn to read. It was a subject on which she disagreed with her father and his head men, who felt that reading was a distraction that the farmer and the scullery maid little needed. But they were not the sort of men who escaped into a story, as Belle loved to. She would not want to keep that joy from anyone, nor prevent anyone from writing or reading a letter to distant friends and family. Did Odstone require a school, or was Lulie particularly unfortunate in having parents who could not or would not teach her how to read?

Not the best moment to raise the subject with Rumpelstiltskin, Belle told herself. Her desire to involve herself in Odstone irritated him, though he had teased her with the offer of allowing her to rule in his stead. _Had_ he been teasing? Or had he meant it, only to change his mind when given an inkling of what his little wife would _do_ , if given that authority?

Rulers ought to serve their people. Belle had been raised to understand that. Rumpelstiltskin spoke of a past where rulers squandered young boys in a fruitless war, and consorted with queens who murdered their husbands and hunted down their step-daughters. She could at least see why he did not share her ingrained desire to be of service, now that she was a great lady in her own right. The people of Odstone seemed content enough, prosperous enough. They were used to their master and his peculiar ways. But they hid their children away from his sight. They wondered, when calamity befell them, if Rumpelstiltskin had punished them.

That couldn't be right.

Belle found a book about anatomy. Sitting down to read it, cross-legged upon the iron balcony, she heard footsteps. At once, she tensed. For the moment, it felt prudent to avoid Rumpelstiltskin's company. There was nothing courteous that she wanted to say to him, and neither did she want to say the less pleasant things that occasionally crossed her mind. Biting her lip, she sat quietly and waited. It was only when Rumpelstiltskin went on past the library door that she realised she had been holding her breath, and let it go with an exasperated roll of her eyes. She could hardly avoid him - her own husband! No matter what he had said to her, she would soon miss his company if she tried to stay away from him. Who else had she to talk to?

If he wasn't searching for her, and wasn't visiting the library, then his destination would be Baelfire's room, wouldn't it? Belle's heart sank, as it always did when she remembered Rumpelstiltskin's sorrow. Her first thought was to go to him, leaving aside her own resentment, but... no. She would be intruding on whatever had drawn him to visit the sad room; upon a father's grief. He could come to her with his story, his grief, and be comforted. She could not put herself between Rumpelstiltskin and the pain of remembrance.

Grief ought to fade in time. It couldn't be healthy to keep that room for Baelfire, to visit it and be alone with so much regret. How long since the boy died? Rumpelstiltskin had been a legend for lifetimes before Belle's own. How long ago had he been that desperate man, struggling to protect his son? How long had he been looking to the past instead of to the future?

With some effort, Belle made herself concentrate on the heavy book. It was heavily illustrated and quite fascinating; as Rumpelstiltskin had said, a man's innards were interesting. Belle couldn't help feeling that some of what she saw on these pages was... fanciful, however. When she found the plates dealing with procreation, she became certain of it, for it showed a dozen tiny babies coiled up inside the womb, ready to be given life by a man's seed. And his seed, as illustrated, would have given any man some trouble in the planting. Wrinkling her nose, Belle gave up on that one and returned to the shelves to browse.

The more useful books might be in Rumpelstiltskin's work room, of course. It was there that she had found the book of remedies to brew his pain potion, on a tall bookshelf whose volumes dealt with medicine rather than with magic. Might there be a book there to tell her what to expect, what to do to see that her child would be healthy and strong?

She couldn't ask him. Not until she was certain enough to _tell_ him.

Wren had told her not to fuss, simply to be kind to herself - to stay warm, comfortable, to rest well and to eat well. It was sensible advice, and Belle knew it, but she craved knowledge. She always had, whether of the working of her father's castle or the many languages sometimes spoken at the docks; Belle had always had a thirst to study, to understand the details of a thing as well as she knew its outline.

Unable to find anything promising on the library shelves, Belle looked instead for something to read while she rested herself. Many of the books concerned plants and animals and, since her last selection had been stodgy histories, Belle looked to the flora and fauna for more of a diversion. Before she left the library, and nervously mindful of Rumpelstiltskin so nearby, she knelt at the one shelf of story books and chose two of the most brightly illustrated to add to her little pile. If she was to be kind to herself, let it be with books, she decided. Words to distract her from the reasons why she must be idle.

Not that she meant to be as idle as all that. Oh, she would be good and not scramble about the castle chasing dust, but she saw nothing to keep her from being busy in her kitchen. If Rumpelstiltskin meant to prevent her from wandering the district, as the weather warmed, Belle could at least use the time to master the stove and to try each of her bookmarks in Wren's book of recipes.

Bread and butter pudding was the next one. That made her smile, remembering the pudding that Rumpelstiltskin made for her when she was injured, and how careful he had been to assure her that he had made it in the kitchen, with his own two hands, rather than with magic. Belle would have liked to see Rumpelstiltskin busy in a kitchen, just as she loved to see him at his spinning.  Skilled hands and quiet concentration... it suited him, and he seemed far more at peace when he spun straw than when he was preoccupied with magic.

It took all of her willpower to turn towards the stairs rather than go and peek into Baelfire's room. The familiar smell of Rumpelstiltskin's pipe smoke drifted out and Belle could picture him there, perhaps sitting on the bed, staring at the contents of the room and at nothing. Perhaps adding a little something to the collection of toys and clothing. It choked her up to think on it, and she hurried downstairs before she could catch herself intruding.

Bread and butter pudding proved to be as simple to prepare as Belle had hoped. Moreover, it was rich with eggs, milk and butter - exactly the kind of food that Wren recommended for an expectant mother, and far more appetising than the gruel and aspic approved of by _Of Hearth and Stove_. Feeling daring, and remembering Rumpelstiltskin's creation, Belle found dried orange and lemon peel and sprinkled some between the layers of buttered bread before she added the milk and eggs, and topped the whole thing with a generous sprinkle of crushed sugar lumps. Then it was into the oven to bake, and Belle settled beside her kitchen hearth with a pot of tea and a book concerning pine forestry.

It was pleasant to give herself permission to sit and read. Since her wedding, Belle had tried so hard to be useful that she had defeated herself. Once the worst of the dust had been dealt with in the occupied areas of the castle, she had been cleaning to distract herself rather than because there was dirt. Her kitchen experiments had remained aimless, although she grew in confidence with every attempt and longed to experiment with the array of pots and pans that Rumpelstiltskin had provided to go with her stove. All the same, she had been playing at the role of wife, just as she had sometimes played at being a maidservant while Lotte pretended to be a grand lady; she had not been doing things because they were needful, but because she needed something to do.

If she knew nothing else, Belle knew that she would be busy soon enough if she had a baby. As Sir Gaston's wife, of course, there would have been nursemaids, wet-nurses, tutors - even the raising of her own child would have been taken from her. Rumpelstiltskin would not expect her to surrender her babe to the care of others, she felt sure; as he valued a wife, so he would value a mother, wouldn't he? Belle would be able to nurse and soothe, to teach her own little one, wouldn't she?

How easy it was to begin thinking of this... possibility... as her child.

Belle set aside a portion of her bread and butter pudding for Rumpelstiltskin, but did not go looking for him when he failed to join her for tea. His callous threat still lingered in her mind, still stung her, though her initial anger had softened towards a weary kind of disappointment. Would he even consider her words, and try to discover how Jules had fallen victim to the Rot? Would Rumpelstiltskin know where to begin, if the task involved _speaking_ to his people, rather than cloistering himself with magic for days on end?

She could not sit idle, do nothing, if Rumpelstiltskin refused to heed her words, yet there was danger. He was right about that; Wren was right. Belle's ignorance of magic was as much an obstacle as Rumpelstiltskin's inability to see the people of Odstone _as_ people. Where he might overlook some mundane and human sign, Belle would surely miss a magical one. Together they might solve the mystery - working together with their people, to trace it back to its source. It might have been anything. A coin. A sip of beer. A handshake. Equally, it might have been some invisible magic that first touched Jules, but it had to have happened somewhere, and at a specific time. Someone might have seen something. Somebody might have something to _tell_ them, if only they weren't too afraid to speak.

Full of pudding and proud of the success, Belle tidied the kitchen. She put the remaining untouched fruits into the larder, but sliced up the one that she had already sampled, this time on a large plate so as not to get the juice everywhere. It was sweet and refreshing, and what she could not manage after the pudding she put away with the rest, trusting that the castle would keep it until she returned for more. She might persuade Rumpelstiltskin to sample it, himself, since he had been kind enough to bring it to her.

Her spirits flagged a little, when the happy thought collided with her recollection of his harsh words. She did not want to speak to him, let alone cajole him into sharing a taste of the gift with her. It was an uneasy, lonely realisation that, for all their passion, she and Rumpelstiltskin had little understanding of one another. While they each went out of their way to live in a sort of harmony, all was well, but when a difference arose between them, Belle knew that they were strangers still.

Had she been wrong to press her new husband so soon for his trust? Had she been wrong to be so quick to place her trust in him, a stranger? Belle licked juice from her fingertips, sighing. She had only wanted to be a good wife. She hoped that she could get it right before she became a mother as well. And what of Rumpelstiltskin? What kind of a father would he make? Would he even find it in his heart to welcome a child, when he had not wanted even a proper wife?

_I'm not a man, Belle. New life can't ever come of... what I am._

_You bed a monster, a beast, so be glad nothing will come of it._

His words returned to her, harsher than ever. Belle had thought them born of a different kind of shame - the shame of having let her believe, even for a short while, that things were otherwise. That she ought to expect his child. Suppose his contempt had been sincere, though? Suppose he dreaded and despised the thought of his own child, the child of the _Dark One_ , being born with the stain of dark magic? Oh, _Belle_ would love such a child no less, Rumpelstiltskin could depend upon that, but it would be an unkind life. All the more cruel because, unlike Rumpelstiltskin, such a child would have been given no choice.

Was Rumpelstiltskin truly _glad_ to think that nothing could come of their bed?

Belle went to that bed, preoccupied and unhappy. She changed without bathing and wrapped her new robe over the top of her nightgown so that she could sit up to read without becoming cold. Her hot water bottle, wrapped up in sheepskin, was comforting behind her among the pillows, but Belle found herself unable to settle to reading. Her eyes ran along the lines, obedient to her wishes, but her mind would wander in the middle of a sentence to dwell again on Rumpelstiltskin's words that awful night, or on the things that Wren had said, or sometimes on the vision of herself nursing an infant. That one gave her such a twinge inside that it was almost pain; it echoed loneliness, desire, tenderness and hope but was none of those things. It brought tears to Belle's eyes that were nothing to do with sadness.

For all her confusion, after Rumpelstiltskin told her that there would be no children, Belle had not found the space for sorrow. She had not yearned to find herself with child, yet now... now she had begun to hope where there had been only fear, before. That was somehow more frightening than anything else, that hope next to all the uncertainty.

When she could no longer keep her eyes open well enough even to _pretend_ that she was reading, Belle went to blow out the candles and to close the drapes around the bed. As always, she left the foot end of the bed open where it faced the hearth, hoping to catch the warmth, and she snuggled down with her hot water bottle at her feet, the sheet pulled up over her head until her breath had banished the chill.

Ought she have found Rumpelstiltskin, and said goodnight? Ashamed that she hadn't even thought of it, Belle wondered what he was doing. They usually contrived to see each other during the day, but... But it was always Belle who sought out Rumpelstiltskin, when they quarrelled. Always Belle who sought to soothe and make amends, to reassure Rumpelstiltskin, regardless of who was at fault. Nor did he always welcome the effort.

Stubbornness overcame her vague worry and guilt, and Belle turned over, hooking the hot water bottle into a new spot with her foot. Rumpelstiltskin knew well enough where to look for her if he missed her company.

Belle had been half asleep for a while before she was awakened by the sound of her bedroom door closing. Muzzy, caught up in the confusion of dreams and reality colliding, she turned over and buried her face in a cool spot on the pillow, only half aware of Rumpelstiltskin until he climbed into bed beside her and sought her out with a tentative hand.

"Awake so late?"

Blinking to keep herself from slipping back into sleep, shifting her legs to make space for him close behind her, Belle made a wordless sound of agreement. Rumpelstiltskin. She had been angry with him, hadn't she? And he with her. She caught his hand before he could cup her breast and held it instead, his words coming back to her as she shook off sleep.

Still tentative, but with a clear sense of purpose, Rumpelstiltskin leaned over and tried to kiss her.

"You threatened me," Belle said, turning her face away. He snatched his hand from her grasp at once and lay still, propped up behind her and staring at her in the firelight. She had no other words. No clever arguments to persuade him to let her seek answers in Odstone; no punishment of scorn for a husband who had behaved poorly. The truth of it, the mere fact of it, was all that she could say.

"I did not," Rumpelstiltskin said, gruffly. "I wouldn't harm you."

"To have me obey you, you threatened to harm others," Belle answered, any anger that she had felt dull now; a weight upon her chest that simply hurt. "I've left magic to you," she added, hearing his breathing quicken in the silence. "All I did was talk with Wren, and use my mind, and bring what I thought to you."

She sounded petulant, sulky, and she hated it, but how could she let it go unsaid? Her husband had guessed so often at what would hurt or offend her, and been wrong; had tormented himself for nothing. He'd want to know now that he truly had offended her, wouldn't he?

Wouldn't he?

"I cannot protect you if you meddle," Rumpelstiltskin said, tautly. "I want you safe."

"I know." She _did_ know - that he feared loss as he feared nothing else in the world. "That doesn't make it right." A few wretched little tears escaped her, born more of fatigue than of hurt feelings, and Belle didn't draw attention to them by trying to wipe them away. "Do they mean so little to you? Our people?"

"What?" Sitting up, Rumpelstiltskin sounded more incredulous than angry. Sighing, Belle sat up too, watching what little she could see of him in the gloom.

"You really would punish them, wouldn't you?" she realised, and wondered why the thought felt like a betrayal. "If I got myself hurt, by being among them, you'd punish _them_."

"Yes!" Rumpelstiltskin sprang from the bed, landing easily and with the soft creak of leather boots. "Yes I would, and they know it. They have more understanding than you, it appears."

"Of monsters?" Belle put her hand to her mouth, but she could not take back the word. Nor could she entirely convince herself that she had not meant to say it. "You're a better man than that."

"No, I'm not," he shot back, bitter with rage and bright with scorn. "Don't say that I ever pretended otherwise, mistress. It's a monster in your bed, no matter how he loves you or how blind you choose to be. I _never_ deceived you!"

Without Rumpelstiltskin touching it, her bedroom door slammed behind him when he left.

Heart pounding, eyes brimming with tears of intermingled hurt and fury, Belle hugged her knees and refused to cry.


	78. Monstrous Things

She was afraid to go downstairs.

Belle spent far too long fussing with her bath, her dress and her hair before she realised that what she was doing, in truth, was delaying the moment when she must leave her room and face Rumpelstiltskin.

It was not fear, precisely, she decided when she set foot in the corridor. Her heart was racing, her palms sweating, but it was not _fear_. Nervousness, then, and a great deal of reluctance. He would be angry with her and, worse, Belle was angry with Rumpelstiltskin. It was all horrible, hurtful, and it made her ashamed.

Having assumed that Rumpelstiltskin's temper would lead him to avoid her until she sought him out, Belle's shame deepened when she smelled breakfast on her way down the final flights of stairs. He had given her his word. No, more than that; they had made a _deal_ , and he had seen to it that there was a breakfast for her in the Dark Castle, as good as his promise. If he had not always joined her, then she had not always paid him for his company with the promised kiss.

Rumpelstiltskin was spinning. Belle heard the gentle creaks of the mechanism before she got close enough for the doors to open, but Rumpelstiltskin was already on his feet before she entered the great room. Breakfast was laid - a far more modest affair than before, Belle was relieved to see. She hesitated at the doors, not knowing what to say to him, or even who owed an apology to whom.

She could scarcely expect Rumpelstiltskin to apologise for his nature. He was right about that; he had never lied to her.

"Good morning," she tried, her voice quavering. She hoped that it sounded worse to her own ears than to his.

Nodding stiffly, Rumpelstiltskin did not quite catch her eye. He did come to the table and take his place at the head, but while Belle filled a dish with porridge from a tureen, her husband sat with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes downcast.

Forcing down the meal somehow, Belle tried desperately to think of what to say. Was he thinking the same miserable thoughts, or simply waiting to see what his wife would do now?

It was wretched, and by the time she poured herself a cup of tea, Belle had had enough of it.

"You didn't have to go," she said, less calmly than she meant to. She paid more attention than necessary to filling her cup. "Last night." Frowning, trying to contain her annoyance so that her words might be persuasive, Belle set down the teapot. There was no second cup; no tall pot of Rumpelstiltskin's bitter coffee. "Why do you..." She realised what she had been about to say - why did he _run away_ \- and stopped herself in time. Accusations would not reach him, even if she suspected they would make her feel better. "When we disagree, when you're angry with me, you go away. You don't let us make amends, or say what ought to be said."

"And what ought to be said?" Rumpelstiltskin had not moved. Belle looked towards him and saw a strained, tight-lipped expression to match his carefully neutral tone of voice. He continued to stare at his hands, in his lap.

"Why you want to keep me from helping you with this. You know that I'd nothing to do with magic, yesterday, except yours. Why did it anger you that I _spoke_ to someone who might be able to help?"

"You should be safe anywhere within my lands. I cannot protect my own wife - I can't be sure that there's no magic hiding in Odstone that would take you from me!" Pushing back his chair, abruptly, Rumpelstiltskin rose. She thought that he was going to leave again, leave everything half said, but instead he began to pace up and down opposite where Belle sat. His agitation, his frustration, made every movement tight and jerky. "Any one of them could be a traitor, knowing or unknowing, and I _cannot_ see this magic!"

"But I might," Belle said, closing her eyes and doing her best to be patient. "Not with magic - by understanding people. Has someone behaved oddly? Does someone seem too afraid? Has someone fled since the Rot?"

"Then leave it to Janek to find out! He has little enough to do in return for his fat purse and pension." Stopping in his tracks, shoving a hand through his hair and finally looking at Belle, Rumpelstiltskin seemed to plead with his eyes. His words were waspish, but his eyes spoke only of fear. "Magic more powerful than my own - a power in the lands capable of eluding _me_ , harming _me_. Don't you _understand_?"

Belle shook her head, pushing herself up from her seat. The struggle with the porridge had left her sickened, and standing up made her head spin as well. She took a deep breath as she went around the table to stand beside Rumpelstiltskin, and kept one hand upon the table or a chair back as she went.

"Unless you tell me, I can't understand," she reasoned, as patiently as she could. "I don't want your secrets, but you can't blame me for being ignorant of them when that's what you _chose_." When Rumpelstiltskin turned his face away, Belle caught at his arm, afraid that he would simply go. "Someone more powerful than you would be a danger. I see that. But power isn't everything."

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, giving her a strange look. "It is."

With magic, Belle supposed, perhaps it might be. Gingerly, she slipped her hand from his elbow down to his wrist, then grasped his hand. Rumpelstiltskin did not prevent her. After a moment, looking down at their hands, he gave hers a soft squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Belle said, her heart too sore not to say it. "For what I said. Monster." She made a face, saying it now. "You believe that, but I don't. I've seen what you hide from the world."

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. "The word fits, little wife. I've done things... will do things... that you could never forgive." He turned to face her properly, drawing their joined hands to his chest and pressing them over his heart. "Only a heart like yours could fail to see it."

Again, his eyes pleaded, but for what? Belle could not undo what had been done! She could not take them back to the moment before she agreed to become his wife; she could not cease to care for him as she did, or to see the heart of the _man_ who wore the skin of the monster.

"What you've done might be monstrous," she allowed. "What you do from now on can be anything you like, can't it?" Rumpelstiltskin dropped her hand, sighing. At his slight headshake, his silence, Belle spread her hands at her sides. "You wanted me to remind you of the man you were," she said. "Didn't you?"

"I did." Defeated, Rumpelstiltskin leaned against the table's edge, head bowed. "I'm no longer that man. Weak, afraid. Helpless when his wife..." He cleared his throat and lifted his head, straightening his back. "I'm no longer that man. I do not mean to upset you."

"I know." Feeling helpless herself, Belle joined him in resting against the table. She had been so angry with him, but it was a despairing frustration that gnawed in her breast now. That and the porridge, which was making her stomach churn horribly. "I want no-one hurt for my sake," she said, tiredly. "Not in Odstone, not anywhere." And for Rumpelstiltskin's sake, she realised, she did not want it to be _him_ doing harm in her name. He had found a refuge from the darkness, in her. She did not want it poisoned, whether she was living or but a memory. "I thought I'd have no freedom at all when I married. Nothing's been as I thought it would be." She watched her own hands twist into a white-knuckled knot among the folds of her skirt. "Gaston's mother said I must learn obedience."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, briefly. "Did she?"

"Is that what you want? Obedience?"

"Hardly." Straightening briskly, Rumpelstiltskin spun on his heel to face her, standing immediately before her. Hesitant, he reached out and lifted her chin. "Defy me and madden me, wife, by all means, but you must be _safe_." He brushed his thumb against her cheek before letting go. "I... perhaps... overreacted to the news you brought from Odstone," he confessed, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Belle had to stifle an incredulous laugh; she could see that his effort to be conciliatory was sincere, in spite of his understatement. Light-headed, and now giddy with a kind of relief as well, she gripped the table and nodded while she tried to think of what to say. Her discomfort must have been plain to see, because Rumpelstiltskin gripped her shoulder when she straightened up, before Belle even knew that she was swaying on her feet.

Glad of the support, of how solid he seemed in an unsteady moment, she reached her arms around him and rested her cheek against his collar. Startled, Rumpelstiltskin clasped her to him and patted her gently between the shoulders.

"We'll speak later," he offered, half a question. Belle hoped that it was a promise, too. This discussion could not be put aside; _she_ would not be put aside, until her questions about the Rot and Jules had been answered. If she was proven wrong then so be it, but she could not leave it alone as Rumpelstiltskin wanted her to. "You're shaking." His voice gone light, anxiously tender, Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her.

"Breakfast didn't go down very well," Belle admitted, trying to laugh. It fell horribly flat, all tangled up in her lie-by-omission.

"Poor company," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, patting her again before he set her at arm's length, watching her face. "You should bring your maid. The cheese girl." He gave an encouraging nod. "Better company than your old monster, I'm sure, and we can hardly suspect her of the blackest magic, can we?"

Belle shook her head, both to the question and the suggestion.

"Lulie must choose," she said. "I don't want weeping servants either, you know. But I'm sure she's blameless, you're right about that." She felt the smallness of her own troubles, remembering those of Lulie's family. "All of her brothers died. A few days more and Jules would have been of an age where others were spared."

With a firm grip on her arm, Rumpelstiltskin guided her to a chair - the nearest, his own at the head of the table - and did not release her until she was seated, her skirts straightened to indicate that she meant to make herself comfortable and stay a while. Then he fetched the teapot and her cup and set them in front of her before sitting on the arm of her usual seat, legs crossed at the ankles.

"Wren told you all this?"

"Yes. I asked her. About Lulie, and then..." Belle could not bring herself to tell him that she had visited the graveyard. That did seem a poor choice, with the benefit of hindsight, but it was only once there - once she'd seen those frozen footprints - that she thought about where the townspeople might have gathered together most recently before the curse struck down the boys. "People tell her things, after all. She listens, she notices."

"Yes." Thoughtful, Rumpelstiltskin watched her stir her cup. The tea had remained steaming hot for her, as if she had only just poured it.

"You could speak to her yourself. _She's_ not afraid of you."

"No, she's not." Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head, watching her. "Was your visit helpful? There are other healers, doctors, if Wren cannot ease your troubles."

"I think there are some troubles that a woman just has to put up with," Belle said, because at least it wasn't a lie. Was that what troubled her this morning - the queasy stomach of which she had been warned? Or was she only upset and being silly? "She scolded me for letting you use magic to send me there."

"She once scolded me for damned near fixing her son's leg back on after he grew careless with an axe," Rumpelstiltskin replied, coolly. "Wren distrusts all magic. Her son, however, enjoyed having two legs."

The story and his grumpy telling off it brought a little smile to Belle's lips. She would have liked to witness Wren scolding Rumpelstiltskin.

"Then you do use your magic to help people," she said, leaning back in the seat with her teacup between her palms.

"All the time," Rumpelstiltskin said, flatly. "People always think they want something. But there's always a price. Few are glad to pay it, my dear."

Belle nodded. That made her think of her father, and of his flat refusal when Rumpelstiltskin demanded her hand in marriage. He would have let the town fall rather than hand her over. The price of magic could be far more subtle than the price of Rumpelstiltskin's deals, though. The price you paid might not be one that you chose, freely and knowingly. That was why Wren mistrusted magic.

"Will you see her? Speak to Janek?"

"I... will learn what I can. If it will keep you from wandering beyond my protection."

Was that a bargain she could agree to? If she was honest with herself, Belle did not think her husband capable of drawing information from the town without putting people in fear of him. But... was she? Did they not fear her, simply because one word from her could bring Rumpelstiltskin's displeasure upon them?

"Can't we go together, with you to keep me safe?"

"And you to charm the natives?" Rumpelstiltskin flashed his teeth in a quick smile, fidgeting on his hard perch. "If I must act to protect you, it will be to send you far from the danger, with no warning," he warned, holding up a finger and wagging it slowly at her. "Or to kill your assailant. I will not risk your safety with niceties."

"Niceties? If you keep killing the people who might know what's happening, we'll never learn the truth! The man who killed Yrsa, the clerics... whether you admit it or not, they were more use to you alive." Perhaps _that_ was an argument that would sway even the Dark One? Killing challengers might be less than nothing to him, but he did not like to waste an opportunity, did he?

"I didn't kill your Gaston, did I?" Irritated again, Rumpelstiltskin sprang to his feet and went to the fireside, his back to Belle. "What magic stays his tongue, I wonder? It was strong."

"He believed that it would kill him before he could speak of what he knew." Belle bit her lip, hesitating with her teacup on the way to her mouth. "I think he would have tried, if I'd demanded it."

"And instead you demand a horse," her husband said, mildly enough. "You truly have no interest in acquiring power, do you?"

Belle took a sip of tea to steady herself, and used the moment to consider the question.

"Not for its own sake, no."

At least they were speaking, and at least it was civil between them. The tea settled Belle's stomach as well as her nerves, and she turned her head to watch Rumpelstiltskin. He'd clasped his hands behind him, striking an aloof pose, but his fingertips fidgeted while the rest of him was carefully still.

Why had he not looked for a wife who shared his ambitions, if power mattered so very much to him? Whatever he believed, however undesirable he thought himself, Belle was confident that the world was full of women who would seize upon the opportunities offered by marriage to the Spinner. Would Rumpelstiltskin prefer that she did? Demand his magic, demand the crown that he jested about, and establish herself as a power in the lands?

He had to have known, from the very moment he met her, that he had chosen the wrong girl if he wanted _that_. Didn't he?

"What did you need when your town was threatened by ogres, hmm? Power. It's better to have it than not; to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. And I _have_ it, Belle. I mean to keep it."

"Yes," Belle said, quietly. "I know."

"Neither do I mean to lose my wife to this... foe."

"Of course not." She thought of how afraid she had been, that night he returned home injured. The short days that it had taken him to recover had seemed a lifetime to her. She had felt helpless, and capable of doing _anything_ if it promised to save Rumpelstiltskin. "I don't want to lose you either. Suppose they've improved the curse that hurt you before? Suppose they've brought that here, too?"

He half-glanced over his shoulder at her, acknowledging that idea with a reluctant nod.

"I mean to take no chances with my own safety, either."

"Then we understand each other." At least, Belle hoped that they did. It was exhausting to battle for each small, new understanding between them. "Wren will be glad to see you," she offered, thinking better of teasing him with the thought. "Even if she pretends that she's not."

Rumpelstiltskin did smile, then; a proper, sad little smile as he turned to face her, hands falling loosely at his sides.

"Wren hasn't been glad to see me since I put her across my knee when she was thirteen, for stealing rare herbs from the kitchen garden," he said, still wearing the smile. "Although I think she's since grown to appreciate that I could have turned her into a slug instead."

"Then she'd _still_ have been stealing from the kitchen garden," Belle pointed out, frowning. "More, probably."

They shared a chuckle, near silent. Rumpelstiltskin came back to stand beside the chair, his hand restless when he hesitated before reaching towards her face. Belle met him when he did touch her cheek, leaning towards his fingers and closing her eyes. He touched her hair, too, finding a few loose strands and tucking them behind her ear.

"I try to tell you what I am," he said, just when Belle thought that he would say nothing at all. "Try and try. You don't hear me."

"I know what you are." Putting her cup carefully back on the table, into its saucer, she looked up at Rumpelstiltskin. "What you are tomorrow is always up to you, my father says."

"How trite." He said it in a sickly voice, with a half-hearted sneer.

"No," Belle protested. "What you are in here." She put her hand over her heart. "That's always up to you."

"Ah." The sad smile came back. Dizzy from craning to look up at him, Belle caught him by the hand instead. "Then you mean to change me."

"You're like this, with me. Kind. Warm." Belle held his hand to her cheek again, then kissed the back of it. "My husband. I didn't change you into this."

"And quite powerless he is, mistress," Rumpelstiltskin murmured. "Your husband." He bent over her, and Belle thought that he meant to kiss her. Instead, watching her eyes, he offered her a rose of a red so deep that it seemed nearly black at first glance. "Here." Gentle mirth warmed his eyes, the twist of his mouth teasing. "If you'll have it."

Shaking her head, smiling, Belle took the rose and watched Rumpelstiltskin straighten with a nod of satisfaction. Feeling rather better after the tea, Belle stood up, the long-stemmed rose resting against her chest. She had worn an older, dark green dress this morning, and her old shawl about her shoulders. Rumpelstiltskin gazed at her with no less pleasure than when she wore a prettier dress, she noted, and could not help feeling a shivering pleasure of her own at the thought. If she was going to have a baby, then what a bloated and unwieldy sight she was bound to become, before it was done with! Belle was built much as her own mother had been - short and slight and slender in her bones. Her final memories of seeing her mother were of that enormous belly and of the poor woman shuffling about, barefoot, looking for a place where she might find a moment's comfort.

Belle hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would not lose his appreciation for her, if she grew so big that she could barely walk.

"Will we go to Odstone today?"

"You're not well," he began, with such nervous and false good cheer that Belle almost laughed.

"Well, if I swoon then my husband can bring me home in a puff of magic, can't he?" she said, firmly. "We must speak to the men who brought the stove to the castle. Where did it come from?"

Taken aback, Rumpelstiltskin took a few moments to muster a reply.

"Nearby," he said, and then tried to look stern again. "You're meddling already."

"But not in magical things." Belle gave him a look of challenge, and held it until he gave a reluctant nod, conceding the point. "And I think I'm going to be very good at it."

Rumpelstiltskin's reluctance was plain, but he did not want another quarrel. Nor, it seemed, was he able to find any patient argument that he thought might sway her.

"Dress well, then," he said, gruffly, turning away from her to banish the breakfast things with an irritable wave of his hand. "I don't want another scolding for letting you be seen without your finery, thank you."

"Why? Where are we going?"

"To see a fine house where they now have a great deal of gold instead of a stove," Rumpelstiltskin said, brusquely. He was sheepish about it! Gods, he hadn't ordered the thing taken from another woman's kitchen for her, surely?! Gold or no gold, they would receive no helpful information or obliging welcome if he had done something like that!

Belle fetched a stem vase from the kitchen for her rose, placing it in the centre of the table on her way back through the great room. Rumpelstiltskin had gone before she got back there, so she went upstairs to change her clothing as he had asked.

In her limited exploration of Odstone, Belle had encountered no-one who seemed to be of high birth. There were well-to-do craftsmen and tradesmen among the townsfolk, but she had seen no particularly fine houses there - just old, well kept ones.

Rumpelstiltskin had made vague mention of others who managed his lands, she recalled, as she took out her cloak of plum velvet and fur with its golden clasp. She had asked him who could have sent the wedding gift basket that contained the bottles of mead and the precious gilded cups that had accompanied them. How could she have thought no more about that?!

Annoyed with herself, and fearing that whoever they were visiting would think her ill mannered in the extreme if they had sent the gift, Belle stood before the mirror and scowled at herself. She found it difficult to picture how she ought to look, to command the magic as she had done to make herself the shorter, perfectly practical blue dress that had promptly become her favourite to wear. She had had _need_ of that dress - neat, lightweight and quick to put on without any help from a maid, and she had transformed an ill-fitting old dress to create it. The dress she wore today was simple, with years of good wear left in it - matching skirt and bodice of dark green wool, with full skirts that swept the floor, long sleeves and a high collar. It needed no changing, and Belle could not bring to mind the sort of extravagant creation that Rumpelstiltskin had dressed her in before their journey. Her husband had the more impressive imagination, it seemed - at least when it came to showing off his bride.

She settled for pinning up her hair in careful coils that would not be ruined by the hood of the velvet cloak. With its wide sleeve cuts and lavish folds, it would more or less conceal whatever she wore under it. A dark colour and a dress that covered her fully was suitable enough.

Remembering how she had complained to Rumpelstiltskin about being seen at less than her best when Queen Regina paid her first visit, Belle saw the colour rise in her cheeks and averted her gaze from the mirror for a while. She had tried to explain, then, but if Rumpelstiltskin expected another scolding for taking her unawares to a fine house... They were not very good at explaining to one another, when their worlds seemed too far apart for the other to comprehend.

On market day, Belle would speak to the dressmakers recommended by Wren, and to the shoemaker. Gold would easily buy her a gown or two for when she played the part of Rumpelstiltskin's mysterious young bride, and magic could leave the rest of her old things well alone. It wouldn't hurt to sit down with needle and thread, though, and lift a few more of her hemlines above the ankle so that she could move about more freely.

Belle waited downstairs beside the fire for Rumpelstiltskin to return from wherever he'd gone to. The inner pocket of her cloak was generous enough to accommodate a reasonably light book, so she had slipped one in there in case of a longer than usual carriage journey. She sat, now, and read a little about the medicinal and poisonous fungi of the Kingdoms, stopping often to admire the intricate woodcuts and the skill of the person who had painted on the colour.

So absorbed was she that Belle did not hear Rumpelstiltskin's return, nor did she know how long he had stood beside the doors and simply watched her before she finally sensed that she was not alone, and turned to look for him. He, too, had chosen to wear his fur-trimmed travelling cloak over his usual garb - high boots and silken shirt, and a fine black waistcoat that she had not seen before, topped off with a cloth of gold at his throat. Reminded of their last journey together, and of the nights spent at the roadside inns as well, Belle had to look away again, flustered. How long _had_ he stood there watching her?

"Are you ready, my dear?"

"Yes." Returning the small book to her pocket, Belle stood up and shook out the folds of both her skirt and her cloak. Rumpelstiltskin took her arm as they crossed the marble hall, still watching her. He was studying her hairstyle, Belle realised.

"I'm not as good at it as Lotte," she admitted, touching the coiled braids. She did not have Lotte's artistry, but she had pinned everything with care and used every one of her hairpins; the style had not sagged since she put it up. "Is it all right?"

"It's lovely," Rumpelstiltskin said, surprised. "You are always lovely, Belle."

As ever, it was his soft, puzzled sincerity that undid her. "Thank you," was all that she could manage as he ushered her outside.

The bright and cold days had given way to dull skies, fast moving grey cloud and a depressing, fine drizzle of rain. Belle was almost glad to see the carriage waiting for them beyond the gates, but she stopped and held on to Rumpelstiltskin's arm, halfway down the gravel path, drawing him around to face her.

"The driver," she said, since this seemed to be the day for speaking her mind. "He's not... I mean... he's not a man, is he?"

Rumpelstiltskin's eyebrows shot up - he had been distracted and not at all ready for the question.

"Indeed he's not," he agreed, mildly.

"Then what is he? It?" Belle spared the dark figure on the driver's box a glance. "He never says anything, even when I speak to him."

"He wouldn't," Rumpelstiltskin chuckled, and it was not a very nice chuckle, at that. "Best to think of him as a shadow, my dear. A wraith. Smoke in livery."

"But..." Reluctantly, Belle let him draw her onward toward the gates. "He must think. React. He drives the coach!"

"Well..." Waving a hand in front of him, as if trying to sketch a shape that was unclear in his own mind, Rumpelstiltskin let her keep them to a slower pace. "That's what he is. The driver of a coach. Nothing less, nothing more. He has all that he needs to do his job and drive my carriage. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Does he think?"

"What?"

"Does he _think?_ "

"I doubt it." The gates swung gently open to let them pass. Belle tried not to stare at the silent driver. Smoke in livery. He looked more solid than that. He held the reins in leather gauntlets - in loose fists. He stared, in as far as it was possible to tell, directly ahead, past the team of horses and down the road. The road _away_ from Odstone, Belle only realised when she managed to drag her attention away from the driver.

Excited by the prospect of seeing something new, Belle scrambled to the far side of the carriage, the seat facing the horses, and tucked the little curtain behind its hook out of the way. Rumpelstiltskin followed her, sitting beside her, as close as he could be without sitting on her cloak.

She could feel him watching her again, as the carriage took a slow and winding route down steep roads fringed with pine. Was Rumpelstiltskin as anxious about their disagreement as she had been? That had left her, now - all the boiling frustration, and the fear as well. Were they any nearer to an understanding, truly?

Reluctantly, Belle turned to look at her husband. She tried to smile.

At once, Rumpelstiltskin averted his gaze. What had he seen in her eyes?

"I love you no less for a quarrel, you know," Belle said, doing her very best not to sound weary. She smirked at her own thought. "It doesn't make me love you any more, either."

His relief was almost as palpable as when his magic caught up his anger and reached beyond him; his smile was open, thankful.

 _Yes,_ Belle thought. _I do love him. He speaks of cold blooded murder, of monstrous things, and I love him._ She offered her hand, and leaned towards him to offer a small kiss of forgiveness and reassurance. But her heart was skipping beats, and it wasn't all relief of her own; it wasn't all because Rumpelstiltskin took her breath away whenever he kissed her. _What does that make me?_


	79. Beyond the River

Rumpelstiltskin stopped the carriage without warning. Belle had been peacefully absorbed in the passing view, the winding and narrow road down the mountain being less closed in by pine trees than the road which led to Odstone.

"Why have we stopped?" she asked, tearing her gaze from the sheer drop to her right and turning to her husband. Rumpelstiltskin offered his hand and, when she took it, drew her with him to the left-hand door and helped her down. Belle went with him, trusting, and held his hand as he led her around the back of the carriage to the edge of the road. A narrow and rocky verge had been carelessly fenced with wood and wire there. It would do nothing to prevent the fall of a careless rider or a carriage that took the road too fast, but it made it a slightly less terrifying place to stand and gaze out over the drop.

Snow above, sheer rock below, and down at the foot of the mountain, a wide and dark river winding through farmland. "It's beautiful," she breathed, taking another step closer to the edge. Rumpelstiltskin would keep her from falling if the pitiful fence did not - Belle was quite sure of that. She would never have imagined such a barren landscape as being beautiful, but it was. More than that, she could imagine how the landscape would look come summer, when each steep little meadow was covered in grass and flowers.

"Our lands are bounded by the river," Rumpelstiltskin said, pointing to a cluster of little boats that looked like toys from this far above. "There isn't a ford for miles, and only one bridge nearby. That's how the local troll problem got started. They became ambitious and you can only charge so much of a toll before people go and find another bridge. They decided to move up in the world." Belle looked sideways at him, just in time to catch a self-satisfied grin on Rumpelstiltskin's face. She knew, then, without any doubt in her mind, that he had been behind the troll invasion of the castle; he had not merely come along and set the place to rights, as he had told her before.

Rumpelstiltskin did not steal. He fooled the world into handing him whatever he desired.

Suddenly, the sheer drop made her feel dizzy. Belle stepped back, gasping, and before her head had stopped swimming, Rumpelstiltskin had his arm across her shoulders, securing her tightly against his side. She would not have fallen.

"Where is it that we're going?" she asked, to cover her confusion.

"A little way beyond the bridge. It's known as The Apiary." Rumpelstiltskin kept hold of her as he turned and opened the near door of the carriage. Belle was glad that he hadn't had her descend on that side, so near to the edge of the road. It would have felt like stepping out into thin air.

"The Apiary?" Arranging her skirts while Rumpelstiltskin climbed past her to resume his seat, Belle frowned. She had seen many apiaries, usually just a small portion of land set aside for the beehives on a working farm or near an orchard. She had never heard of a place being named for them.

"Come spring, you'll see hives all over these slopes. Every man with a crop wants our host's bees on his land."

"Oh." Trying to enjoy Rumpelstiltskin's obvious satisfaction at the workings of his domain, Belle nevertheless couldn't hold back her questions. "Why those bees?"

"Crops thrive, that's why. And the honey has some quite magical properties."

"Magic bees?"

"From another land." Rumpelstiltskin met her look and his smile grew more genuine. "Not magic, as such, but they don't belong in this world. The effect can be magical. The honey cures, protects from disease. Crops are stronger, fruits more lush." He spread his hands. "When one of the bees happens to serve a magical blossom, the fruits of their labour are most welcome. Most valuable."

"And you don't take them for yourself?"

Rumpelstiltskin looked hurt.

"Why would I do that?"

Shaking her head, abashed, Belle reached for his hand and, grasping it in her lap, went back to gazing out of the window.

Rubbing her ring with his thumb, Rumpelstiltskin watched her. Belle could feel the scrutiny, like a little itch upon her cheek.

"Belle?" He spoke after what seemed like a very long time, while the carriage passed through what seemed like a tunnel comprised of sheer rock on the one side and dark trees on the other. She looked at him, waiting; looked into huge and worried eyes, and an expression of such sincerity that she melted before Rumpelstiltskin even spoke. "Scold me often, my darling," he urged, growing bashful as he said it, and looking down at their joined hands. "I know that I am a monster. I often forget that I'm a fool."

"Oh," Belle whispered, and threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him off balance before he caught them both and, carefully adjusting their position on the seat, returned her fierce embrace. He buried his face in the folds of her hood, bunched at her shoulder.

By the time they let go of one another, both awkward and smirking, Belle felt better than she had all day. Whatever their faults, whatever their differences, there was strength to be found in one another if they were willing to reach for it.

"We'll arrive all crumpled," Belle laughed, a bit unsteadily. She smoothed out her cloak, reflecting that nothing could crumple Rumpelstiltskin's leather.

"I shouldn't worry. Randall has hardly been married a year, himself." Rumpelstiltskin gave her a filthy little wink. "His second wife. I'm sure he remembers."

"Randall is the beekeeper?"

"Ha! No." Once more taking Belle's hand, Rumpelstiltskin spoke more freely than before. He sounded very nearly cheerful. "Randall owns The Apiary, and makes a fine profit from its estates and his river trade. Men of actual skill tend his bees for him."

"And his wife?" Belle tried to commit everything to memory, but it was as though several weeks of relative solitude had rusted her ability to absorb such knowledge.

"I've not met her." Rumpelstiltskin wrinkled his nose slightly. "I wasn't invited to the wedding. I never am."

The bridge was far wider than Belle had expected. Two or even three large carriages could have passed abreast across the river, and the whole thing was built of stone. It was not what she envisaged at the mention of a troll bridge, but it had been at least a hundred years since Rumpelstiltskin had evicted the trolls and taken over.

On a rise beyond the river, sheltered by old and tall trees, sat a grand old grange. The central building looked newer than some of the outlying barns, and Belle recognised the improvements of a man of wealth to a property that had stood since before anyone could remember. Although dwarfed by the Dark Castle, this farmstead beyond the foot of the mountain was one of the largest unfortified buildings Belle had ever seen. She caught glimpses of it as the carriage took a meandering road through water meadows, fish ponds and busy sheds nearer the river. Away from the water's edge, Belle saw cherry orchards, pasture, and figures hard at work in yet more distant fields.

"We're beyond your lands," she said, taking in everything as best she could. "Beyond the river."

"Yes. The Apiary helps to give Odstone its comforts. Not just the bees," Rumpelstiltskin added, seeing that she was genuinely curious. "Randall buys and sells along the length of the river. I don't trouble him until I need something special."

"Like my stove," Belle said, still harbouring the suspicion that it might have been sold by a person given little choice in the matter.

"Yes. In return for its weight in gold. I think Randall's probably more than satisfied."

"And his cook?"

"Hmm?"

"Nothing." They were passing the outbuildings of the main house, now, and Belle spotted several heavily laden wagons alongside one of them, each covered with waxed canvas. In spite of that, the place seemed unusually quiet; they saw no-one until the carriage drew up in front of the main steps and a small man darted down to open the door, chattering courtesies as he gave Belle his hand to assist her down from the step.

"My Lady, my dear Lady," he said, breathlessly. His anxious bobbing reminded Belle of the eager-to-please innkeeper, but this man was so short, so slight that Belle herself could have troubled him in a wrestling match. He was a fraction shorter than she, with a great and gleaming bald spot atop his greying head. That was all Belle saw of him, for several long moments, until Rumpelstiltskin jumped down from the carriage and rescued her hand from the little man's sweaty grasp.

"Randall," he said, calmly. Where Rumpelstiltskin had been glib and full of enthusiasm, in the coach, he was watchful and stern now. "My wife, the Lady Belle."

"An honour," Randall declared, straightening up enough that Belle could make out eyes bluer than her own beneath unkempt, bushy eyebrows. "They speak of your beauty, my Lady, but words cannot--"

"Yes, yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. "There's no-one fairer in all the world than my wife." The words lacked any of his warmth or whimsy; he was pinning the sweating man with the hardest of looks. "Are you going somewhere, Randall?"

Turning, Rumpelstiltskin gestured back to the wagons which had been tucked to one side of their approach. They were out of view from the door of the house.

"A new opportunity," Randall blurted, trying to usher them towards the door. "It's a long trip down the mountain, I shall order my finest mead."

Mead. Belle's insides gave a guilty lurch and she tried to ignore Rumpelstiltskin's prickly behaviour, and to give Randall a grateful smile.

"You sent the wedding basket with the mead, the gilded cups?"

"That's so, my Lady," Randall beamed. "To wish you joy and a fruitful union." His face crumpled with strain when he glanced again at Rumpelstiltskin. "So much gold," he said, distractedly. "A new opportunity."

With that, having failed to usher his guests inside, Randall turned and went up the steps himself, leaving them to follow.

Rumpelstiltskin caught Belle's wrist as she set foot upon the first step. "Be alert," he said, under his breath. "This place reeks of fear."

Did it? To Belle, it reeked only of a well-kept farm and a man rightly uncomfortable in the company of the Spinner. Rumpelstiltskin's warning put a prickle at the back of her neck as she went inside the house, however; whether it was her imagination responding to his warning, or some sense of her own, Belle did feel that something was wrong. In fact, it took no mystical power to discern that something was badly wrong at The Apiary. Rumpelstiltskin was right - there was evidence of hasty packing for a move, with some pieces of furniture missing from where they had clearly stood for a very long time. Drag marks upon the floorboards and a rolled up woollen carpet in the entrance hall told the same story, while the frightened Randall seemed not to notice any of it. He led them into a room to the left of the foot of a wide, wooden staircase, his smile fixed and his brow glistening with sweat.

"Is a wagon load of gold all it took to get you out of my way, at last?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, all mock-surprise. He struck a pose near the doorway while Belle regarded the room. Large furniture had simply been left - a vast sideboard, a dining table, couches. It was the small things that had been removed, although the furniture was solid and valuable. "Are you _leaving_ us, Randall?"

"I, uh, have business," the man repeated, collecting himself enough to yank on a bell-pull and summon a servant from elsewhere in the building. "A journey will be good for my wife. Please, my Lady. Make yourself comfortable here. Forgive the state of the place, I beg you?"

"Is your wife unwell?" Belle sat on the nearest of the two, wide couches. After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin came to stand behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Ah, yes, frail," Randall explained, apparently giving up any hope that Rumpelstiltskin would join Belle and do anything as sociable as to sit down, and opting to stand himself. "A rare bloom, but frail. The climate doesn't suit her, you know."

"What is her name?" She ought to visit the woman and pay her respects, if she could.

"Flora." Unable to keep still while, behind Belle, Rumpelstiltskin was unusually so, Randall went again to the hanging rope and yanked it, harder this time. This time, Belle heard the faintest jangle of a bell somewhere.

"I hope that she wasn't put out when my husband bought your stove, sir," Belle said.

Randall blinked at her, as if for a moment or two he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he found that sickly smile again, and gestured to Rumpelstiltskin.

"Enough gold to buy my own kingdom, for a cooking stove? I wish you the joy of it, my Lady, truly I do, and so does Flora, I'm sure."

"Fair exchange is no robbery," said Rumpelstiltskin, brightly. "But why such a hurry? You sent no word that you were leaving."

Belle turned, hearing a heavy footfall at the door. The man who had entered was humbly dressed, more as a labourer would dress than a servant in a grand house. Randall called to him, impatiently.

"Where've you been, man? Fetch up a bottle of the finest. I've guests here!"

The servant departed with a curt nod. Seeing their expressions, Randall gave an apologetic shrug. "Everything's in uproar," he explained. "Apologies."

"Try answers," Rumpelstiltskin suggested, releasing Belle's shoulders and moving to stand between her and Randall. "You're running from something, and you're going to tell me what it is."

The man went white. Belle had seen pallor creep over people before, but not like this; Randall's well-sunned face simply drained of blood, his eyes widening with fear. "And Belle wishes to meet your dear wife, I'm sure," Rumpelstiltskin went on, turning to give her an enquiring look.

"Oh, yes," Belle said, rising. "Very much." She could only follow Rumpelstiltskin's lead, until she understood this place better. Randall seemed to be an ordinary man, but more than ordinarily afraid of Rumpelstiltskin, who was not his master, this side of the river.

"She's so weak," Randall began, apologetically.

"But not too weak to travel in a hurry," Belle answered, before Rumpelstiltskin could say the same thing, and give it a knife-edge of threat. "Sir, you make me fear that something has happened to your poor wife that you don't want me to know about."

Her bluntness left Randall slack-jawed, as it had many a man when Belle came of age at her father's castle. Sir Maurice would excuse her by pointing out that his unruly daughter got things done with her obstinacy. Rumpelstiltskin merely smirked, delighted with her.

"I... I'll fetch her, then," Randall said, in the manner of someone outnumbered in a fight. "If you'd wait?"

Belle nodded, glad that it had not come to more of a fight. She truly was concerned for Flora, now, and could not leave until she had seen for herself that the woman was safe. Before Randall reached the door, a quiet yet penetrating sound stilled them all - the far off, unmistakable squalling protest of a tiny, newborn baby.

Frozen with his back to them, as though pinned by Rumpelstiltskin's stare, Randall sagged.

"I don't know _where_ people get the idea that I steal away babes," Rumpelstiltskin said, with a manic pleasantness that struck a horrible discord with the child's feeble cries. "It's quite offensive. A ton of gold for your cooking stove, yet I just turn up and make off with your child, is that it?" He spoke with the precise animation of his pantomime gestures, pointing upwards with both fingers towards the sound of crying when he finished speaking.

"I, uh... no," Randall protested, turning back in the doorway and looking desperately to Belle before he addressed her husband. "No, Lord, of course not. My wife is... very weak."

It was only a lie by omission, yet being caught in it had wrung all the twitching, nervous energy out of Randall. He looked as if he might fall to his knees and weep, and Belle felt for him. Was he truly afraid that they had come to take away his newborn child?

No, Belle decided. The packing and preparations were well underway - this had been done in absurd haste, but not since their coach was spotted on the mountain road!

"I'll visit your wife," she said, no longer certain what it was that she suspected, but more concerned than ever for the safety of Flora. "I'm sure my husband will want to congratulate you," she went on, slipping past Randall's unmoving figure and turning back to face Rumpelstiltskin over the man's shoulder. He held her gaze a moment, his expression unreadable. The cold suspicion in his eyes, however, would have been obvious to anyone. He gave her a tiny nod before returning his unblinking stare to the drooping Randall.

Belle had only to follow the sound of the infant's cries, which were soft enough, but persistent in their frustration with the world. Up two flights of carpeted stairs, turning to her left at each half-landing, then along a brightly-lit corridor to her right, where a red painted door stood opposite a generous and sunny window.

Gently, Belle knocked upon the door. She expected a maid to answer it, and barely made out the faint call to enter. A woman's voice, and so weak that the tiny protests of the unhappy baby almost drowned her out.

The door opened onto a darkened chamber, heavy curtains almost closed across another huge window. To Belle's right, the woman was trying to prop herself up in bed, mumbling urgently. Pleading. Why had the poor lady no servant to help her? She was plainly unwell and the room smelled of sickness, while the infant lay beyond the mother's reach in a heavy old crib of dark oak.

"Here," Belle soothed, carefully scooping the baby up in both hands and bringing it to the bedside. "Flora?"

The woman nodded, eyes closing in relief as Belle gave her the baby. Falling back into her pillows, Flora fumbled at the buttons of her nightgown until Belle sat beside her and helped with that also.

"Where's your maid?" she asked, relieved that the baby's noisy fretting stopped the very moment it was provided with Flora's wide, flat nipple. Belle kept one hand beneath Flora's arm, seeing how she shook with the effort of keeping her child in place to suckle. After a few moments of urgent thought, Belle reached past her for two big feather pillows and helped her to prop the baby in place, Flora's arm cradling the baby and her arm, in turn, cradled by the pillows.

"Thank you, thank you," Flora breathed.

Randall had not been lying about his wife's weakness. As desperate as she had been to tend her crying child, Flora was barely sensible to the world around her. She lay, now, in a feverish daze and did not seem to hear Belle, or even to notice the child at her breast, in her exhaustion.

She was a dark haired woman, blessed with full and thick curls. Belle could make out no more than that until she went to the window and pulled one curtain aside to shed light upon the bed. Flora turned her face away from the light with a quiet moan of protest, while the baby paused briefly in its busy suckling before resuming with the same eagerness as before.

Flora was darker skinned than Belle, and had the exotic look about her of the sea captain's wives who had sometimes been among her father's guests. Her fever had taken the warm summer colour out of her face, though, leaving her a blotchy combination of pallor and red fever framed by sweat-damp hair. It was plain to Belle that the woman was deathly ill, and a cold anger filled her up and drove out her fear, because someone had chosen to leave her alone here, too weak even to lift and nurse her own babe.

Belle strode to the door, yanked it open and caught a breath, considering what she was about to do.

What _else_ could she do?

"Rumpelstiltskin!"

He came at once, faster than any ordinary man could have moved; Rumpelstiltskin was at the door by the time Belle had returned to Flora's side and sat again upon the bed.

"Belle?" She turned her head to greet Rumpelstiltskin, and heard heavy footsteps pounding their way upwards. Randall, she thought, and for a moment was full of such disgust that she could have gone tearing off to intercept the man and beat him with her fists.

"She's terribly ill," Belle said, scooping the child away from Flora when she saw that it had fallen asleep at the breast, and carefully covering the other woman before Rumpelstiltskin could approach. "Help her, please!"

Rumpelstiltskin touched Belle's shoulder, standing beside her and peering down at the occupant of the bed. Randall was calling, breathlessly, as he lumbered towards his wife's chamber.

"Wait, please, stop! Please!"

"He means to travel with her," Belle said, her anger boiling over. "She'll die, any fool can see that she'll die." She clutched the tiny bundle to her shoulder as she spoke, feeling the baby give a shuddering sigh at the edge of renewed howling.

"Randall's no fool," Rumpelstiltskin said, and for a moment he fingered the back of Belle's neck, tenderly. "You have a soft heart, little wife."

"I have a heart," Belle answered, standing, turning to face him, the baby clutched close. "So do you. Help me."

They were locked, eye to eye, when Randall finally caught up with them and burst through the door, panting. Belle had half expected him to be brandishing a weapon, but all he seemed to have brought with him was a desperate defiance and the stink of sweat. Leaving Rumpelstiltskin, Belle crossed the room and confronted the little man, his child safe in her arms.

"What are you running from that you'd throw away her life?" she demanded, stepping back automatically when Randall tried to take his child from her. "My husband can help her, but I know him. If you anger him, try to trick him, nothing I say will move him." She lifted her chin, proudly, to quell her own tears of anger. "Everyone knows that he has no heart."

Behind her, Rumpelstiltskin giggled.

"Please," Randall whispered, holding Belle's gaze. His eyes were brimming with tears. "Please. It's all gone wrong."

"Your wife is clinging to life," Rumpelstiltskin told him, moving to stand behind Belle. "And you'd put her in a carriage. Take her on a boat, amidst all this hurry and neglect? Why? To keep me from discovering your... happy news?" He reached around Belle and pointed at the baby.

Gulping, Randall looked towards the bed, then back to Rumpelstiltskin.

"My wife is quite correct," Rumpelstiltskin went on, conversational. "I may help your wife because my wife desires it, because she's a sweet treasure who likes a happy ending." Leaning a little, he touched the child's dark forelock with one fingertip. "Perhaps even because a child needs a mother. I have no reason at all to spare _you_ anything. There's been magic here."

"No!"

"She _reeks_ of it!" Rumpelstiltskin rarely raised his voice. When he did, even Belle jumped inside her skin. "Dark magic. Vast magic. She and the babe. When was it born?"

Randall's mouth worked in silence for several moments, then he squared his shoulders. Belle could see that he was beginning to understand.

"It was the day Janek came with the wagon, for the stove," Randall muttered, looking at the ground. "You were away, Lord, or of course I would have sent word of our joy."

 _Liar_ , Belle thought, and turned away from the man in disgust. She had hoped they might find some information by going where Jules had been during his final days; she had not considered that they might stumble upon filthy secrets, so near to home. In her arms, the baby whimpered. At least neither it nor Flora seemed to have been neglected for long; both mother and child were freshly dressed in clean cottons. She carried the infant to the window to have a proper look at the wrinkled little face, and was rewarded with the barest glimpse of blue eyes beneath squinting, flaking eyelids. A beautiful child.

"Randall," Rumpelstiltskin said, drawing out the last syllable, playfully. "A boy returned from here that day and brought a plague to my happy little town. A plague that killed every boy, even those not yet born, save the one I returned in time to cure. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

More collected, her anger under control, Belle turned to watch the two men. Rumpelstiltskin had struck one of his playful poses, while her back was turned, but she knew that he did not think this a game. His words were cold, even as they danced about the octave, making their dark and teasing music.

"Of course not," Randall said, scowling, and pushed past Rumpelstiltskin to go to Flora's bedside. He sat, gently removing the pillows that Belle had left beneath her breast, and touched the back of his knuckles to Flora's brow. "Will you help her, Dark One? For your own wife's sake?"

"If she can be saved, I will save her," Rumpelstiltskin answered, quietly. "For my own wife's sake."

Belle breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't been sure. Not _sure_ that she could ask this of him, before witnesses. She had not been sure, either, what she would do if he refused her request.

"What's the baby's name?" she asked, lowering herself to the window seat so that she could rock the blanketed bundle back to sleep.

Randall looked towards her, startled.

"...Edith," he said, after a moment, and didn't meet Belle's gaze.

" _Edith?_ " Rumpelstiltskin gave him a pitying look, and Belle frowned down at the baby, wondering what was the matter with the name. "My dear, Randall seems a bit confused." Approaching, he held out his hands for Edith, then waited with an expectant expression when Belle did not move. She thought that he would not harm the babe, but... could she be sure? Rumpelstiltskin was angry, frustrated, and quite probably a hair away from doing something awful to Randall if he suspected foul play, but the child...

Belle lifted her, with great care, and let Rumpelstiltskin take the baby into his arms. He smiled down at her, with every sign of genuine pleasure, and touched the tiny nose with a black-nailed finger. Then, to Belle's dismay, he began to unwrap the poor little thing from her blankets, dropping them carelessly into Belle's own lap as he went. Beneath a cotton shift, the baby had only a muslin napkin, which Rumpelstiltskin deftly removed while holding Edith cupped in his left hand.

"She'll get cold," Belle protested, although she could see no actual harm in this strange behaviour. Randall, she noted, had stopped watching and buried his face in both hands, bent over his wife. "Let her be, she'll catch a chill."

"Oh, newborns are hardier than they look," Rumpelstiltskin said, still smiling. He turned to show her his handiwork, the child's skirts folded up about her tiny midriff, and Belle saw.

 _His_ tiny midriff. Definitely, most definitely, _his_.

"It's not a mistake easily made, that," Rumpelstiltskin observed, lifting the baby in both hands and letting the gown fall back to his heels. "Randall, am I meant to believe that you got yourself a son, even this late in life, without being able to tell cock from cunt?" This question delivered, Rumpelstiltskin drew the infant to his shoulder and began to soothe him there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to menace a man while pacifying a babe. Belle couldn't look away. "Would you like me to draw you a diagram? Even at this size, it's possible to spot the difference." He sniffed in disdain. "Are you really going to name him _Edith?_ "

"Edward," Randall mumbled into his hands, then managed to straighten himself. "His name is Edward, for Flora's father. A son, they said. I thought I'd never... I'm getting old, and I thought I'd leave nothing behind. They told me I'd have a son. A beautiful wife. I didn't know... I never meant..."

Rumpelstiltskin bristled, taking another step towards the bed, and Belle stood up quickly.

"Your son lives, while the sons of Odstone brought death to my lands. From here! From you! What magic is this? Who offered you... this?" He nodded awkwardly to the baby, who slept on, perfectly content, tucked beneath the curl of Rumpelstiltskin's cured mantle.

"Whatever this man has done, his wife needs help," Belle said, pleased that her voice sounded so clear, so rational. "This can wait, Flora needs our help _now_."

He turned to glare at her, but it was not the boiling, irrational rage that Belle had expected. She could see her own misery reflected in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. Perhaps he could see his anger in hers, also. Belle held out her arms for the baby. "Please," she said. "Help her."

Wordlessly, Rumpelstiltskin returned Edward to her. He touched her cheek, so gently, before rounding on the bed and striding back to drag Randall from his wife's side by the collar. The man stumbled backwards, barely managing to keep his feet, and then hurried to take refuge beside Belle.

"I meant no harm," he said, wringing his hands while they watched Rumpelstiltskin sit beside Flora and turn back the bedclothes to her waist, feeling for the pulse behind her ear. "No harm. A son, that's all. They said I'd have a son, that it was meant to be."

"And there was magic?" Belle asked with a mechanical detachment, too worried for Flora to think much of the husband beside her. Rumpelstiltskin said that Randall was no fool. He had to have known that their hasty flight would likely kill the woman who had borne him the son he wanted so very badly.

"I... nothing was said of magic," he moaned.

"There's still a price to be paid for it," Rumpelstiltskin told him, tartly. "The poisoned blood in your wife's veins, for one. Shut up. Get out. Stay with Belle and the babe, downstairs."

"The child gives her strength," Belle said, doubtfully, remembering how Flora had roused herself at his hungry cries. "And he needs her milk. He barely suckled."

Rumpelstiltskin considered, then gestured towards the rocking cradle. Belle returned Edward to his nest and covered him carefully with the blankets, setting the cradle to rock with a gentle nudge of her hand.

"Wait below," he said again, and laid his palm over the row of pearl buttons at Flora's chest, between her engorged breasts. "And Randall, I suggest that you obey my wife as you would me, while you wait." Belle heard the effort in Rumpelstiltskin's voice - saw the depth of his concentration, and hastily pushed the defeated Randall out of the bedroom door. "Her goodwill is all that protects you, now."


	80. The Apiary

"Will he save her?" In the parlour that had been depleted of its lighter furniture, Randall sat himself down heavily and held his head between his hands, pulling at the scrubby hair behind each ear.

"He's going to try." Belle saw that mead had been left, in their absence - three cups and a bottle on the sideboard, dumped without ceremony, nor even so much as a tray. "Where are your household servants? Why was Flora ever left alone?"

Randall groaned, a wretched sound. "They all fled the day of the birth," he said. He sounded more bewildered about it than angry. "They were Flora's people, she brought them with her. They just fled without a word, I swear to you - not one of them to be found after Flora's labour began."

"Who has cared for your wife since then?" Belle could only be angry at a man who found hired hands enough to pack up his belongings, but none to sit beside his wife and tend her child.

"I have," Randall said, hanging his head. "As best I could. I didn't know what to _do_."

"She needs a doctor, and a wet nurse," Belle said, disgusted with the man. "No, she needed those things days ago. Now she needs my husband's magic if she's even to live." She stood before him, looking down at the gleaming spot atop his head. "You know there will be a price."

"Anything," Randall sighed, shamed into utter defeat. "I never meant any of this."

"What _did_ you do?"

"I... married," he said, staring at the hem of Belle's skirt. He reminded her of a scrawny boy she'd once scolded for knocking her book from her hands while he wrestled with his friends. "That's all! I was told that she'd give me a son. My first wife and I could never... a fever, when I was a lad." As if his shame loaned him a sullen strength, Randall rose and pushed past Belle, going to the sideboard to fiddle with the cups. "I was to have a son, they said, and in return all I need do was sell my estates to Rumpelstiltskin, while my wife was delivering the boy. No more than that. Where's the harm in that? His lands border mine, where's the harm?" He shot her a look that was half pleading, half accusing. "I knew he'd want my bees, even if he didn't want this place. I'd have sold it all to him for a peppercorn, for a son!"

Belle stared at the man, trying to decide if he spoke the truth. He was so wrecked with nerves that it was impossible to be certain, but she found a pathetic plausibility in what he told her. Some men would give anything - everything - for a son.

"Who told you to do this?"

"I travel," Randall said, a wary defiance growing in him as he spoke. Belle had no interest in that; she _would_ hear the truth from him, and better that he gave it to her than had it dragged from him by Rumpelstiltskin! "I've seen all sorts. Magic, miracles. Even my bees. I had nothing, until I had my bees. They found me, you know. Miracles do happen." He glanced in Belle's direction and saw how unmoved she was by this diversion. "I've spoken to priests, doctors, wise women, sorcerers. Even the Dark One, your husband. Even _he_ couldn't help me, but this one woman saw the future, and said I _was_ to have a son, though it would cost me all I'd built here. A fine young wife, who'd give me a son of my own blood." Randall glanced at her face, and Belle was too slow in hiding her skepticism. The man flushed, more purple than pink, and waved his hand in irritation. "I thought nothing of it, of course. Not until I met Flora, and her uncle wanted her married. She was eager for children, and..."

"And all you had to do in return for her hand was to sell this place to my husband on the day your son was born," Belle said, appalled by how easily she could see it; a man who wished to ask no questions, accepting a deal that was too good to be true. "You didn't ask why? What her uncle would gain?"

"He said that it would take a sacrifice - that the miracle must be paid for. Everything I'd built up, worked for. It seemed... fair. I can begin again, with a son. I'm not so old as all that. Flora is--

"You didn't keep your end of the bargain," Belle interrupted, too sharply. As much as Randall might wish to avoid the subject at hand, she could not afford to let him. "You _didn't_ sell your land to my husband."

"I... the Lord was away travelling when her labour began! I was just setting out to see him when the men came down to buy the stove, and told me the Dark Castle stood empty! I couldn't stop the birthing, could I? Then the servants fled and it was me and the milking maid who were left to deliver Flora - no time to send for help from the farmsteads or Odstone! What more could I have done to keep my bargain, I ask you?"

Could that have been enough? Belle sat down, slowly, and thought of it - of Randall with his plan so clear and simple before him; his wife, his son on the way, all as promised. And then Janek and Jules arrived without warning, with a wagon loaded with gold, to buy the stove. A surprise for Rumpelstiltskin's wife, to be delivered and installed before they returned from visiting her father. The first Randall knew of their absence - and too late, with Flora already labouring.

It had taken no malice at all, on Randall's part, for everything to go horribly wrong.

"Janek and the others were here, when Edward was born? Here on your land?"

"Yes, Lady. In the house." Randall poured two cups of mead, his hands trembling so violently that the neck of the clay bottle battered against the silvered rim of the glasses. "We drank to him, every man and boy of us. Everything was all right. I thought... I mean, there was my son. Flora seemed well. I thought I'd go to the Dark Castle just as soon as he returned, sell my holdings then, and no harm done. I didn't mean to go back on my word, I would have sold the place as I promised. Then..." The life went out of the man's voice. "Then we heard the news from Odstone, and I knew something had gone wrong. I never meant any harm to anyone, you have to believe me! You have to tell him!"

"My husband tells me that intent is meaningless," Belle told him, shortly. "When it comes to magic, he might be right." Randall flinched from her accusing tone. "You had to know that this was magic. A son for a man who can't get children?" He didn't answer her. Couldn't, he was so choked up with misery and humiliation. "Whoever did this meant for The Apiary to become part of Rumpelstiltskin's lands _before_ your son was born."

To slip inside his defences, Belle thought, remembering Queen Regina's answer when Rumpelstiltskin pressed her about the Rot. She had supposed that some cursed object must have been brought within the boundaries of Rumpelstiltskin's protection, and hidden. Suppose the plan had, instead, been to extend those boundaries to encompass the threat - to have Rumpelstiltskin _himself_ bring the curse within his own domain?

Everyone knew that the Spinner could not resist a tempting deal.

But to what end? To kill innocent boys, who happened to dwell on Rumpelstiltskin's land? That made no sense! And so many, to pay for one new life? Magic wasn't like that, was it? It sought balance, in the same way as water and air if left to fill a void.

These were questions for Rumpelstiltskin to answer. Belle dragged her thoughts back to Randall, to Flora.

"It was Flora's uncle, then, who arranged all of this?"

"That's right," Randall said, relieved, and brought the cups of mead across, offering her one with a hand that shook so badly that the drink splashed onto the floorboards. "Flora's uncle. I know no more than I've told you, and I'm sure my wife doesn't either! He was no kind guardian to her, I know that," he added, gulping breathlessly from his own cup. Belle took a sip, but the sweet fumes turned her stomach and she grimaced, barely able to swallow it.

"Who is he, this uncle?" She set the glass beside her foot, while Randall drained his own and returned to the sideboard with it, refilling it hastily. A man would be ill before he made himself drunk on mead, but he didn't seem to care. If it loosened his tongue, neither did Belle.

"Pierce. He's lord of Lowerston, since Flora's father, Sir Edward, passed on. I, uh, heard you're from those parts, my Lady. You were to marry the son of Duke Hubert."

Belle nodded, absently. She knew of the place, though it was far inland from her own home. The place would have suffered badly in the ogre war, being so very near to the border.

"You were given no potion? No spell? Nothing but those instructions?"

"No, Lady. I swear. Nothing but that."

That and Flora, Belle thought, and tried hard to push aside her own bitterness at the fate of a bartered bride. _She_ had escaped that fate, chosen her own terms.

Flora came to Randall with her own servants, just as Belle would have gone to Gaston with her own small retinue. That was not so unusual, but these had been servants who knew or suspected enough to flee when the birth was imminent, or when they realised that Randall would be unable to fulfil his obligations in time. They had replaced any household staff who were here before them. That wasn't usual.

It was becoming difficult to think clearly. Belle's head swam, her bile rising and a cold sweat breaking out across her back as the sip of mead reached her belly. She wanted to breathe fresh air. The room was dusty, and Randall was rank with the sweat of his terror.

"Why sons?" she asked, too angry to stop herself. She stood hastily and then flushed when doing so caused her skirt to knock the glass over. It rolled beneath the couch, spreading a puddle of sticky sweet mead across the floorboards, the rising odour of which only added to her discomfort.

"Lady?"

"Why do men want sons? Why not daughters? Why not welcome any child that comes? What's so important about _sons_?"

"I..." Randall swallowed, and produced a sick smile that utterly failed to appease Belle. "I don't know. I always... it was always a son, for me. Little Edward. He's strong," he added, beaming, as if that made up for any of the rest of it.

Afraid that she was going to be sick, Belle hurried from the room and out onto the stone steps of the big house, gulping for air. It had become a spring day, now - damp and slightly warm, as if the soil itself were breathing a long sigh of relief after the winter and the frosts. She leaned against a stone pillar just beyond the outer door and wiped her face with her sleeve, hearing Randall call to her, uncertainly, from back down the passage.

She had no time for him, no use for a man who would leave his wife to die of childbed fever while congratulating himself on the birth of a son. A son bought and paid for with magic, with the blood of other men's sons. Thankful for the fresh air, Belle went down the steps and heard Randall hurrying after her, calling anxiously.

"Lady Belle!"

Well, she thought, Rumpelstiltskin _did_ command Randall to stay with her. Ignoring him, Belle crossed the muddy cobbles to the nearest range of outbuildings and tried the first door. It was a wood store, and a skinny grey cat glared at her from among the stacks of dry, quartered logs, four tiny kittens piled against her belly.

"My Lady, what are you doing? Please!" Randall caught up with her and made a half-hearted attempt to intercept Belle on her way to the next door along. "He said to wait downstairs!"

"Wait, then," Belle said, brushing him out of her way. "Or help me look. It might make him less angry with you when he learns what you've done."

"L...look for what, Lady?" Beside her, fretting, Randall jumped out of the way when Belle flung open the next door. There was a loft, and the steps of a root cellar, but the rest was empty shelving. Whatever had been stored here must have been packed up for the planned journey, but the place smelled strongly of honey and turned her stomach all over again. She closed the door as hastily as she had dragged it open.

Belle moved along to the next door, the last of the stone range, and tried to think of an answer to Randall's question. She wasn't looking _for_ anything, she decided; she was simply _looking_ , trying to understand what was going on, just as Randall should have done.

"Where did your servants live? The ones who fled?" she demanded, when the third building proved to be a clutter of wagons and other equipment in need of small repairs.

Thoroughly cowed, Randall gestured around the side of the main house and beckoned her to follow him there, his head bowed.

"I'd have loved a daughter," he blurted, when they were halfway across the yard to the corner of the house. 

_But you bargained for a son_ , Belle thought. She didn't answer him.

The right-hand range of the main house had been made into a row of cottages. Belle could see that they offered comfortable living to the staff who dwelt there, each of the four cottages with a large window. 

"There's no-one here?" Belle hesitated at the first door, reason finally dampening her temper. She could not just burst into someone's home!

"My foreman has the last one," Randall explained, pointing to the end of the row. "You saw him, earlier. When I called for mead. These others were for Flora's servants - her maid, the kitchen girls, a housemaid. Her uncle sent them. Mother and daughters, they were. They worked well. Kept to themselves. He said the family owed them for their loyalty, so I..."

"Pierce said?"

"Yes."

"Did you ask Flora? About any of it?" Without waiting for his reply, because she already knew the answer, Belle lifted the latch of the first cottage and went inside. Although tiny, it was made comfortable with cast off furniture from the main house - old, worn, repaired, and too large for the space they now occupied, but of good quality. The cottages accounted for the lower storey of the house, along this wing, and although the results were only humble little homes, Belle could see that the building had been done at great expense, and with thought given to the use of space. Randall would not have needed to look very far to find loyal servants, if he offered them such a good living as this. And no-one of humble means would have given this up lightly, either.

"My wife... speaks little," Randall explained, hovering in the doorway and blocking Belle's light as she lifted the lid of a carved chest. It was empty. "And never of the past. I made her as happy as I could."

Was it a fault of all husbands, Belle wondered, to think that they could _make_ their brides happy?

"Did they take anything that didn't belong to them, when they fled?"

"No, Lady. The wages that were owed them, their clothes, a little food. They paid their passage down river but couldn't be found when I sent my foreman to look. None had seen them at any landing."

The other two empty cottages were just the same. Belle found a sewing needle that had been dropped from the table beside the window, and scattered a small nest of mice which had been finishing off a crust of bread behind a clothes chest at the foot of the bed. She had hoped to find _something_ helpful, but at least she had looked, and made sure that there was nothing to be found. At least taking action had kept her from lashing out at the foolish Randall in her anger.

"You do understand that you've been tricked? Used?" She shaded her eyes from the sun, facing Randall outside the cottage door. "That someone was using you, and probably your wife and son too, to threaten _my_ husband and his lands?"

He hadn't understood that. Belle watched him blanch, just as he had earlier, and take two, stumbling steps backwards as if he could escape from understanding it now.

"No!"

"Killing the boys in Odstone - that serves no purpose. That's what I've been struggling to understand," Belle told him, heard Sir Maurice in her own voice - patient, cool and certain. "It angered Rumpelstiltskin, but to what end? I don't think that was what would have happened, had you made your deal with Rumpelstiltskin. Had your son been born on _his_ land. That was the plan. Not to give you a son, but to have your son born here and now. Perhaps it doesn't matter at all that he's _your_ son, only that it was done here. Do you see?"

Still shaking his head, Randall was speechless. Belle put her head down and went back to the main door of the house, a quiet fear beginning to dilute her sense of righteous anger. If the Rot had been the unintended consequences of the magic, the consequence of Randall failing to honour his bargain, what _had_ been intended? To kill Rumpelstiltskin? It took all her courage not to run back up the stairs to Flora's room, to Rumpelstiltskin's side, and blurt out all her fears at once - to see for herself that he was safe.

Belle almost laughed aloud; her first urge was to _protect_ him, her Rumpelstiltskin - a man so powerful that it took some elaborate scheme such as this even to attract his _notice!_ She need not be afraid that he would fall to an ordinary assassin, nor to any ordinary magic.

Rather than join her back at the couches, Randall took to pacing up and down the hallway. Grateful for a moment to herself, Belle sat as far as she could from the puddle of spilled mead and chewed her lip. Rumpelstiltskin had not sounded his usual cocksure confident, when asked if he could save Flora. That he had agreed to try did not mean that he would succeed. It had been perhaps ten days since Jules returned to Odstone, sickening. Ten days that Flora had been inexpertly nursed, while giving what strength she had in feeding the baby. Another day and that fool Randall would have had her on a riverboat and sealed her fate!

A few minutes alone gave Belle back her composure. She wanted to search the rest of the house, but without any expectation of finding anything. If the servants had known anything then they would have been careful not to betray their secrets; if they knew little or nothing, and were merely afraid, then they had nothing to hide. Flora was their best hope of learning more.

"Randall," she called, the next time the man passed the open doorway.

"My Lady?" He came in, as apologetic as if he now trespassed in his own house.

Belle wished that she could find it in her to be kind, patient, but when she tried she thought of Flora, sick and abandoned, desperately reaching for her crying babe to nurse him with the last of her strength... Any soft emotion hardened again at the sight of Randall, cringing and whining and speaking as if a son was worth his wife's pain.

"The woman who said she saw the future," she said, quietly if not gently. "The woman who told you that you'd have a new wife, and a son. Tell me about her?"

Nodding, Randall leaned against the door frame and pushed back his hair. He had stopped sweating, Belle noted, now that his immediate panic had faded to subdued misery. Her milder tone seemed to put him more at his ease.

"She'll see anyone who brings her a meal, whether they can afford a... a whole roast goose or only a crust of bread. And she always speaks the truth," he said. "You hear of her all up and down the river, and across the Kingdoms. What her blind eyes don't see, she sees here." He tapped the side of his head. "Inside. She's _never_ wrong. The past and the future - she sees it all."

"Well," Rumpelstiltskin said, so close behind Randall that the man actually jumped an inch into the air when Rumpelstiltskin spoke. " _That_ sounds horribly familiar."

Belle hurried to the door at once, ignoring Randall, and saw that Rumpelstiltskin once more had baby Edward tucked against his shoulder, half hidden by his leather collar. He gave her a thin smile, rocking slightly where he stood to keep the infant content.

"Flora?" Randall choked.

"She lives, though there will be a cost. I think she will not live to be an old and merry widow after I rip your heart out and tread on it, Randall. Long enough, though. Long enough to see this one come of age." Rumpelstiltskin smiled down at the baby, then shooed them both out of the way so that he could approach the couches and sit.

Randall took a couple of steps after him, then thought better of it. "Th... The boy?"

"Healthy as a horse," Rumpelstiltskin declared. Belle's shoulders dropped in relief, and she sat beside her husband, watching him. "It's only a shame he has a fool for a father. No-one deserves that." Lowering Edward to his lap, Rumpelstiltskin left him there, drowsing in his cocoon of blankets. "Need I kill the fool, little wife?"

Belle had to glance at his eyes to know that he was not entirely serious. Neither was it said entirely in jest. She put her hand on his wrist.

"No," she said, softly. "Hear what he has to say."

And so they sat, like guests for tea, while Belle prompted Randall to repeat all that he had told her. Rumpelstiltskin appeared to pay him little attention, instead watching the child in his lap. A braver man than Randall might have snatched up his son and tried to keep him from the Spinner, but Belle could see that the babe was at peace where he lay. Perhaps Randall could see it too. Unafraid, safely held, warm and fed. That was all a baby wanted from the world, wasn't it? Tiny, newborn Edward cared not that it was the Dark One who cradled him.

"Tell me of this woman and her second sight," Rumpelstiltskin said, when Randall had been urged to say all that Belle had learned from him. His account was even less coherent than before, but she noted that he did not contradict himself, nor appear to embellish the tale for the ears of a new listener. "Where did you find her? How?"

"She's well known," Randall said, uncertainly. "She wanders, trades her knowledge for food. They say she has sisters whose power is greater still, but whose price is..."

"Madness and death," Rumpelstiltskin supplied, coolly. "Yes. A high price for the gift of truth. Not always the help you'd expect, is it? The whole truth and nothing but the truth?" he asked, sneering, then appeared to forget about Randall completely when the baby stirred in his lap, whimpering and squinting at the world. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, resting his palm against the baby's brow, and Belle thought of what Wren had told her - of how Rumpelstiltskin would watch the children play. She had to look away.

"I trusted her words," Randall explained, baffled by Rumpelstiltskin's manner. It was a horrible thought that seeing him pay such tender attention to the baby might be _adding_ to the man's fear. And that Rumpelstiltskin knew exactly what he was doing, for all the genuine pleasure he took in holding the little one. "The truth is... the truth!" Randall concluded, stupidly. Belle's temper flared again, and she clenched her fists tightly.

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, lazily.

"If it's the truth you wanted, she might have told you that you were a catspaw. She might have told you that Flora would fall ill and die unless I intervened. She might have told you that the magic you agreed to so blindly would go wrong and that the Dark One would be very, _very_ angry with you." His hands, so gentle in lifting the baby back to his shoulder to quiet him again, were such a contrast to the patient, dripping acid of his voice. "Flora may know more. She's extremely weak, and there may yet be magic keeping her from telling what she knows. If you try to take her, to flee before I have my answers, not even my sweet Belle will be able to save you." Rumpelstiltskin offered Belle his hand as he spoke, and they rose together as one to face Randall.

"If you risk Flora's life like that again," Belle promised him, when he tried a look of mute appeal in her direction, "I won't even try."

"Excellent!" Rumpelstiltskin said, suddenly all energy and excitement. Edward fussed against his shoulder, disturbed by the sudden movement. Belle wondered if the baby could feel Rumpelstiltskin's power, as she could; how it caught his mood and gave it dangerous, sharp edges. "Now, we should discuss my fee."

"Fee," Randall repeated, dully. "But you said... Flora's life will not be long..."

"Oh, that was done before I got to her, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, speaking as though to one slow of thought. "No, I gave her the choice of die now or die later. It's a better deal than most people get," Rumpelstiltskin went on, taking his left hand from Belle's so that he could free the other from clasping the baby to his chest. With his right hand, he then made an extravagant gesture towards the sky. "And you owe me for my work here. What shall it be, I wonder?" He fingered his chin, as though in deep thought. "What price your wife's life, Randall?"

Randall's eyes flickered to baby Edward, just for a moment, and Belle held her breath. Into the horrible silence, Rumpelstiltskin pitched one of his cruel giggles and waved his hand about again, as though he had done no more than make a mildly tasteless joke. "Oh, don't worry, I don't want your firstborn. I'll take your bees. Every hive."

There was only relief on Randall's face, then, as Rumpelstiltskin offered him his own son, holding the baby out at arm's length and watching Randall with a questioning expression. Randall drew the baby tightly to him, shaking, and Belle breathed again.

"Yes," he panted. "Yes. Of course. Anything." The baby began to cry, and Randall tried to soothe him, urgently. It was like pouring spirit onto a flame and poor Edward began to put his heart into the cries, oblivious to Randall's clumsy rocking and broken words of comfort.

"And my wife has done you a service," Rumpelstiltskin mused, ignoring all this. He recaptured Belle's hand and brought it to his lips for a fleeting kiss. He smiled at her from behind their joined hands, his eyes aflame with a passion that she had seldom seen outside their bedchamber. It made her turn pink and feel too warm again. "What will you take in payment for saving his worthless life from a monster, sweet?"

She had to play her part. If she was to be beside him, to have his ear in anything that mattered, Belle knew that she had to play her part. She wanted nothing of Randall or his little family, except the answers they had sought in the first place. What should she say? It was difficult to think at all with Rumpelstiltskin looking at her that way!

"The cat in the log store," she decided, inspired by her own words to Gaston when he knelt for her forgiveness and her demands. She had wanted nothing more than the truth then, too. "The cat and her kittens."

"Cat?" Randall looked from her to Rumpelstiltskin, blank faced. He didn't even know about the creature, Belle realised; it was nothing to him. She had chosen well. "Any cats you want, Lady, for your kindness." Randall managed a flash of his earlier gallantry, then, and gave a little bow from the waist, clasping his squalling son to his chest with both hands. "And my bees. A fair price for my Flora's life, Lord. Thank you."

"We'll leave you then," Rumpelstiltskin said, catching Belle about the waist. "My dear."

"Please tell Flora that I would like to visit her when she feels better," Belle said, before Rumpelstiltskin drew her with him to the door and left Randall standing there, forlornly trying to quiet the baby.

"He's _hungry_ ," Rumpelstiltskin called back, irritably, when the crying intensified as they crossed the threshold. "Fool," he added, under his breath.

Their carriage had waited all the while, facing the road to the bridge, the horses unnaturally quiet and still. Her head spinning from all that had happened, and all that she had learned, Belle barely remembered to pull Rumpelstiltskin towards the log store before they left. When she opened the door, the mother cat glared at her as before from her nest amongst the logs. Her kittens were a sleeping tangle beside her.

"Your price?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, dubiously taking hold of two of the kittens while Belle scooped up the other two. The mother cat looked daggers at both of them and cried for her babes, but was not so wild as she first looked. She allowed Rumpelstiltskin to lift her as well and returned his look of distaste, measure for measure. "Hardly payment for saving a man's life, my love," he complained, while Belle felt carefully around inside the log stack for any more kittens. There were none.

"We need a cat in case your genie misbehaves," Belle reminded him, beginning to feel silly and elated after the strain of the past hour. "Five good farm mousers should make him think twice about ignoring your warning."

"As you wish," was all Rumpelstiltskin said, but Belle saw his indulgent smile before he managed to hide it. As with her demand that Gaston surrender a prized horse to Sir Maurice, he was intrigued rather than disappointed by her choice.

They installed the kittens in Rumpelstiltskin's box of straw bundles, with his tools banished to the corner of a seat. The grey cat climbed in after her young and settled down to lick them clean, content to ignore all that went on around her now that she had her kittens.

As Belle went to climb up to the step, her eyes and her smile all for the sight of the mother cat and her young, Rumpelstiltskin's arms came about her from behind and he spoke with his lips against her skin.

"What a wife I have," he breathed, squeezing her against him. "What a treasure." He made a deep-throated sound of pleasure, kissing the back of her neck, and slid his hands into the sleeves of her cloak to find and knead her breasts while he kissed her a second time, and a third. In the moment, Belle's only clear thought was that she must put up her hair more often, if it would encourage him to kiss her neck this way. "Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, almost a moan.

Randall would see! He would be watching to see that Rumpelstiltskin had truly left, and he would see this instead!

Weak-kneed all over again, and this time for a more enjoyable reason, Belle wriggled free and scrambled up into the carriage. Rumpelstiltskin came close after her, the door barely slamming shut behind him before he pinned her in the corner of the seat and kissed her, his knee beside hers on the upholstery. Belle closed her eyes, a little overwhelmed by his urgency.

"You're squashing me," she laughed, swatting at him when Rumpelstiltskin surrendered her lips as the carriage jolted into motion. He slithered to his knees between the seats, at her feet, grasping both her hands in her lap and gazing up at her with plain adoration. Flattered, excited and confused, Belle returned his gaze, enjoying his elation. "I didn't _meddle_ too much for your liking, then?" she asked, innocently.

"You were brilliant, my dear," he answered, with such a direct and passionate sincerity that he took Belle by surprise all over again. Rumpelstiltskin bent and kissed her lap, careless of where the kisses went; her cloak, her knee, her thigh. He only wanted to kiss her, and to do so with abandon. Belle buried her hands in his hair, burning to touch him in return. "A shining and brilliant beauty, my Belle." Rumpelstiltskin kissed her palms, the insides of her wrists, then bent again to her lap and pushed aside her cloak to reach her better. Each kiss took his mouth a little nearer to the top of her thighs, while he reached up to find her breasts again, then drew his hands down her sides in slow, tender contrast to the clumsy kisses.

She ought to be troubled, she knew; worried for Flora and Edward, puzzling over the disappearing servants and the dark magic that seemed to have gone so wrong, but Rumpelstiltskin was thrilled with her, and Belle could not help but be thrilled by that. His happiness filled her up as nothing else ever did.

"Patience," she said, trying to be firm while Rumpelstiltskin buried his face quite shamelessly at the top of her thighs. She squeezed her legs together when he buried one arm beneath her skirt and tickled a stocking top. "You know that I don't travel well," she laughed, when firmness didn't deter him. She had not the heart to refuse him if he pressed her, but this energetic eagerness seemed rather daunting all the same.

Folding his arms across her knees, resting his chin on his crossed forearms and gazing up at her, Rumpelstiltskin smiled. Her refusal did not upset him, she noted; neither had she left him shamefaced about his bold advances. If only they could make this sense of shared purpose last them forever - this understanding that needed so few words. It had served them well, with Randall, and it clearly thrilled Rumpelstiltskin as much as it did her. "Thank you," she said, playing with the hair at his temples. "For helping her."

That did bring a sheepish look to his face.

"Well," he said, fidgeting on his knees, "I did get those bees at last. I've wanted them for years."

"And saved a woman who may be able to help us, when she's stronger," Belle reminded him, although she did not think for one moment that he had forgotten that. "Thank you, anyway." She took him by the hands and drew him up to sit close beside her. The kiss he offered her, this time, was a gentle one - a gift, not a demand. Belle met it gratefully, curling herself close to him and letting him steady her against the rocking of the coach while they kissed and kissed, all the way home.


	81. Spoons On the Table

"I was kissing you." Rumpelstiltskin's face was so near to Belle's that she could see nothing of him but a blur. "And you fell asleep." She could hear the mock-pout, carried in his voice. "A lesser man might be wounded by that."

"I'm so sorry," Belle mumbled, blinking away the drowsy clouds and finding that, yes, her last recollection was of lazy kissing while the carriage rocked them. She took a moment longer to realise that they were still inside the carriage, but that it was standing still now. 

Rumpelstiltskin touched her nose, stole another little kiss, then sat back so that she could see him clearly. He appeared to be more amused than upset that his attentions had sent his wife to sleep. Belle gave his hand a guilty squeeze, anyway. She didn't want him to think that she had not cherished every sweet moment of it, even if she wasn't sharing in the immediacy of his desire. "Are we home?"

"Home," he agreed, inclining his head. "Kits, cats and wives. All sleeping." His smile became a sly and quirky thing. He watched her from behind lowered lashes.

"How long was I asleep?" Stretching her arms, sitting forward, Belle saw that the mother cat was awake also. She watched them with cool, green eyes from beside the box where her kittens slept.

"Minutes." Waving his hand in dismissal, Rumpelstiltskin opened the door of the carriage. "Come."

Minutes or hours, the impromptu nap had robbed Belle of any sense of time. It startled her to find bright daylight outside, and she blinked to clear her vision when Rumpelstiltskin lifted her down by the waist. He allowed her to slither down his body, landing softly on tiptoes, his arms around her. Belle expected a kiss, another display of his ardour, but he let her go the moment she was steady on her own feet and leaned into the coach for the box where the kittens slumbered, first passing the stiffening mother cat to Belle.

"They have fleas," he observed, wrinkling his nose as he studied the creatures in the sunlight.

Belle couldn't deny it. She could see several glossy fleas crawling in the fur of the kittens. The kits were so small that the fleas looked obscenely large by comparison.

"I'm sure that a great sorcerer knows the herbs to cure fleas," she said, addressing the restless cat in her arms. "Fortunately, my husband is a great sorcerer."

"One who has no intention of living with fleas, nor the stinking herbs that keep them in check," Rumpelstiltskin said, and passed his hand over the box, glowing faintly with the purple light of his magic. A moment later, he stroked his hand down the mother cat's back. Belle felt the creature sigh as if with pleasure at the removal of her burden. Or perhaps the magic itself pleased her; she began to purr, nervously. "Now they may enter the Dark Castle," Rumpelstiltskin said, his solemnity belied by the twinkle in his eye.

"I'll put them in the kitchen," Belle decided, as they went inside. "It's warm there." She felt the same silly, giddy happiness that had overcome her in the carriage, when Rumpelstiltskin deigned to carry her box of kittens to their new home. Belle herself soothed the worried cat in her arms, who did not struggle overmuch but let out a yowl of dismay every time her kittens were hidden from her sight.

She really was a skinny thing, the mother, while her kittens were fat and the picture of sleepy contentment. Like Flora, Belle thought, gently setting the cat down upon the flagstones at the foot of the kitchen steps; giving all of herself for the sake of her young.

Rumpelstiltskin put the box in the chimney nook, where it would benefit from both the hearth and the nearness of Belle's stove. After checking on her kittens, the grey cat began to prowl the edges of the room, sniffing and peering, wary, examining everything.

"They please you?" Rumpelstiltskin caught Belle in his arms and watched her with the same, open expression as before. It melted Belle to see him so unguardedly happy - happy with _her_ , with having her for his wife.

"Not the cats," she said, overcome with a sudden shyness as she said it. Blushing, she put her arms around his neck while Rumpelstiltskin clasped her tightly, rocking her from side to side on her tiptoes.

"I'm glad," he whispered, nuzzling her ear. He gave her a moist kiss there that made her feel weak all over, then found her mouth and kissed her properly, his eyes closed. Belle recognised his expression - so still, peaceful. The false stillness that came over him when he savoured her in bed, slowing his thrusts so that he could _watch_ her beneath him, or gazing up at her while she pleasured herself atop him. Desire made Rumpelstiltskin quiet, almost a reverential hush, and he desired her now just as much he had at the foot of the mountain. Inside, he was turmoil, passion and hunger, and it was all for Belle. She had never known it better, seen it more clearly, than when he knelt at her feet in the carriage, content to ravish her with his gaze if she would not give him his way.

Belle's own gladness sought a gentler expression; these tight embraces and gentle words between them, and the sheer flattery of being _wanted_ so. Lifting her, planting her securely on the kitchen table, Rumpelstiltskin teased her lips while working loose the golden clasp of her cloak.

She felt much better the moment she slipped the heavy velvet from her shoulders; it was as if she could fill her lungs properly again. At her deep gulp and sigh of relief, Rumpelstiltskin pulled back from their kiss, frowning in concern.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Belle promised, swinging her legs a little. "The cloak was heavy." She laughed when he raised his eyebrows at her, then laughed again when he made a grab for her waist, for the twin ties of her bodice at either side above her hips.

"If your clothes burden you, my Lady, we must banish them at once," he said, and claimed her throat with kisses while he fingered the bows of her lacing.

"Here?" Still laughing, Belle heard the happy music of her own voice.

"Here," Rumpelstiltskin said, his smile hidden against her throat. "Kitchen... bedroom... rooftop. Anywhere you like." He touched his lips to hers again, barely a kiss, and there was a question in it. He wanted her. Would she allow him to have her?

Belle unfastened his cloak and pushed it away, by way of an answer. As shivery and full of love as his teasing made her, her own lust was tame today; a gentle heat, a soft pressure low down that might yet become the sharp, sweet ache that she was more accustomed to. "My wife doesn't want adventure today?"

"Not on the roof!" The thought of it!

"Ah well," Rumpelstiltskin said, feigning mild disappointment. Turning his head sharply, he startled Belle into looking too. The cat had jumped up onto the end of the kitchen table, to Belle's right, and was advancing towards them, tail erect. "Best feed your tigress." Rumpelstiltskin straightened, watching the creature. "What shall it be? Chicken? Beef? Fish? Mice?"

Belle wasn't certain whether he was asking her, or the cat.

"Oh." It was such an effort to move her thoughts in this new direction. She gave the skin-and-bones cat a worried look. "I don't know. The cooks fed them scraps, I think, at my father's castle."

"My wife's cat does not dine on scraps," Rumpelstiltskin said, haughtily, and the cat chose that moment to express herself with a low yowling cry. "Liver it is!" Rumpelstiltskin said, missing not a beat, leaving Belle laughing while he set a dish on the floor. A golden dish, full of glistening meat. He placed a second beside it, full of water, then straightened up to smile at Belle's giggles. The cat leapt down from the table and began to eat, crouching jealously over the dish.

"Your wife's cat will be spoiled," Belle said, trying to sound mildly reproachful as Rumpelstiltskin returned to her, once more settling his hands at her waist and leaning down for a kiss. "Like your wife." She locked her fingers behind his neck, bowing her head to watch him loosen the laces at her sides.

They had made love here once before, when it was all still so new to her. Remembering that day added excitement to her shivers, for she had never imagined anything so wanton as to sit astride a man's lap, half-clothed, nor being pleasured with his hand at the kitchen table until her knees turned to jelly. Belle bit her lip, the memory stirring her more than kisses in the present, leading her to return Rumpelstiltskin's kiss with more heat than before.

"I think my wife likes being spoiled," Rumpelstiltskin said, pulling free the green cord beneath her left arm so that her bodice hung open. It had warm sleeves, a high collar, and yet Belle felt naked with it gaping open to show him her chemise. Beneath it, her nipples had become stiff and small, almost aching when she saw how Rumpelstiltskin noticed them. Her skin there grew tight with gooseflesh before he even covered her breast with his palm, and when he did the warmth through her thin chemise made her shiver yet again, her teeth almost chattering. Yes, Rumpelstiltskin's wife liked being spoiled.

Expecting him to claim her breasts at once, to indulge himself, to bare her, Belle was charmed when Rumpelstiltskin returned to their kisses instead, cradling her while she hooked her heels behind his knees to keep him close. She could touch him as much as she wished, like that; could push at his leather coat until he surrendered it, then tug his shirt from his belt, making him smile into her mouth. It was not greed for his skin, on her part, as much as the urge to press herself near to him, but her show of enthusiasm stoked Rumpelstiltskin's excitement. He nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, sliding her to the very edge of the table and then stooping to lift her skirts up into her lap. This done, he could delve beneath and tease the inside of her thigh where her stocking top met her drawers, fingers threatening to creep up beneath but always stopping just short. When he stood back a little and caught her by the ankles, lifting her feet to slip off her shoes, Belle braced her weight with her hands behind her and watched his quirky little smile.

"Are you going to ravish me here?" she asked, when he untied a garter and peeled off her left stocking, dropping it beside her shoes. "In my kitchen?"

"Ravish," he repeated, his gaze flicking briefly up to meet hers as he began on the second garter. To be certain that she was teasing, Belle realised, and wondered if she would ever be able to drive out his doubts completely. "That's the idea. Where would you like to be ravished, my treasure?" Belle closed her eyes, his bedroom voice seeming to slip beneath her very skin and make her tingle. "Not the carriage and not the roof." Her other stocking joined the first on the growing pile of clothing at Rumpelstiltskin's feet. "What would excite you, love? How should I _ravish_ you?"

"I don't know," was the best response she could muster, and in an unsteady voice at that. The inadequacy of it brought another blush to her cheeks. "You have to show me what to do, remember?" Belle rallied a little at his answering grin, while his hand slid up inside her drawers. "I'm your blushing bride."

"So you are. Sweet, blushing Belle." Rumpelstiltskin twisted his hand, up inside the tube of cotton at her thigh, and Belle felt magic kiss her as the cloth vanished. "She doesn't fuck, she spoons," he added, sing-song, reaching behind her and slipping his hands beneath her buttocks. "Spoons on the table." Before Belle could collect herself enough to swat at him for teasing, he rubbed himself against her privates. Her indignant laugh became a sound nearer to a whimper as he found her wet, and another flush of magic between them left him bare against her. Hard. And no wonder, Belle thought, trying to arrange herself so that he could fit her like this; he had wanted her since they left The Apiary, and she had teased him rather than offer any satisfaction.

It was extremely awkward, perched there with her hands braced behind her and only Rumpelstiltskin to keep her from slipping from the table's edge. Belle tucked her bare feet behind Rumpelstiltskin's thighs, her toes catching against rucked-up leather. She could draw up her knees, then, and Rumpelstiltskin made an undignified sound of his own when she used this new foothold to tug him against her. Belle saw the struggle for self-control, then the smirk returning to his face as he found it and met her eyes, challenging.

"Go on then," she said, not at all sure how long she could stay as she was, even with him there to keep her from falling. She couldn't help but be intrigued by the playfulness that tempered his obvious urgency; she wanted very much to see where it might lead them. "Hurry up."

To her delight, Rumpelstiltskin blushed. It gave his cheeks the oddest hue, and Belle studied the effect with dreamy interest until his cock demanded her full attention.

It was curiously gentle, when he entered her. Rumpelstiltskin had to rise on his tiptoes to push very deep inside her at all, and where Belle had readied herself for a vaguely uncomfortable coupling, such as when he bent her over the worktable in his turret, she found it... amusing. An enjoyable game. Rumpelstiltskin, for his part, could barely contain himself once he was inside her; it took but a few of those clumsy tiptoe thrusts. She would have liked to stroke his hair, touch his face as he lost himself, but for all that the act was gentle, Rumpelstiltskin's completion was not. He staggered, almost knocking her backwards before she threw her arms around him for balance and trusted to his strength instead of to the table. He clung to her, lifted her, lowered her slowly to the ground and kissed her, heartfelt. Belle could not imagine letting go.

"Take us to bed," she pleaded, denying him her lips just long enough to speak. "Please." This teasing was nice in its way, but she was overcome with the urge to curl up with him in their great bed, bare skin to bare skin; to kiss him in lazy comfort. Selfish, she thought, as his magic enveloped her; selfish and shallow of her to want to shut out the world like that, but Rumpelstiltskin took them to bed, just as she'd asked, and naked just as she'd wanted. "I love you," she told him, when the giddy rush of magic had faded and they'd each found comfortable resting-places for their limbs.

Half covering her, one knee between hers, Rumpelstiltskin gave her the shyest smile. Belle ran her hands over his back, his shoulders, and wondered at her own contentment. What business had she being happy, after the things she had learned today?

Rumpelstiltskin was not content with the lazy kisses that pleased Belle; his hand wandered between her thighs to tease her, as well. He was never content to take his own pleasure and neglect hers, but Belle's pleasure, on this occasion, lay in his nearness. Nothing he tried, with his fingers in her hidden places, seemed to stir a spark from the comfortable embers of her pleasure. She was unconcerned, thoroughly enjoying his patient efforts to excite her, until the growing tension across his shoulders made her open his eyes. He did not look away fast enough to hide his uncertainty, his sticky hand going still on her upper thigh.

"Does it only count if I come?" she asked, stirring his hair with her fingertips while she watched his eyes. "Do we both have to?" Rumpelstiltskin blinked, bowing his head. "You know that I like to do things _properly_ ," Belle tried, teasing as much as she dared. He could find his uncertainties in places where she herself would never think to look for them. "Am I doing it wrong?"

"Of course not," he managed, and Belle thought that she would see that blushing colour in his cheeks again, were it not for the shadow of the bed curtains. "I like to please you. I thought... you wanted to come to bed."

"You do please me," Belle protested, softly. "I like to please you, too. It makes me happy." She licked her lips, and the taste of him there made her happy, too. "Today made me happy," she confessed, not sure that he had been reassured when he lay down beside her, staring up at the canopy in silence. "You trusted me." Wriggling further down beneath the bedclothes, Belle sought out Rumpelstiltskin's hand and held it, lacing her fingers between his. "I love to be with you, you know that." She bit her lip, suddenly. "I am sorry that I fell asleep," she offered, sheepishly. "On the ride back."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, deep voiced and gentle. "Good. I'd hate to think I'd become _boring_ , of all things."

"Never," Belle laughed back, rolling over to press herself against his side. Accommodating her with an outstretched arm, Rumpelstiltskin started to explore her tightly braided hairstyle. Two short ribbons were buried in there somewhere, holding the ends of the braids, but he would need to remove a great many pins before he uncovered them.

The sense of ease slowly returned between them, while Belle drowsed and Rumpelstiltskin worked his way through her hair. He seemed happy to lie with her, now that he was sure she desired nothing more of him than his presence. Belle listened to his heart, the strange and rapid thump-thump of it. Even at rest, it beat at least half again as fast as her own. It sounded exhausting, but it was only during his recuperation that she had seen her husband suffer with any lack of vigour. And she, herself, had taken to falling asleep while he kissed her, she was so absurdly tired!

That was only another thing that might mean a child had started in her, wasn't it? That and the wretched queasiness that had taken her at the smell of honey, of all things! It had not made it any easier to interview Randall, nor to concentrate on the answers he gave her.

Rumpelstiltskin would be patient, if these troubles did not pass, wouldn't he? She could look to him for comfort and strength. For knowledge. He had tended to baby Edward so effortlessly, after all, handling him with such ease; had raised a son of his own and had clearly not forgotten how things were done.

He took a few more pins from her hair and freed one of the braids. Belle smiled at his grunt of satisfaction. When she raised her head to share the smile with him, she found that he had the half-dozen pins between his lips, and a ribbon between his fingertips.

"I can't kiss you with a mouth full of pins," she complained. Rumpelstiltskin took them out at once, looking slightly hunted. Oh dear - now she had let him think that she didn't want to be kissing with him! Slowly and carefully, she leaned down to give him a kiss to prove otherwise. She didn't know how to explain that her passion for him had grown gentle, quiet, or that she was no less willing to lie with him because of it. It was nice to keep her head while he loved her, to be able to witness his passion, to think. It was _nice_ , she was content, yet Rumpelstiltskin feared that he was out of favour because she had not found the state of abandon to which they had both become accustomed.

As they parted from the kiss, Belle almost told him her fears. He would understand, then, wouldn't he? That her body might no longer be its own mistress? That her fatigue was not boredom with his kisses? That she yearned as much for company and comfort as for their more heated touches. She _almost_ spoke of it, but changed her mind in the moment of hesitation just before she spoke. False hope, she reminded herself, firmly. She could not chance that merely to explain away her oddness. He would only be doubly injured if it came to nothing, then.

She kissed him again, instead.

Even Rumpelstiltskin, she thought, could only be capable of _so_ much doubt if his wife sat herself atop him, naked, and lifted his hands to her head to continue letting down her hair. Belle relished the way his gaze swept over her, shoulders to thighs, lingering on her breasts. She meant for him to know that she had no objection to _his_ desires, even while her own were out of step. Perhaps she could be better at showing him how very much she liked to be with him? He wanted her to speak of how he made her feel, and of the things she desired. Belle never knew how, especially not in the wonder of the moment, but she could learn, couldn't she?

"Did you like spooning on the table?" she asked him, averting her gaze shyly.

"More than you, I think." Rumpelstiltskin stroked the back of her head, following the wavy tresses down across her left shoulder and down her back. "You must tell me, treasure. Tell me if I go too far."

"After meeting poor Flora I know exactly how lucky I am," Belle told him, firmly. "We can _fuck_ on all the tables you want to."

"Lucky?" Perplexed, but half-smiling, Rumpelstiltskin fingered her cheek. "How so?"

"To be more than a means to an end to my husband. To be desired. To find love. He was so proud of himself for getting a son," Belle went on, unable to stop now that she had begun. Rumpelstiltskin listened, always, and there she was luckiest of all. "As if his wife didn't do all the work, and pay the price, and who knows what else that she can't even speak of? As if a daughter wouldn't have cost her every bit as much pain?"

Rumpelstiltskin drew the sheet back up to her shoulders and held it there. Belle hadn't even noticed when it slipped, or that she was getting cold. "Is it so much better to have a son than a daughter?" she asked, taken aback by her own strength of feeling about Randall and Flora. If you took away the magic, the deceit, theirs was no different a marriage to a thousand others - to the sort that Belle had expected for herself. "Is a son so much more important?" she asked, sagging as she sighed.

"I only know what it is to have a son," Rumpelstiltskin said, choosing tact over teasing in the face of his little wife's indignation. "I thought only of a family, until he came. I never wished... though perhaps I hoped, at that." Her braid came free on the other side and he plucked her second ribbon with a look of satisfaction, dropping them onto his chest along with the pins. "Randall's been made quite the fool. He came to me long ago, hoping to deal for a son."

"You couldn't help him?"

"Because there was nothing the matter with him. He and his first wife had no children, but that fever that he speaks of didn't rob him of his seed. I didn't tell him that," Rumpelstiltskin added, wrinkling his nose as if to suggest that he now thought better of the decision.

"Why not?"

"He didn't ask."

Belle sighed, nodding. Everyone knew that it was necessary to choose your words with care, with the Spinner. Even if he did a person no harm, Rumpelstiltskin made no apology for using them for his sport.

"So it didn't take some great magic to let him have a child?"

"I doubt it. A new wife seems to have done the trick. But magic _was_ done, with the birth of that child to fuel it." His expression darkened. "There's power to be found in ordinary things, for those who cannot draw on power of their own. Birth. Death. Sacrifice. Contracts and oaths. Consummation," he added, a spark of teasing warmth returning to his eyes.

Belle nodded, shifting position slightly and resting her hands beneath his ribs where it made him twitch if she touched too softly. Her ring caught a thin shaft of pale sunlight and she turned her hand, showing him.

"The blood of the marriage bed."

"Indeed." 

"What would it have done, if Randall had sold his lands to you before his son was born?" Leaving Rumpelstiltskin the ribbons, Belle began to gather up all the hairpins and hook them together so that she could tuck them beneath a pillow, out of harm's way. "Harming the boys wasn't the aim, was it?"

"No." Rumpelstiltskin threaded the ribbons between the fingers of his left hand, slowly. He thought a while before he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. "It wouldn't have killed me. Everyone else, maybe, but not me. That's impossible."

"You say that," Belle said, uneasily. "Are you certain?"

"There's only one way to slay the Dark One." Bitterness made his words sharper than she thought he meant them to be. "And no spell with little babies, no sale of land, no plague of rotting flesh can change that."

For the very first time, hearing it put like _that_ , Belle wondered what it would take to slay him.

"Someone might not need to kill you to stop you. To imprison you, or to injure you so badly that you can do nothing with your magic but keep yourself alive..."

"Yes." He took her by the elbows, startling her. "Or to harm you."

"Me?" Incredulous, Belle had to hold back laughter. "This was begun long before I was your wife. Randall married Flora a year ago!"

"On the word of a seer. I've no doubt she saw that Randall's wife would birth him a son. She might have glimpsed you just as easily."

"You said she was an ally," Belle said, doubtfully. "The seer whose body held the curse that hurt you, who was killed."

"They never lie. The truth can be poison enough all on its own. But... yes. It's possible that she knew more. Was silenced."

"Wouldn't a seer be able to escape a murderer?"

"No, sweet," Rumpelstiltskin said, with exaggerated patience. "She'd just know to expect him."

"Oh." Belle let Rumpelstiltskin draw her down, back to his side and his warmth beneath the bedclothes. "I'm hardly a threat, am I? I'm only your wife. I don't have any magic. I don't have power."

"Some might say that owning the Dark One's heart is power enough." He pushed his fingers up into her hair, with that, and turned her gently onto her back, leaning down to kiss her. "Doesn't that make you dangerous?" he asked, just before their lips met. Where his words had been darkly playful, his kiss was not; he did not allow her the breath for a reply, even if she could think of the right thing to say.

Belle was soon too caught up in kissing to think much at all. Realising that he was holding back, mindful of her earlier hesitation, she began to touch him by way of encouragement. She loved to touch his back, his shoulders, while he lay above her; loved to move her hands slowly across his skin, sometimes in time with their kisses, sometimes in a dreamy, unplanned pattern that sprang only from her desire to enjoy him.

He was right - she did prefer this to what they'd done on the kitchen table with her uncomfortable limbs every which way. She loved to feel him above her, the weight of him between her legs, her hands free to touch him everywhere. There was no reason they couldn't do _that_ on the table, was there? Imagining it made her smile, and made her yearn as well; the pang of physical need that she had not felt before. At her smile, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his head and peered at her, curious and ever so slightly wary.

"My dear?"

"I think," Belle began, choosing her words carefully so that they did not get lost in a breathless rush. "I think I'd like it if we did it like _this_ on the table," she confided, and was rewarded with the widening of his eyes. His pupils were big, darkening his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to devour her. "Fucked," she added, and kept herself from laughing for several seconds while she enjoyed his expression. "Spooned," she said, when the laughter finally shook her in spite of herself.

A grin spread across Rumpelstiltskin's face. He wriggled his way more firmly between her knees, holding her gaze in challenge as he did so. "Caressed, cavorted and canoodled?" he asked, matching her tone.

"Yes, that. All of them."

"I'm going to miss your innocence." Rumpelstiltskin quickly kissed her cheek, then her chin, then lowered himself to pay attention to her neck, her chest, where he slowed and lingered, breathing warmth against her skin. "But not very much, I think." He sucked her nipple into his mouth, filling Belle with sweet shivers. Where his teeth caught her it was almost too much to bear... but only almost. She felt the small, spreading shock of it again and again while Rumpelstiltskin sated himself, one breast for his mouth and the other clutched in his hand. She found herself arching her back to meet his greedy suckling, breathing hard and struggling to contain her moan of approval. Rumpelstiltskin made no effort to contain his own, sucking her hard and then catching her nipple between his teeth again, much harder, before sweeping the slight pain away with his tongue. "My mouth, is it?" he crooned, happily, as Belle flopped back to the mattress, quivering from head to foot as if she'd come. "Shall I devour you? A little bit at a time?"

There were tears in her eyes! Belle rubbed them away, hastily. It was almost frightening to feel this way. Perhaps their loving in the kitchen had excited her more than she knew? She still did not always understand the way she felt - the lust that could flutter from a soft tug in her breast at a reminder of her husband's sweetness to a throbbing ache inside her at the prospect of being filled with him, of coming until she saw bright lights behind tightly shut eyelids.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted, a feeble wail of a sound that startled Belle and caused Rumpelstiltskin to lift his head from between her breasts to watch her with concern. "I feel so strange." Where she had struggled for words when he asked them of her, now they spilled from her unbidden, breathless and urgent. "Be patient with me, darling husband, my Rumpelstiltskin. Please." More tears escaped, slipping sideways down her cheeks and frightening the lusty smirk from his face; Rumpelstiltskin drew himself up, face to face with her, and tentatively brushed the tears away. "Even when I don't want you, I want you," Belle laughed, reaching up with arms and legs to catch him, bring him back down over her, warm and close. "I'm so happy I could cry. Today made me so happy, and it was so awful - that poor woman, her stupid husband, an enemy we don't understand. How can I be so happy?"

Her emotional outbursts had always left Rumpelstiltskin in a state of mild alarm. This one seemed to leave only astonishment in its wake. He blinked at her with wide eyes, hanging on her every word. She realised, with a feeble inner laugh, that he was hoping for some instruction as to what to _do_ about everything she'd just confided.

Against her belly, where she had pulled him so tightly against her, his cock was hard. "Fuck me," Belle whispered, surrendering her fierce hold on his upper arms to take his head between her hands instead. "I want to feel you close, inside."

Having asked to hear what she desired of him, Rumpelstiltskin became breathless with want upon hearing it. His breathing was wild, the kisses he gave to the insides of her wrists clumsy, frantic with love. Even so, he took care in entering her. Always such care, such sweet care of her. Belle tried to be silent, composed, but could not keep herself from sobbing when Rumpelstiltskin thrust deep. He held himself face to face with her, as blinded by lust as she was blinded by tears. "Please, please," was all she could say, the only expression she could give to the madness, and her husband obliged her. He always did as she wished, as she willed, especially in this. Their bed, their haven.

"Rumple..." she moaned, and he trembled at the sound, bending to kiss her face, her jaw, her throat while Belle writhed and tugged at his buttocks in a clumsy rhythm. Still the climax of her pleasure eluded her, but she was consumed by something else, something _other_ now; by the welcome throb as he drove his cock inside her, by the haphazard sweetness of his kisses. "Oh... love me... love me."

As terrifying as it was to be so consumed, Belle never wanted it to end. It was freedom she had never known, to give voice to her desires; it was power indeed, knowing that Rumpelstiltskin would leave aside magic and reputation, all else that mattered to him, and take her to their bed when she asked him to, and _love_ her. Love her.


	82. Rumple

Hunger and a call of nature eventually drove Belle from her bed. With Rumpelstiltskin sleeping, the room warm, she had no desire at all to stir herself until it became absolutely necessary. Yawning, and creeping as quietly as she could so as not to wake her husband, Belle made her errand to the bathing room.

Rumpelstiltskin remained asleep when she returned. Dressing quickly in her nightgown and the spider-silk robe, then feeling beneath the edge of the bed for the matching slippers, Belle watched him. Had he ever slept on after being dislodged from her arms, before? In her absence, he had adopted his usual position - face down with his right cheek against the mattress, hands beside his head, one of them buried beneath a pillow. As often as he did it to her, Belle could not bring herself to creep away while he slept. She sat beside him, one knee drawn up beneath her as she leaned across the big bed to reach him at the centre of it, and caressed the back of his head.

For once, he did not startle awake, instantly alert. He turned his head, bringing his right hand close to his face, and grew still again. Belle smiled, rather taken with the thought that she had worn him out. At least he had not minded her demands, once she gave him something _definite_ to do in the face of her strange mood.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she called, truly reluctant to disturb him. The alternative was to leave a note upon the pillow, and a note declaring that she had been too hungry to stay beside him seemed too callous, somehow. Belle tapped lightly between his shoulders. "Wake up."

He did, twitching and confused until he raised himself on his forearms and looked about him, understanding returning quickly. She stroked his hair until he turned onto his side, facing her, the bedclothes twisting about his hips and leaving his shoulders and chest bare. Belle took the opportunity to run her hand across his chest, watching how her skin contrasted with his in the reddish late-afternoon light. "I'm sorry to wake you. I didn't want to just creep away." Mischief compelled her to add, "The way you do."

"Used and discarded," Rumpelstiltskin muttered, disentangling himself enough to sit up and face her. "Is that to be my fate, mistress?"

"I think you had your pleasure, sir," Belle laughed, slipping her arms around his neck and sharing a few swift kisses of greeting with him. "And you're invited to tea, of course."

For a long moment they simply rested together, cheek to cheek. Then Rumpelstiltskin was all movement, as swift and precise as ever. He dodged past her, clothed before his feet touched the ground. Belle took a quiet pleasure in the fact that he did not layer himself back up in leather, but opted instead for a loose silk shirt of smooth wine-red over breeches and boots.

He noticed her in turn, and Belle wondered if she had been quite so greedy with her gaze as he was. They both had to look away, flustered. "Lovely," he murmured, leaving Belle to wonder if he referred to the wonderful quilted robe, or to his wife. "Will you bring me a cup of tea? Upstairs?"

He still asked for small things as if he thought he asked her for the moon. Belle pressed his hand, oddly touched that he had asked at all.

"Of course."

Belle saw to her own meal while she boiled the copper kettle for their tea. Bread and cheese filled her up, then she indulged in a few more slices of the sweet fruit. Beside the chimney, the cat was curled around her kittens, vigorously licking them. Her golden food dish had not emptied, Belle noted, although she could see that the cat had filled her belly. When Belle lifted the pair of dishes to move them nearer to the nook, to spare the mother from leaving her kittens to eat, she saw that minced chicken had taken the place of the liver Rumpelstiltskin had provided her earlier.

"I think you're going to be a very spoiled cat indeed," Belle told her, squatting beside the box and offering her hand to be sniffed. "I haven't seen any mice here, you're welcome to any you find, but if you see a very small genie, please try not to hurt him too much."

The cat gave her a steady green-eyed look while she spoke, then squinted at her and returned to washing her kittens. They were nearly impossible to distinguish from one another, each one a mixture of smoke grey and hints of white. The mother herself had a dainty bib of white between her forelimbs, two perfectly white back feet and several white whiskers. No doubt her kits would grow to be as striking as she, in time.

Belle retrieved the fallen clothing from the kitchen floor, draping their cloaks across the back of the fireside chair, and Rumpelstiltskin's leather jerkin across the seat. The cat did not seem inclined to use the clothing for her bed, much preferring to keep close to her babies, but Belle thought of finding her something softer than bundled straw to line the box. Cats liked to be snug, and it would be better all around if Rumpelstiltskin did not find her, one day, curled up on his cloak or among his spinning things.

With a tray of tea things ready, Belle kept her word and went up to find Rumpelstiltskin in his laboratory. He was bent over a small glass dish, sprinkling a dark powder onto it from thumb and forefinger. Belle took the tray to a different table, watching him with interest while she poured two cups of tea and added sugar to her husband's cup.

"Is that blood?" Half empty now, a thin glass vial lay, corked, beside the dish that Rumpelstiltskin was using.

"Flora's," he nodded. "If the magic was in her..." Rumpelstiltskin trailed off, distracted by his delicate work. Touching his middle finger lightly to the powdered surface of the dish, he brought it up and sniffed at it, then blew gently on the residue there. Nothing happened, and he pursed his lips. "It's not now," he concluded, and without a hint of warning he snatched up the glass dish and hurled it, overarm, against the wall at the top of the tower steps, snarling inarticulately. Belle almost dropped the sugar bowl.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, reproachfully, but realised as she said it that she knew the answer, really. Rumpelstiltskin could do nothing against his unseen foe, leaving him to vent his temper in frustration at his lack of progress. Better that he was hurling glassware than hurling magic, in such a mood. "Your tea is ready," Belle offered, as soothingly as she could.

Rumpelstiltskin came to stand beside her, sheepishly accepting the chipped cup on its ill-fitting saucer.

"Thank you."

"I'll clear up the glass," Belle said, but Rumpelstiltskin caught her arm before she had gone two steps, turning her gently.

"Stay." Releasing her when she nodded, Rumpelstiltskin took a sip of tea, looking down into the cup. "You're a comfort that I do not deserve, my dear." He tried so hard to keep his expression composed as he said it. Belle hardly noticed the twitch of his lips, the strain. "Did you believe Randall's tale?"

"Yes." Belle took her own tea and leaned against the workbench, frowning. "When he told it again, to you, he said the same things, but didn't sound..."

"Rehearsed?" Rumpelstiltskin sighed, leaning beside her. "No."

"It all keeps you from your work, doesn't it? Your real work." Belle gestured with her cup to the clutter of tools and herbs and books. "Could that be all that's intended?"

"Perhaps." He sounded unconvinced, and Belle thought that he must be desperate indeed to seek her counsel. "Effective, I suppose, if rather messy."

"More effective than just trying to harm your wife, I should think."

"There's no 'just' about it," Rumpelstiltskin said, quietly. "Not if you're harmed. There won't be vengeance enough, I promise you that."

He had promised her as much before; he already knew that the very last thing she would want, should harm befall her, was _vengeance_.

"Papa said people would try to use me against you." Belle swallowed, her throat tightening. "I never thought they might have been planning it since before I even met you."

"I can protect you, here," Rumpelstiltskin said, mistaking the tremor in her voice for fear. "Within these walls."

"I can't stay within these walls," she told him, and felt that she had only been certain of it herself in that moment. "To be your wife forever, yes, and to be where you are, but not... not _hiding_."

Rumpelstiltskin did not answer. He drank his tea, brows drawn together in a mild frown, staring at nothing. Smashing his little dish seemed to have cured him of his sudden temper, but he was grave and unhappy, and looking for solace in his little wife. Belle wished that she knew what to do, how to tackle the mystery that had only deepened with Randall's revelations.

"I'll speak with Flora," she decided, when her teacup was empty and she had studied the black specks at the bottom of it for a while. "She might be too frightened to speak to you. We don't know that there's magic at work."

" _I_ know," Rumpelstiltskin replied, dully. "I always know. I had just saved her life, in any case. If that doesn't earn me some goodwill, I can't think what will."

"Then you should speak to Gaston as well, and to Flora's uncle," Belle reasoned. "Her uncle certainly knows more, and the magic that kept Gaston from telling what he knew might teach you something."

"Only if I can dissect him to have a look at it," he said, nastily, and set his cup down with a crack before stalking across the room, to the top of the stairs, and making a gesture towards the shower of fragmented glass that had fallen there. "I can loosen his tongue, but my wife will object to the method."

"If you _ask_ him to help you, he might choose to let you do what must be done," Belle answered, chilled by Rumpelstiltskin's snide accusation. "If doing the most harm has become your habit, I won't apologise for reminding you that there's another way to go about things."

He was not angry with her, Belle supposed. Not truly at her, he was simply angry at being thwarted. Whatever he said while he was in her arms, she had no power over him; she could not prevent him from killing Randall. She had not suggested that she would withdraw her affection or act against him if he disregarded her wishes, her advice. No, she would not apologise for reminding him that there were more difficult, more time-consuming, more _ordinary_ ways of finding out what people knew, or that it was immoral to find such sport in cruelty.

Still, he wanted to please her. He was torn between his wife and expediency.

"Gaston's mother could have given birth by now," she said, refusing to let a disagreement become a quarrel after such a day. "He may be friendless on all sides. He may be glad to help us."

Rumpelstiltskin snorted, not looking at her as he returned to his work table and picked up the little vial of Flora's blood.

"He called you a whore before the court. He helped your attackers. Not the actions of a friend."

"He apologised," Belle reminded him. It was too easy to become impatient when Rumpelstiltskin resorted to this quiet petulance. Too stubborn to always do what was easy, Belle went to his side and laid her hand against the small of his back. "There's no need to think the worst of people."

"There's no cause to trust them as you do," he snapped, but before the words were even out he was turning to her, then dragging her close against his chest, arms tight about her. Too tight. Belle rested her head against his and breathed slowly, letting him clutch her until he remembered himself and loosened the circle of his arms. Then she returned the embrace, locking her arms behind him and burying her face against his neck. Hesitantly, Rumpelstiltskin began to stroke her hair. "How can I convince you to be wary of the world when you trust even me?" he asked, his voice thin. "How can I protect you without building you a cage?"

"You can't," Belle said, lifting her head. "Not from everything."

Nodding, he let her go. "Leave me to my mood after all, treasure," he begged. "I'll be a better husband, later."

"There's bread and butter," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. It was very easy to forgive him when his mood disgusted even him. "And plenty of tea."

"Thank you."

Belle hesitated at the top of the stairs, turning back. She did not want to outstay her welcome, but...

"Are the laws of Odstone written down?"

Surprised, Rumpelstiltskin met her eyes. "After a fashion." He found her the ghost of a smile, opening his hand in front of him and keeping it still until a heavy, yellowed scroll appeared there, wound on wooden rollers that looked quite old. He brought it to her, the smile softening his face. "Planning some changes, dear?"

"Curious," Belle laughed. "Thank you." It was an intriguing thought, though, that she was in a position to change the laws of a place - a woman, a lord's wife! As much as he doubted her wisdom in dealing so gently with the world, Rumpelstiltskin did not, as he put it, confuse a cock with capability.

The scroll was heavy and she expected it to be very long, but when she allowed it to unroll upon her bed Belle realised that it was merely of very old, very thick vellum. Closely spaced words packed a scroll that was not as long as her arm, the rollers apparently being for ceremony rather than practical assistance. It was written in a curious blend of the old tongue and the common, and the scribe had been no master penman. Blots and errors littered the document, and such illuminations as had been attempted were quite crude.

Belle went for her bath before curiosity had her curling up with the scroll instead of making herself clean, and lay with the water up to her ears, thinking over all that had happened during the day. The afternoon abed with her husband hardly seemed real, while the visit to The Apiary seemed all _too_ real, and preyed on her mind. Had it been safe to move Flora, she would have insisted on bringing the woman and her baby back with them - on nursing Flora herself, and finding a wet nurse for the child as well. Randall presently seemed incapable of translating his good intentions into sensible actions, although Belle took Rumpelstiltskin's word that the man had not always been such a fool. No man became rich by being a fool. Did all men become fools when it came to having sons?

She thought of Gaston again, then. Duke Hubert meant to disown Gaston if his new child proved to be a son. He could have no proof that Gaston was not of his blood, even if it were true; Gaston, slender and severe, resembled the Duchess in every way save his considerable height, which could as well have come from Hubert as from any other man. What could have convinced the Duke that Gaston was not his true heir? A confession from the Duchess?

Unable to imagine the sour-faced Duchess confessing to so much as chipping a teacup, let alone to shaming herself with a lover, Belle made a face and slipped beneath the water, holding her breath until her ears rang. It was too upsetting to imagine herself at the mercy of that woman, contemplating the birth of a child of her own. Truly, that existence would have been a cage, and not for her own protection but for the protection of Gaston's bloodline. Even though the Duke suspected that Gaston was not of his blood.

Had Gaston truly been sent to the front lines to die? He would have died. They all would, if Rumpelstiltskin had not come and named his price. What kind of a man sacrificed a son like that?

Hubert could _not_ have been certain when he sent Gaston to Belle's father. Nor could he truly be certain that the Duchess would bear him a son, now. Not on the word of doctors, prodding at the woman and deciding that the carriage of the babe or the colour of her water meant a son!

Not even Randall, with the promise of a proven seer to guide him, could have been _certain_ until his son was born.

Belle flattened her palm against her own belly as she dried herself. She ached, front to back below her navel, just enough to remind her that all was not as it should be with her. In pursuit of his own pleasure, Rumpelstiltskin was ever gentle, but in eventually finding her satisfaction they had been... vigorous. The ache had been there beforehand, she supposed. Ever since her bleeding pains stopped and scarcely troubling her, but for once the water had not eased away her aches after being with her husband. She must be more careful, until she knew. Rumpelstiltskin liked to treat her gently, although his taste for salty language belied the tenderness of his touches. He had very much liked being commanded to _fuck_ her, and directed as to how hard and how fast he should do it.

She smiled to herself, slipping back into her nightgown and quickly plaiting her hair so that it would dry in waves for the morning. She had, at least for a short while, made Rumpelstiltskin a very happy man indeed. If that happiness had not lasted once he returned to his work, to the problems at hand, then at least his wife knew how to make him happy again the next time he wanted to lie with her. Her happy compliance with his whims had pleased him too, Belle thought, but he had been excited to the point of madness by her selfish demands and her repetition of that crude word.

He would miss her innocence, but not as much as all that.

Piling up the pillows, Belle got into bed and scooped the hot water bottle towards her with her feet until she could have it beneath her knees, covered in her sheepskin. Having made a slope of her own lap, Belle spread out the scroll of the laws upon it, and began to read.

These were the idiosyncratic laws of local tyrants, and ancient with it. Rumpelstiltskin had told her of the lord's right to be the first to lie with any virgin bride - a custom which had been driven out of Belle's own kingdom centuries ago, and never truly given the status of law in any case. It was vile, and Rumpelstiltskin treated it as such, yet there it remained among the writings; the lord of Odstone could claim his right with any new bride, and have no responsibility towards any child that came of the ghastly union. Bastard children had few rights here at all. Each man and boy over the age of eight was required to train in arms for half a day, once in each turn of the moon. There were tax laws and property laws, tenancy laws and harsh penalties set out for every imaginable crime against property. Old laws, but the kind that many muttered about when newer laws failed them.

Only one of these had Belle seen being enforced hereabouts - the penalty of hanging for the crime of murder. Rumpelstiltskin did not take men as soldiers any more than he stole their brides away on their wedding night, and the taxes of Odstone were paid in inconvenience, not in goods or coin. Rumpelstiltskin, as far as Belle knew, paid well for everything that the castle took and required only that enough be set aside for his use. His presence might be a weight on people's minds, but he was no burden upon their purse.

Lost among place names and property boundaries that had been repeatedly amended by the original, inefficient scribe, Belle did not notice Rumpelstiltskin's arrival until he sat on the bed.

"Such a frown," he complained, pretending to pout. "You disapprove?"

"Is any of this still in use?" She let the scroll roll shut in her lap. "Even the boundaries?"

"Very little. I allow them to manage their own affairs. What use do I have for trained men at arms and half a cartload of cider apples a month in season? I certainly don't want their brides," Rumpelstiltskin added, rather more sincerely.

"No," Belle said, offering her hand. "You didn't even want your own."

"Yes, I did," he said, leaning towards her as he said it and letting his voice become a conspiratorial whisper. "I didn't want to trouble her, but she insisted upon her rights."

Glad that his mood had lightened, Belle squeezed his hand and went back to reading the intricacies of local property law. She had asked a great deal of Rumpelstiltskin, today; she would not ask that he stay the night with her as well. Of course, she very much hoped that he would do so without being asked, and hid a smile when Rumpelstiltskin came to lie beside her, above the bedclothes. He did not take off his boots, so perhaps he did not mean to stay, but Belle extended her right arm to welcome him.

Rumpelstiltskin's restless hand plucked and stroked at her silk nightdress, the bedclothes, and he fingered the ragged edges of the scroll as well.

"You could read too," Belle pointed out. "If you're bored."

Grunting, Rumpelstiltskin rummaged beneath the pillows for her current book, but did no more than steal her goosefeather bookmark from it and play with that instead. It was difficult to concentrate on the last few clauses of the scroll with her husband tickling her beneath the chin with a feather. "What about your laws? Are those written?"

"It's more a case of my will being done because they fear to displease me," he said, touching the tip of the feather to the tip of her left nipple. "The mayor knows what must be done, and sees that it is done." He brought the feather to her other breast, this time circling her nipple and beaming to himself when the nipple stiffened to a peak in response to the teasing. Belle forced herself to remain still rather than squirm. Did he want her again so soon, or was he trying to be tiresome?

"Laws should be obeyed because they're just, not because people fear you," she said, letting the scroll roll up and setting it aside. She rescued the book that Rumpelstiltskin had abandoned and began to look for her lost place.

"Perhaps, my dear," he agreed, trailing the feather across the newly available expanse of her thighs. She could not even feel it through the sheets and blankets, but it was distracting anyway. "But my way _works_."

"Rumpelstiltskin's way," Belle said. It did not cheer her up to know that he was right. Here, Rumpelstiltskin's way worked.

"Yes." Leaning over her, Rumpelstiltskin kissed her breast, plucking at the nipple with his lips. As amused by his approach as she was confused by it, Belle ran her fingers through his hair and watched him. "You called me Rumple," he said, after another teasing little kiss that left her breast tingling. He lingered there, his breath warming her through the silk, his expression hidden from her. "Before. I liked that."

Belle turned pink. She hadn't _meant_ to call him that. It had been more than she could manage to give breath to his proper name, at the time! But he wasn't teasing her for it, she realised; he meant it quite sincerely and it was costing him some pride to tell her that he appreciated the gesture. She combed her fingers through his hair, watching him, full of love.

"Queen Regina calls you that," she protested, not having the heart to tell him that she had not meant to do as the Queen did. "I thought it was disrespectful of her."

"Regina," Rumpelstiltskin said, smiling, "is not my wife." He applied his mouth to her breast and suckled her through the cloth, pushing his right arm beneath the bedclothes and ticking her lower belly until she twitched, caught between the two delicate sensations.

"Rumple," Belle said, trying the sound; trying to fit it to her husband. She could grow used to it - no doubt of that. "Rumple."

It made him smile, the smile hot and moist against her breast. She slipped the fingers of her left hand into his hair as well, watching him as he enjoyed her. Only when he tried to move his teasing hand lower did Belle interrupt him, capturing the hand and planting it firmly on her other breast, instead. Rumpelstiltskin lifted his head, rather bleary-eyed and breathless. "I ache," she said, hearing the apology that she had not meant it to be. "From before."

He swallowed, giving up all thought of love play at her word. Belle shook her head, kept him from drawing away from her. "It's just that..." She found herself again on the edge of blurting her secret suspicions - unplanned, thoughtless. Rumpelstiltskin waited, listening; he wanted the truth, to know how he had caused her pain, and of course he had done no such thing. Belle had been the one urging 'harder' and 'faster' and writhing about beneath him until the bed frame creaked and juddered. Wanton, and thoroughly enjoying it. "I didn't want to say anything," she offered instead, wishing that she did not sound so childish when she became hesitant, uncertain. Her throat closed around the words and made her voice sound reedy, feeble. She tried swallowing before she went on, stroking his hair one last time before lowering her hand to his shoulder. "I think there might be a child."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked once, startled, and then his brow creased up in a great frown.

"I told you, treasure," he said, after so long that Belle's heart began to pound with fearful anticipation. "That can't happen." He spoke gently, but he spoke as if to a child, mildly unhappy at finding that he needed to repeat something that he had already made clear. He sat up, cross-legged beside her, his leather boots creaking as he settled himself.

"Why not?" Now she sounded petulant as well as childish, because his tone had hurt her. Belle looked down at her hands, folding them in her lap and wishing that she could take back her words. She had no proof to offer him! Stupid! Stupid! "What keeps you from having children when you can do so much?" At least she managed to ask _that_ in a more conversational tone.

"It's the price of eternal life," Rumpelstiltskin said, carefully steepling his fingers. "Immortality costs. Even I don't know how it was done, how my power came to be. It ought to be impossible, but it was done. The cost is high. The power cannot be laid down, only taken. And I cannot create life, nor give the gift of life with my magic. To save Flora from her fever I had to borrow her future and..." he gestured suddenly, spreading both arms wide and flexing his hands, as if reaching for the words he needed to explain magic to Belle's ignorance. "To steal her future and restore it to her in the present. Lessened." He brought his palms together, folded them, as if scrunching up a ball of paper. "Squashed into the now. I cannot create. Only craft with what already is."

"It truly is a curse, then." Belle thought that she understood about Flora - about why he could cure her sickness when he could do nothing for Wren. Wren had no future left to borrow, to bring back into the now. She had used up her time in the world and her fading was in the natural order of things. "A barren magic."

"Yes. All power has limits. Even mine. Even the most ordinary, mortal gift of life is beyond me." Rumpelstiltskin's voice grew so quiet that Belle had to strain to hear him once he bowed his head. "One day, Belle. When my work is done, things can be otherwise. But not now."

Rumpelstiltskin was sorry for it. Stung as she was by his dismissal, Belle felt only relief to know that he regretted the lack of children. There was a hot and shaken guilt inside her, as well, because she could not trust what he told her. He was so certain, so resigned to an inevitability, but Belle had her own reasons to doubt him, now. He did not mean to deceive her, she was sure, but suppose he was _wrong_?

Any man could be wrong in all innocence, couldn't he? Even one as old and as powerful as Rumpelstiltskin.

"Well," she said, trying her best to sound brisk and bright when she felt like crying, instead. "I feel very strange and achy, whatever the reason."

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin laid a hand on her knee. "Rest, then," he urged, with a kindness that only made her want to cry even more. "If rest and time and Wren's herbs don't set you right, I know the most unusual doctor," he said, his good cheer as forced and as false as Belle's own. "And there's always magic."

"No magic," Belle said, and drew up her knees, hugging them. "Rest is all I need."


	83. Challenged

For two days, Belle barely saw her husband at all.

Rumpelstiltskin joined her for breakfast, looking weary and grim-faced on the first day and haggard on the second. She noted the potion stains on his fingers and sleeves and said nothing, already knowing him well enough to recognise the fever of magical purpose when it took him over. It would pass, whether his magic bore fruit or not, and she would have her lover back again.

Belle took him tea in his turret, leaving him small meals that went uneaten, and kept herself busy by beginning on her catalogue of the library. That was a pleasant chore, although it became clear to her that it would also be a very long-winded one if she kept stopping to read the books as she went. Not that she wouldn't have sufficient time enough on her hands, if Rumpelstiltskin insisted on protecting her within the walls of the castle. The thought made her glum and rather resentful of him, and it was a sentiment that festered in his absence. When he was beside her, his affection softened everything. Alone, Belle could only see the empty days ahead of her, and remember how he had brushed aside her suspicion of a pregnancy.

She suspected it no less, whatever he said, but at least the foolish weeping seemed to be a thing of the past. Belle felt much more herself, even if she did feel uncomfortable between her uneasy stomach and the cruel ache that had settled at the small of her back. Aches and pains were not to be minded half as much as the frightening thought of losing her very _self_ again to those helpless, empty and selfish tears.

The third day was market day, and Rumpelstiltskin had promised that he would accompany her to Odstone. Belle worried a little when he did not join her for breakfast, but there had been a letter from her father awaiting her in her box. It kept her company while she ate her porridge, and Belle almost forgot about the empty place at the head of the table until Rumpelstiltskin entered, hurrying to sit there.

"Forgive me," he muttered, pouring himself some coffee. "I forget the time."

"No wonder, when you've not eaten or slept in days," Belle said, and found that she did not know what to say to him. She read her letter over again, instead, while Rumpelstiltskin took a slice of toast in a too-obvious effort to placate her, nibbling miserably.

"Is your father well?" he asked.

"He says the medicine is like a second youth," Belle said, cheering up at his interest. "And that it must be working because the Lady Marcelle is considering his offer of marriage, even after she set eyes on him." She could not help wishing that she had been a part of her father's entourage for _that_ visit. She looked at the fading rose in its small vase and wondered if Sir Maurice had offered Marcelle flowers, or done away with any pretence at wooing just as Rumpelstiltskin had, and merely offered his terms. "Soon I might have more brothers and sisters than I know what to do with."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his smile courteous. It reminded Belle so much of the early days of their marriage, neither one of them knowing how to approach the other or what to say. He looked so horribly tired. "Will you come to town with me today?"

"Yes." He discarded the crust of his toast and pushed away the plate, replacing it with his cup of coffee. Belle wrinkled her nose, forced to turn her head away from the bitter smell of it as he topped up the cup. "Do you need money for your purse, my dear?"

"I..." Belle hadn't even given that a thought. How spoiled she had become, and how fast! "Yes. Thank you. I'm going to order two new dresses and have a pair of boots made for the mud and snow."

"There are coffers in the dungeons," Rumpelstiltskin said, eyeing her dress as he spoke. It was the blue one that she had transformed with the household magic - perfect for a spring day. Conscious of the perfectly fitting silver-grey shoes, and of how it must irritate him that she did not turn to magic for her entire wardrobe and have it be equally perfect and to her liking, Belle bowed her head. "You needn't wait for me to remember. It's yours." Rumpelstiltskin wrapped his hand around his hot cup, looking as tense as Belle felt. "You are my wife."

"And you don't even expect sons in return."

Oh, that was cruel! Belle put her hand to her mouth, horrified at herself, and at the dawning understanding that it was not Rumpelstiltskin's work that had kept him from her side these past days but _that_ conversation - his disquiet at her obstinate refusal to accept the truth of what he told her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knocking over her chair in her hurry to stand up, to take herself and her bitter tongue away until she could master herself. "That was a terrible thing to say."

Rumpelstiltskin took her by the elbows, keeping her from bending to retrieve the chair. He brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek with his fingertips, his voice high-pitched and nervous. "It doesn't matter."

But it did matter, and so did his dismissal of her fears. Once again, without even a quarrel, there was a gulf between them - a gulf of understanding, and they were so, so different from one another that it frightened her. "How is your tigress today?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, and if the lifeline was a desperate offering, Belle was only too glad to seize upon it.

"I forgot all about her," she confessed, watching her husband set the fallen chair to rights with quiet precision. "The poor thing!"

"She's a cat," Rumpelstiltskin said, wrinkling his nose and gently knocking the tip of Belle's own with his knuckle. "They manage."

"But she can't get out! Cats hate to do their business indoors!"

"She can come and go as she likes," Rumpelstiltskin assured her. "Just like her mistress."

Belle, on the verge of running to find the poor cat and carry her outside to find a patch of earth where the snow had melted, turned back when he caught her hand. It took a moment for his words to reach her, through so much turmoil and shame.

"No cage?" Her voice shook, watery and feeble. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, eyes downcast. He took her by the waist, timid until Belle stepped closer and held him likewise.

"No cage. But be cautious, treasure. Please. Your cloaks and your robe are woven with my protection. Be wary. Be safe."

"I will," Belle promised, so moved by his capitulation that she could hardly catch her breath. Her husband wanted to keep her safe for his own sake as well as for hers. It was against his better judgement to allow her freedom beyond the castle. In return, she could be cautious against her own better judgement. "But you're coming with me, today?"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, smiling slightly. Perhaps he had looked forward to the outing, as she had?

There was no sign of the cat or her kittens in their fireside box. A hasty search discovered them in one of the store rooms, where the mother cat had trodden herself a bed at the foot of the biggest heap of dry, golden straw. She must have carried her babies there one by one, Belle realised, squatting to offer the cat her hand. Rising and arching her back in a lazy stretch, the grey cat rubbed her face against Belle's outstretched fingers, tickling her with stiff whiskers.

"I'm sorry that you didn't like the accommodations, my Lady," Belle laughed. "Are you expecting to be served your meals in here, too?"

The cat sniffed at her kittens and then trotted away, tail erect. Belle expected to be led back to an empty food dish, but instead followed the creature to the kitchen door. Belle had left the key in the lock, all those weeks ago when she had needed to venture outside for firewood and to empty her chamberpot. As she reached to turn the key now, to let the cat out into the kitchen gardens, she gasped to see the cat simply stroll through the heavy wooden door as if it wasn't there.

When Belle touched the door herself it was as solid as ever, though it swung open at her touch before she thought of turning the key. A short distance from the door, where bare earth had become visible amidst the melting snow, the grey cat was busy digging herself a neat hole.

Shaking her head, Belle went back to the straw store room and sat down beside the nest of kittens. She rather felt that she had been left to mind them while their mother went on her errand. Ever so gently, she picked up the nearest of the tiny cats and lifted it to her face for a better look. Eyes closed, it squirmed a little in her grasp, warm and full of milk. Checking each of them, Belle found them all equally well fed and cosy. She was just returning the last kitten to the bed of straw when the mother returned, butting her head firmly against Belle's knee on the way to rejoin her young.

"I'll bring your food and water, shall I?"

Belle left the bowls just inside the door, then checked her pantry. They needed no more food from the market, that was certain. There were even some of Hadley's pastries left over, just as fresh as the day she'd bought them. She felt bad about that, while she fetched down her cloak and basket; she could not even be a good customer today without becoming a wasteful wife.

Her purse was heavy with assorted coins. Rumpelstiltskin had heeded her words about the traders preferring silver and copper, leaving her with a few of the very smallest gold discs and plenty of the others. Belle could hardly fault him on his attentiveness, yet on one thing he did not hear her. Their conversation of the other night weighed heavy on her because of it. She had not known how he might take her news, but to have it brushed aside... and when it had been such a burden on her, too... It was a heavy thing to bear, and worse because Belle knew that he did not mean to be unkind.

Perhaps it weighed on Rumpelstiltskin too, albeit for different reasons. He was certainly subdued as he walked beside her to the carriage, but she could not be sure that it was anything more than fatigue, or his worry at the prospect of allowing her to roam when there was danger.

Belle took his hand as they waited for the gates to swing open.

"I won't need very long in town," she said, hoping to convey her gratitude for his company, since she had torn him from his work. Although she would have gone alone, there was no denying that she felt safer with Rumpelstiltskin at her side. Not to mention that she had missed him, for all that she had kept herself busy whilst he was preoccupied with his work. She had missed his arms about her, and missed the conspiratorial relish that had seen them through their visit to The Apiary.

"All the time you want, my dear," Rumpelstiltskin replied, but Belle felt that he was thinking of something else. Still working, inside his head? She sighed to herself.

He lifted her to the step of the carriage, as always, but without any attempt to squeeze her or to press himself saucily against her. Belle settled into the corner of a seat, discouraged at the unease between them and not knowing what she ought to do about it. If he thought her foolish for mentioning her suspicions, he would think her doubly so if she tried to explain herself, fretting about the little discomforts of the past weeks. He was certain that there could be no child. Belle would need to be equally certain before she could argue otherwise, and Elena had said that it could be _months_ before she was certain. How could she bear that, alone?

Rumpelstiltskin took the seat opposite hers and began at once to play with the white satin cord.

Oh, but he did look so weary. Belle tried not to stare at him, until she realised that he was so preoccupied with his thoughts and his finger-puzzles that he would not notice if she _did_ stare. Whatever he said, however magical he was, even Rumpelstiltskin needed to rest. He burned with an inhuman energy when his magic absorbed him, but it had to take its toll; it simply _had_ to. Belle had seen the change come over him when he rested beside her, or when she loved him until he became a sleepy sprawl of loose-limbed contentment. Surely he preferred that to his prowling, restless nights alone?

If he didn't prefer it, she thought, reassuring herself, then he would not complain of her being a temptation, a distraction from his work. Rumpelstiltskin did seem to feel, however, that he must choose one or the other; choose his work or his comforts with his new wife. Could he not have both, and be the richer for it?

Wordlessly, Belle moved across to sit beside him, just as the carriage began to move. The jolt plopped her down rather closer beside Rumpelstiltskin than she had meant to sit, her arm snug against his.

Rumpelstiltskin made a small sound, an interested sound, and turned his head towards her as she made herself comfortable.

"Cold?"

"No." Belle smiled at him. "You were too far away."

He made the little sound again, that small grunt of interested approval, and smiled when Belle gave him a kiss on the cheek.

It was a small thing, but Belle felt much better for doing it. She watched him play with her satin cord, weaving and pulling into figures that Belle had never learned when she played the game as a child.

"Why is it called cat's cradle?" Thinking of the mother cat in her soft nest of straw, Belle could see no likeness in the shapes that Rumpelstiltskin made between his fingers.

"Names change," he replied, distantly, pinching and pulling into a new shape before letting his hands go still. "Words change. My mother called it _catch_ cradle. The children of my village called it the spider's web."

That seemed a much better name for it. Belle had never heard the game called by either name. "You must have seen so much change."

"Yes." They were on the rise towards Odstone, passing the outlying properties that straggled along the road. Rumpelstiltskin slid the cord from his fingers and untied the knot before he pocketed it somewhere beneath his cloak. Belle thought that she caught a glimpse of black silk and gold embroidery as he did so. The handkerchief? He only looked mildly puzzled when she gave him another kiss on the cheek, this one impulsive and heartfelt. "I've neglected you," he said, frowning as if he had not realised how long he had kept to his work. "Treasure." Very gently, he touched his lips to hers, then retreated again, clasping his hands in his lap. "It's better that I keep away. While you're... resting."

 _Oh..._ Dull hurt burst like a firework beneath her ribs, and it was hurt for his sake rather than her own. Belle caught her lip between her teeth, biting hard enough to keep herself from dissolving into tears. No more of _that_.

"I didn't mean for you to..." But Belle didn't know _what_ she had meant. Not really. That it would be a good idea not to indulge herself any further until she felt better, certainly. Did that mean that Rumpelstiltskin ought to stay away from her bed, from her side, in case they tempted one another? "Please don't stay away because of what I said. I miss you too much."

Rumpelstiltskin tried to smile. It hovered about his lips without ever settling into a proper smile, and his eyes were wide and worried. The carriage stopped with the slightest of jolts.

"I failed to allow for a wife who wanted me around," he said, lowering his lashes to present her with that boyish shyness that had first undone her fear of him. "Would servants make you less lonely, Belle?"

"Probably," Belle said, taken aback. It was _his_ company that she had missed, while he busied himself with bottles and jars and books up in his turret. It was Rumpelstiltskin's touches and glances, when she left him trays without receiving more than a distracted nod of thanks. It was his openness, his willingness to say and hear the things that were so difficult to hear and to say. It was the secret joy of having her husband all to herself.

If only he had believed her about the child. If only he had hugged her and promised that everything would be all right. "I'd still miss my husband," she said, weakly. She could not help the sudden suspicion that he might let her fill the castle with maids and cooks, if it meant that he could leave her for longer while he attended to his work. He truly hadn't allowed for... for _Belle_... when he went to deal for a wife. She had understood from the beginning that he was reluctant to share his heart, his secrets, but did he begrudge her his time also? Rumpelstiltskin, who had so _much_ time that it weighed him down like a millstone?

He lifted her down from the carriage with his usual care, straightening her cloak clasp before he stepped back. Belle had meant to keep her plain old cloak pulled shut to conceal the blue dress beneath it; she knew by now that Rumpelstiltskin did not mind how she dressed, but could not help feeling that a grand lady did not go to market in a short linen skirt that allowed the breeze to tickle beneath her petticoat, however fine the fit. Self-consciously, she pulled the folds about her until she was covered to her ankles.

Rumpelstiltskin wore a fine red waistcoat beneath his heavy leather coat, but had dispensed with its ugly scaled mantle in favour of his own travelling cloak. He had a cravat of pale cream silk at his throat, pinned through with a brooch of unadorned gold - a simple spiral. He looked so much the gentleman that Belle regretted not making more of an effort to seem the lady.

"Your basket?" he enquired, gesturing to her empty hands.

"Oh... no. I only need to speak to the dressmakers and the shoemaker."

"Perhaps some ribbons?" Rumpelstiltskin nudged the hair next to her ear with his knuckles. It had dried full of waves, and Belle had simply brushed it out rather than decorate it today. "If not for your hair then... elsewhere?"

Belle had gone a good few paces towards the Odstone gate arch before his meaning struck her, and her face grew hot. Stealing a glance at her husband beside her, Belle saw a sly smile fade as Rumpelstiltskin became watchful. He always became watchful in a busy place - eyes darting everywhere, his attention fierce and focused.

"Do you know where the Fitchet family lives?" Belle asked, without much hope that he would. He shrugged, disinterestedly, and gave a slight shake of his head. While Belle was certain that Rumpelstiltskin knew more about the daily life of Odstone than he admitted, she was equally sure that he did not care for the individuals there.

Well. Perhaps a few.

Wren was out in the market with her baskets of herbs, lotions and charms, seated upon her small stool. Belle stopped at the corner of the crossroads, seeing that Wren had several customers. Beside her, Rumpelstiltskin very deliberately looked away when Belle caught him staring at the old woman.

Even to Belle, who had known Wren for but a few short weeks, the change in the woman was too plain to see. She had seemed larger than life when she had first approached Belle at the well, on that first visit to town. Now, Wren looked small and frail, and moved as if every movement cost her pain.

"The potion wears off so fast," Belle breathed, and heard Rumpelstiltskin's curt grunt of acknowledgement.

Unwilling to approach Wren and frighten away her customers, Belle looked around instead for the stall of ribbons and threads. She had expected to see Elsa Fitchet there, but it was an older woman who greeted her with an uncertain attempt at a curtsey. Belle almost did not recognise her as the woman who had first sold her ribbons; she had grown so gaunt. Elsa's mother, Sara, who had lost a babe to the Rot.

"Mistress Fitchet? Sara?"

Startled, the woman nodded. Her eyes went at once to Rumpelstiltskin but, mindful of Belle's request for him to turn his back on their last visit to the stall, he had done so again.

"Yes, my Lady. Elsa told us that you let her choose ribbons for you." Belle studied the woman, who seemed more nervous and weary than actually afraid. She was doing her best to smile, and it did not seem particularly forced. "My ma said that a wife has no business with ribbons in her hair," she confided, "but I say why not? Every girl ought to enjoy something pretty."

"I agree," Belle chuckled, trying not to dwell on the thoughts that Rumpelstiltskin's remark had left in her mind. She wasn't _entirely_ sure that he had meant to be so provocative, but Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed her ribbons rather more than Belle did herself. "Wren tells me that your family are skilled dressmakers," she went on. "May we speak about that?"

To Belle's surprise and satisfaction, the older woman's tired face lit up at her question.

"We've not had occasion to sew for a fine lady in a long time," she said, proudly making certain that Belle knew there had _been_ such occasions in the past.

Although Belle did not feel like a fine lady today, she was undoubtedly a wealthy one. It would be an opportunity for the seamstresses to sew fine fabrics, to embellish without thought of the expense. When it had come to the ordering of her betrothal gown, Belle had argued firmly for economy and a certain plainness. She had no need and no reason to be so circumspect now, nor so stubborn. She did, after all, need a gown fit to wear when queens came to visit.

"Should we come to the castle, my Lady?" Sara glanced again at Rumpelstiltskin, although less fearfully than many others might. She was only wary, cautious.

"Would you? You'll be quite safe," Belle added, too quickly. "I could visit your home, if it's more convenient."

Great ladies of the castle did not generally inconvenience themselves for the sake of others, but Belle had seen all she wanted of the alternative in her dealings with Gaston's mother. The Duchess had been cold and rude to servants and tradespeople, frowning on Belle for chatting and laughing with her dressmakers and with Lotte. Besides, _this_ great lady would go anywhere that she felt welcome, just now, if it offered the prospect of friendly company.

"That would save time, my Lady," Sara conceded, gratefully.

Behind her, too far away to be certain, Belle thought that she heard Rumpelstiltskin give a snort of derision. As if he didn't cultivate that wary respect, that healthy distance!

"I'd like some ribbons as well, please," she said, loudly enough that Rumpelstiltskin could not fail to hear her. "I do seem to run through them, somehow."

Rumpelstiltskin stayed silent while Belle took her time in choosing several ribbons. She could not help but wonder where he would like her to tie them, if not in her hair. He had not meant the fastening of her nightgown, nor even a new garter, she was sure. Sara Fitchet seemed not to notice her distraction, serving her eagerly. Her manner, now that she was past her initial fear of dealing with Rumpelstiltskin's wife, reminded Belle of the traders she had known at home - lively, pushy, chasing every last penny with cheerful enthusiasm and a keen eye for the customer's unspoken wants.

Tucking the new ribbons into the pocket inside her cloak, secure beneath her heavy purse, Belle asked Mistress Fitchet where she might find Egan, the shoemaker. At that, the woman's face fell.

"He was in a fight, my Lady," she explained, in tones of scandalised gossip. "Drunk as a devil, he was, and raving about..." Her eyes found Rumpelstiltskin and plain fear replaced her disapproving scowl. "About things he ought not. Janek had him locked up. He'll stand before the justice today."

"It's been a terrible time," Belle said, wretched again as she remembered the woman's own loss. "Was anyone hurt?"

"A few bruises, my Lady. Black eyes, a lost tooth. Nothing that won't mend."

Nodding, Belle glanced back the way they had come, to the unimposing little town hall. That was where justice was done, in Odstone. She had yet to set foot inside.

"I'll visit you soon, Mistress Fitchet, for the dresses. One plain and one grand. I'd welcome your suggestions but I must be able to fasten and unfasten everything by myself." Opening her cloak, she indicated the plain and practical crisscross lacing at the front of her blue bodice, and saw Sara nod her understanding with only the barest frown of surprise. Everyone knew that there were no servants at the castle, didn't they?

"All days but market day, my Lady. Me or the girls are always home."

"Good day then." Belle caught lightly at Rumpelstiltskin's arm as she left the stall. She was aware, as they moved away towards the middle of the crossroads, of one or two women moving quietly across to speak with Sara. She wondered if their entire conversation would be known by all, by sundown. Rumpelstiltskin let her guide him towards the town hall, his attention divided between Belle herself and the busy street around them. "I'd like to see how justice is done in Odstone," she said.

"The shoemaker?"

"He lost his sons."

"As did many others." Rumpelstiltskin spread his hands. "Will you pat him on the head and send him home unpunished?"

"I'll watch what Janek does in your name," Belle told him, quietly. "I should understand this place if I want to do any good here."

After the barest hesitation, Rumpelstiltskin said, "As you wish."

The town hall truly was just another house on the small street, Belle realised as soon as she went inside. It was furnished for a different use, but it had once been a home like any other. A staircase stood incongruously at the back of the large space that had been created by the knocking together of two modestly sized rooms to make a larger space. This space was unfurnished save for a raised dais at the far end, near the staircase, where Janek and three other men sat to preside over the affairs of the town. The chair at the centre of the table sat empty, a golden gavel on a wooden stand on the table before it. A place for the lord and master, with the mayor seated awkwardly to the right of it.

A dozen or more people stood in a loose crowd before the dais, and a couple of burly men guarded a bedraggled-looking figure that Belle took to be the shoemaker. She had expected... well, she had _feared_ that she would find some sort of dreadful spectacle here, something influenced by Rumpelstiltskin's pantomimes, but it was a quiet and businesslike occasion. Grain storage was being discussed among the men at the head table, and when anyone in the small assembly wished to be heard on the matter they stepped forward and waited to be acknowledged by Janek.

Everything changed when someone at the table noticed the new arrivals, of course. The man to Janek's right rose to his feet, and after a few seconds of confusion, his fellows understood and rose also. The petitioners and onlookers turned and gave a variety of bows, curtseys and nervous nods.

"Carry on, Janek," Rumpelstiltskin said, dismissing all of this with a fluttering wave of his hand. "My Lady wishes to see how our town conducts its affairs."

"A chair for the Lady Belle," Janek called, beckoning to one of the guards, who looked hunted. There was but one chair spare in the room, and it was the one left empty upon the dais. Where was he to find another on short notice without leaving one of the councillors standing?

"I'll stand," Belle said, firmly. "And I see that there is already a seat for my husband."

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a pained glance, but only for a moment. He stood in silence while, rather haltingly and with many nervous glances in their direction, the discussion of pests in the grain store resumed.

Belle realised that she had become used to Rumpelstiltskin's naked glee when she asserted herself in public; he was not gleeful now, not urging her to new feats of audacity, but stood sour-faced and still with his hands clasped behind his back. Why did he so dislike the thought of her involving herself with these people? What were the Lord and Lady of the castle _for_ if not to be the backbone of the community? Rumpelstiltskin might look with derision on Belle's own belief that she owed Odstone her service, but he understood that he was the ultimate law here. When the men had stopped the coach upon their return, desperate for their master's help for the dying boys, Rumpelstiltskin had given it at once. What _was_ Odstone to him? A diversion? A toy? A distraction? Was it merely a possession that had come with his castle, and of no consequence to him at all?

A few more people filed in past them, hesitant when they saw Belle and Rumpelstiltskin standing at the back of the hall. Lulie was among them, and caught Belle's eye anxiously. Belle smiled at her, but Lulie hurried on to catch up to the others in her small party.

"That girl is more frightened than she should be," Rumpelstiltskin observed, as if it were a matter of mild interest rather than another's misfortune.

"Her father is a brute, her brothers are all dead and her mistress wants her at the castle where _you_ live," Belle answered, crossly. "Is it any wonder?"

"No, this is something else." Rumpelstiltskin at last appeared to take an interest in the proceedings, then. He watched the people with bright and busy eyes.

"May the women speak here?"

"Of course. Anyone with business for the council may speak, and must be allowed to speak." Rumpelstiltskin gave her another wary look, no doubt wondering if she planned on making another public address. But Belle was watching Lulie quietly work her way to the front of the loose assembly, her former companions hanging back behind everyone else. The girl trembled where she stood.

The shoemaker was brought forward next. He stood meekly between the two burly men, his head bowed. Belle thought that he had probably come off worse in the fight - he was a small man, thin and slightly stooped. His hair had gone thin all over and was a wispy grey, and his well-made grey clothing was caked with dried mud and rather a lot of blood.

"The innkeepers accuse you of brawling, drunkenness and slander. A chair and a bottle of spirits were broken. We all here witnessed it, as did many others," Janek added, giving up on his formality and sounding tired. "What have you to say, Egan?"

"Nothing," the man mumbled. "I can't hardly remember."

"No wonder," snapped the man seated to the left of the empty chair. "You were drunk before you came to the inn."

Egan merely nodded, looking at his feet.

"The damage will be paid for by Egan, in coin or in kind," Janek said. "Those injured may bring their grievances before us as they wish. As to your words..." Janek raised his head and looked steadily at Rumpelstiltskin. "They are not to be repeated here, I think," he said, and there was a momentary glimmer of defiance in his dark eyes before he looked back at Egan.

The shoemaker said nothing, but produced a purse from beneath his tunic and laid it on the table before Janek. Wordlessly, Janek emptied the coins into his hand, counted out several and returned the rest to the pouch. Egan had already turned away and begun shuffling towards the door before Janek called him back to take the purse.

A broken man. Belle had seen it in some of the fathers who lost sons to the ogres; that empty despair inside a body that kept on going through life's motions because its owner did not know what else to do.

"I wonder what he said about me?" Rumpelstiltskin said, cheerfully, as Egan drew level with them. The man stopped, clenching his fists at his sides. He seemed to battle with himself for a moment or two, then he spoke.

"I said you'd have been quick enough to come and save your own child, my Lord," Egan said, anger momentarily animating his tired frame. "And that we'd be better off without magic here."

He didn't look at them. He just waited, and Belle wondered if the poor man hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would smite him into a peaceful oblivion, there and then.

Beside Belle, Rumpelstiltskin bristled and glared. Her heart began to pound, but Rumpelstiltskin made no move at all.

"True enough," he said, with ice in his voice. "But remember this," he added, raising his voice so that all would hear him. "Any one of you knows how to call on me in time of need. No-one did."

"We did!" The cry came from Lulie, who immediately regretted it, clasping both her hands to her mouth. The group around her parted to leave her standing very much alone, her back to the dais and to a horrified looking Janek.

"What do you mean, Lulie?" Belle went to the girl and led her back, the arm that she kept across Lulie's shoulders as much protection from Rumpelstiltskin's wrath as anyone in the world had.

"Who called me? When?" Rumpelstiltskin said, livid at this contradiction and directing every ounce of his anger at the girl. He jabbed a finger at her. "Who spoke my name?"

"My father, sir," Lulie quavered. "When Wren told us the sickness was full of magic. When it started taking the unborn. He called your name three times, Lord. I swear he did. Didn't he?" she added, wrenching free of Belle as she turned desperately to the others to find support for her claim. "A gold coin in the well and call the master's name three times. Some of you tried to stop him!"

"It's true," Janek said, and his voice stilled the rising babble in the room. "Dacey Tavish called for you, my Lord. Two nights before your return."

"You didn't come," Egan spat. "So curse you! What have I to fear from you? I've no child left for you to steal away. It's nothing to me!"

Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin's confusion. Perhaps no-one else there knew him well enough - his expressions, his eyes, his stance - but Belle did, and the truth of that brought a new clarity to her thoughts. As angry as he was at being challenged, Rumpelstiltskin was alarmed as well, by something not as it should be. Something he did not understand.

"I see," he said, the words clipped. "Go," he said to Egan, and much to Belle's relief the man did go, his shoulders rigid and his stride angry. Better anger than despair, she supposed, and felt helpless. Whatever she might do for the people of Odstone she could not wash away this loss, this great injustice.

"My Lord," Janek began, joining them and holding his velvet cap in front of him as though it were a shield. "Forgive us, I beg you. When you didn't come there was... talk."

"Of course there was," Rumpelstiltskin snapped, all acid sarcasm and petulance. "My wife is right, fear has turned you all into sheep! I've no need of _sheep_." He swept the man aside with his arm and strode out of the town hall, dripping fury.

Belle felt afraid herself; her mouth dry, her chest tight, her heart thundering. How must these others feel to see Rumpelstiltskin insulted, challenged? And at a loss, as well. Rumpelstiltskin could not afford to let Odstone see that, she knew, but he was. The Spinner trusted nothing but his magic and now his magic could not be wholly relied upon. He was afraid too.

"My Lady, I beg you," Janek said, turning to her in desperation. "No insult was meant. Everyone knows that he never breaks a deal. The coin, the well... he promised that he would always come if we had dire need of him. People are afraid. Speak for us, please?"

"Let him be," Belle managed, lifting her chin and trying at least to _look_ as if she were not frightened of what her husband might do. "He has a fierce temper. I can speak with him later."

"Don't put yourself in harm's way, my Lady," came a small voice. Belle turned around to see Lulie there, her arms folded across her thin chest as she fought her shivers. "Please don't."

"It's all right." Putting her hand on the girl's shoulder, Belle looked at each of the frightened faces in the huddle of people. But what could she say to reassure them? Not that Rumpelstiltskin had loved and lost a son of his own - that it was a wound reopened by Odstone's grief, and by his own failure. Not that he would sooner tear his own limbs off than raise a hand to Belle or harm her with magic.

And no wonder little Lulie was cowering, Belle thought, slipping her arm across the girl's shoulders and squeezing her slightly. In Lulie's experience, that was what husbands did unless wives were meek; raise a hand, and hurt them.

"Go about your business," she said, deciding only as she said it. They would obey her, and at least they might be a little less afraid for being busy. Rumpelstiltskin preferred that Odstone go on smoothly without his intervention. "If there's more that we ought to be told, I advise you to tell it," she added, catching Janek's eye. He nodded, grateful, and led the unhappy party back towards the dais and the business of the town council.

Lulie looked down at her shoes. They were ill-fitting, Belle noticed; her toes made a bulge at the end. "What's your business here, Lulie?" she asked, as gently as she could. Better not to wonder what Rumpelstiltskin was doing, if he was enraged enough to leave her unprotected.

"I... I came to accuse my pa," Lulie mumbled. "They won't listen, they won't do aught unless ma speaks against him, but they should be told." Her voice broke on the last words and she fumbled in her apron, bringing out the handkerchief that Belle had given her. It had been washed and carefully ironed, Belle could see. It was treasured.

"He strikes her?"

"He _beats_ her," Lulie spat. "Worse since the boys died. Since..."

"Since he called and Rumpelstiltskin didn't come?"

Another wretched, reluctant nod. Lulie was too worn out, too worn down to dissemble.

 _And Rumpelstiltskin was with me,_ Belle thought. _Fussing over me, making love to me at the inn when he was needed here._

"What is the punishment, if your mother accuses him?"

"Shaming, my Lady." Lulie looked up, after dabbing her face with the precious handkerchief. Belle shook her head. Wren had used the word as though it meant a specific punishment, but Belle did not know of it. "So all the town can see. He's sat backwards on an ass, my Lady, and led through town. Some throw stones or slops. If a man's wife comes to harm after that, it's more than his life's worth."

A warning, Belle realised. A brutal one, a vengeful one, but not one to be easily forgotten, even by a man deep in his cups.

"And what does my husband do if the matter is brought to him?"

Lulie squirmed, her expression twisting with reluctance. No-one else cared to speak against their master, today. "It's all right," Belle soothed. "He doesn't have eyes in the back of his head."

"No-one tells him," the girl admitted. "No-one deserves what he might do to them." She sniffed, a trace of scorn giving her a moment's strength and certainty. "Pa might make a good slug, mind."

Belle remembered about the castle gardens, and Rumpelstiltskin's flippant comment about how he dealt with the heroes who came to slay the monster. Did he truly...?

"Is your mother badly hurt?"

Lulie nodded. There was a little hope in her expression, hope that Belle would help her now, and Belle tried to think. What could be done? Wren was right - any woman would think twice before accusing the breadwinner, the father of her children. Blows or no blows, there were mouths to feed. Fewer mouths, now. Belle had enough coin in her cloak to see to that, enough at her disposal to free every woman in Odstone from a troublesome husband, but that would solve nothing. It was justice that ought to be done, not charity. "Come," she said, leading Lulie towards the dais.

The low-voiced discussion there stopped at once, and everyone made room for Belle and Lulie to stand before Janek.

"My Lady," he said, rising.

"Lulie accuses her father, Dacey Tavish, of beating her mother," Belle said, and felt Lulie flinch against her side. "If that isn't a crime here then I shall see that it becomes one. Better that you deal with it than my husband, as I understand it," she said, holding the man's anxious gaze. "I charge you to keep Mistress Tavish and her daughters safe from now on. No more blows," she said, squeezing Lulie's shoulders again before letting her go, and felt a new strength coming with her certainty. "No-one will be beaten in Odstone unless it is the due punishment for a proven crime. Do you understand me?"

Belle felt like a little girl, standing there before the sober and worried headmen of Odstone. She did not feel like their mistress, or like the wife of a terrible wizard who commanded their terror. But she did not _sound_ like a little girl, and Janek bowed in sincere obedience under her steady gaze.

For just one moment, Belle felt like a queen.


	84. Fool's Gold

Outside the town hall, Rumpelstiltskin was prowling back and forth on the cobbles, his expression thunderous. The street beyond had emptied, no-one caring to risk becoming the target for their master's obvious wrath. Belle could see that a few were watching from a distance, up near the crossroads.

Belle stood at the doorway until Rumpelstiltskin noticed her. He stopped before her, strained to near breaking. She wondered what would happen if his self-control did break.

"Return to the castle," he said, attempting civility at least towards her. "I must stay. Discover..." Waving his hands, too agitated to complete his own thought, Rumpelstiltskin scowled at a woman who crept past them and hurried away towards the gates, her head bowed.

"Please let me stay with you," Belle said, offering Rumpelstiltskin her hand. She would not battle with him, not if it might mean harm to Odstone, but she wanted to stay. Had he forgotten about her entirely, stormed off to study this new mystery without her, she might have believed that he did not _want_ her beside him. But Rumpelstiltskin had waited nearby for her, and here she was beside him, where she belonged. If he felt some need of her then she would not force him to _ask_ for her support. "Please, Rumple."

That settled his hackles, and brought him some way back to her; he blinked, almost looking confused, and took her outstretched hand between his own. He met her eyes, and tamed the beast.

"All right."

Relief made Belle light-headed as Rumpelstiltskin put his arm across her back and drew her with him, up the street towards the market and the crossroads. It was uncomfortable, walking when he squeezed her so near to his side that their legs brushed together, but having asked to remain, Belle could hardly ask him not to concern himself with her safety.

Word had already reached the marketplace about what had gone on inside the town hall. People who had been standing around and sharing the news fell silent at their approach, but only a few tried to look busy. They were closely watched, all the way to the well, where an old woman snatched up her bucket and hurried away as fast as she could manage.

"A gold coin in the well?" Belle rested her hand on the stone and stood on tiptoe, trying to see into the water. "I said your name three times, but there was no gold."

"You already had my attention," Rumpelstiltskin said, shortly, and it seemed better not to pursue the matter. Belle hadn't been _trying_ to summon the Spinner when she spoke his name, three times in one day. She had been dreadfully surprised when she did. "A coin in a well, it's an old sacrifice. Enough magic for my name to reach my ears. Names have their own power as well." Rumpelstiltskin brought his fist down sharply on the old stones, unable to contain his agitation. "It should have worked!"

"Tavish is a drunkard," Belle said, watching Rumpelstiltskin run his hand along the stonework, concentrating. "Perhaps his coin wasn't gold and he was too drunk to notice?"

"Perhaps." He snapped the word, high-voiced and brittle-tempered, and Belle let him alone. She looked around at the people who had approached. They had not come too near, but they were watching. Waiting. Wren stood among them, nodding calmly to Belle when their eyes met. She leaned heavily on her two walking sticks, her hands trembling.

Extending his arm over the well, palm down beside the winch, Rumpelstiltskin deepened his concentration and caused a bright light to shine from within the shaft. Belle hardly had time to shade her eyes before it was gone again, and Rumpelstiltskin stepped back to examine the wet coin that now lay in his palm. It wasn't gold. Belle frowned, going nearer to see. It was a corroded and misshapen thing, plainly iron. It looked as if it had lain in the water for years. It resembled no coin that Belle knew of in the kingdoms; even a drunkard riled up on desperation and terror could not have made _that_ mistake.

Rumpelstiltskin closed his fingers around it, turning sharply on his heel to face the crowd. They all flinched or stepped back - every one of them but Wren.

"Fairy gold!" Rumpelstiltskin called to them, spreading his arms and striking a pose. He contrived to convey a bitter sarcasm with his entire being, while his voice mocked and warned. "Now who here would be stupid enough to fall for that? Who'd dare consort with fairies, _here_ , in my happy little town?"

"Not a one, I should think," Wren called, earning Rumpelstiltskin's glare for interrupting his display. "We've magic enough already. Ask him that dropped it in the well where he got it."

"Janek is sending men to fetch Tavish," Belle said, for Rumpelstiltskin's ears alone. "Let me speak to him."

"Afraid I'll turn him into a slug?" Rumpelstiltskin turned his head so sharply that Belle gasped. For a moment, the look he gave her was full of that same, hateful contempt that he had directed at the others. Then he saw her again - saw _her_ \- and it faded, became confused and, finally, he looked away. "I don't have eyes in the back of my head, sweet," he said, also for her ears alone. "But I do have very good hearing."

The cruel edge to his amusement was less disturbing than his baiting of the townspeople. Belle nodded and touched his arm in mute apology. She had not forgotten that he had excellent hearing when she encouraged Lulie to speak her mind; she had assumed that Rumpelstiltskin had gone rather further, in his snit, than to wait for her just outside the door.

"Is it true about fairy gold? That it looks real until it's used?"

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin looked down at the corroded lump in his hand. "Worthless except as a pretty gift. Most fairies lack even _that_ much of a sense of humour," he added, sourly. "Here." He tipped the parody of a coin into her hand and folded her fingers around it, gently. Beneath the roiling anger, the confusion, there was a worried plea in his eyes. "Speak to the slug and learn how he came by this. Tell him what my wife's justice does to wife-beaters," he went on, softening as he watched her eyes. Belle hoped that she hadn't looked too frightened.

She nodded, and heard the muted gasps from all around when Rumpelstiltskin kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, to her cheek and catching the very corner of her mouth, but a very, _very_ public kiss. "I need answers, treasure," he whispered before he drew away. "Find them for me among the sheep."

That was a horrible thing to say about people, but Belle could not entirely refute it. When people grouped together and allowed fear to push them this way and that, to make them act against their own best interests, they did behave somewhat like a flock of sheep. Rumpelstiltskin had driven them for too long, as much wolf as shepherd and guardian. He could not walk among them, now, and ask gentle questions, admitting his own ignorance. Tempering his careful disdain. His _little wife_ could, but she would need to be wary of the things she did not know.

"When did you last punish a man for striking his wife?"

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, tilting his head as he considered the question. Still showing off for the crowd. He tapped his fingertips to his lips a moment, then raised one finger, beaming in a show of horrid teeth.

"Thirty-eight years ago. He's probably still in the garden somewhere." He was as pleased with himself as a child who had used a filthy word to shock the company. He giggled.

"It's not funny," Belle said, quietly. She might not understand this spiteful creature of exaggerations and childish glee that lurked within her husband, but she was beginning to understand how to speak to it. "That's what you did? Turned them into... into slugs?"

"Snails, usually." Rumpelstiltskin contrived to look aloof, but her words had taken the edge off his enjoyment. He was not comfortable under her scrutiny, or with her questions. "I make no secret of what I am."

"No, you don't." Belle touched his arm, uncertainly. "Not with me."

Anger flashed, deep in his eyes, and they darkened like the storm. "Tend to your sheep," he said, sing-song and terrible. "Find my answers, or I shall. My way." Rumpelstiltskin pointed to his chest as he said it, nodding fiercely, and then he was gone, engulfed in purple smoke.

Belle did not think that he had gone very far. It was all an act, wasn't it? All a show of strength, of power, of Rumpelstiltskin's careless disregard. Anything but let them see how very frightened he had been when Lulie spoke up; how alarmed he was at finding fairy gold in his well. At not _knowing_ everything there was to know, and being safe in his certainties.

 _Fairy_ again. The skin of Belle's forearms itched, the word forever associated in her mind with the clinging, choking dust that had made her poison to her own husband. In her hand, the iron seemed more heavy than its size ought to allow for, and too cold. Not all fairies were sweet and pretty, were they? There were the cruel ones, the broken ones. The ones who made the stories happen.

Now that her heart had stopped thumping with alarm, Belle felt tired. She wanted to lean against the well for a moment; to think long and hard before she acted. No chance of that, with the onlookers moving uncertainly towards her, half in concern and half in appeal for her help. Wren brushed a young man aside with a walking stick and hobbled forward, stopping in front of Belle and breathing heavily from the exertion. Her lips were the same horrible blue that Papa's had been when he was taken ill, his heart failing him.

"Wren," Belle began, with the half-formed notion of calling for someone to help the old woman back to her cottage, but Wren laid a crooked hand on her arm.

"He's always been fair," she said, her voice faint for want of breath. "Always. Hard, like the old ways, but he _is_ old. Remember that."

"Slugs and snails?" Belle was aghast. "You can't want that to go on!"

"Of course not," Wren soothed, leaning her shoulder against the well herself. "But he's only ever punished what folks knew was wrong of them to be doing. He's kept this place safe. Until the Rot. Some talk of leaving, now. It's _now_ they don't feel safe here, d'you see?" She ran out of air for the last words and wheezed painfully, waving away Belle's helping hands.

Belle nodded. In their place, she might well trade a fickle protector for an uncertain place beyond Odstone. Rumpelstiltskin protected them from war and from want, from the petty interference of a lord who used them for his profit, but if it cost them their _children_...

And she could not tell them the truth of it; could not _tell_ them that Rumpelstiltskin had walked home in the mud and the rain, that terrible night, hollow from the horror of it and twisted up by his own failure. Would they even believe her, if she did?

Everyone knew that Rumpelstiltskin had no heart.

"No place is safe from everything," Belle said, managing to keep her voice clear and steady as she had when speaking to Janek.

"The master don't ever make his deals and his mischief here," Wren added, coughing with the effort of lifting her own voice for the listeners. "Think on that."

The cough took her then, racking her body so hard that Belle reached for her without thinking. "Someone help her home," she called, appealing to the faces in front of her. So many strangers, even among the faces she recognised. "Please."

"Have a care, duckling," Wren pleaded, her eyes streaming as two women led her away towards he cottage. "Have a care now."

"This coin kept Rumpelstiltskin from hearing the call when you needed him," Belle said, raising it for everyone to see. "Fairy gold. It's worthless. Does anyone else have such a thing? Can anyone tell me where it came from, or who has been meddling here among you? Does anyone know anything about the man who murdered Yrsa Littlehip? Has anyone give you cause for suspicion, besides him?"

Glances were exchanged and heads were shaken. Trying to see everywhere at once, every face, Belle caught no expression or gesture that suggested anyone was hiding a secret. There were thirty or more people before her, with others watching from their stalls or from a wary distance across the crossroads.

Belle nodded her understanding. "If anyone thinks of anything, I wish to hear it," she said. "Leave a message at the castle gate if you're afraid to come inside. Or come and speak to me. I will hear you out and you have nothing to fear from me."

Goodness, but she sounded like Papa! Seeing that the two guards from the town hall had fetched a struggling man out of the tavern, Belle made her way through the crowd to meet them at the end of the road. Janek came behind them, his sleeves rolled up and his expression one of some satisfaction.

 _He could have done something before now,_ Belle thought. _They all knew._

"Is this Dacey Tavish?" She hardly needed to ask. The man could barely stand. Like Lulie, his clothes were thin with wear, mended and mended again until there was little left to hold together with the careful stitches. His smock was stained and stank of cows, and his breath stank of the cheapest ale. Belle took a step back, her stomach turning over horribly. It wasn't just the smell, either, but the drunken sneer on the man's face as he looked at her.

"We should lock him up until he's sober, my Lady," Janek said, coming to stand beside her and slightly in front. And no wonder, Belle thought; Tavish looked fit to lunge at her, and Rumpelstiltskin had been furious the last time a prisoner of Janek's tried to harm her. "He's not fit to stand before you like this."

A murmur among the crowd carried the general view that Dacey Tavish would never be fit to stand before the wife of their master.

Belle wasn't afraid of him - not this big bully of a man, so drunk he could barely find his own feet, and certainly not when he was held firmly by two large and sober men who had every reason to keep a firm grip. She could see that her very lack of fear enraged him.

"For now I only need to know where you came by the coin that you threw into the well," she said, and again she thought she sounded like Sir Maurice. His voice went hard like that when he felt contempt for the individual before him. It happened rarely and it soured his mood for the rest of the day. Belle, for her part, was trying not to give in to a feeling of smug satisfaction. "Fairy gold," she said, showing it to Tavish, who swayed as he tried to focus on the iron between her fingers. "You threw it into the well and spoke my husband's name three times."

"He didn't come," Tavish snarled. "Did he? Let my boys die, didn't he?"

"Because this isn't gold," Belle said, steadily. "Fairy gold, false gold." She let the thing lie in her palm while Tavish continued to struggle, both against his captors and to stay upright. "Fool's gold. Where did you get it?"

"I don't have to answer to you," the man said, spittle flying from his mouth. He thrust his body towards her as he spoke. It was all that Belle could do to hold her ground; instinct would have her take a step back, even though he was held fast. Stubbornness and contempt kept her still. He was unused to a woman who held any power over him. She would not give him the satisfaction of flinching.

"No, you don't," she said, quietly. "But if not to me then you _will_ answer to my husband, to Rumpelstiltskin, and he already knows that you beat your wife. The choice is yours."

He spat at her feet.

"Who accuses me o' that?" For all that the words were slurred, they were full of triumph. Tavish was certain that his wife had not accused him and could not conceive that Lulie might have done so.

As Belle drew breath to answer him, Lulie spoke up from somewhere behind her right shoulder.

"I did. I told the mistress and she told everyone. They already knew though," she added, and Belle twisted to look at her - to see that Lulie's head was held high and her fear was tempered with a new certainty. Not to mention a touch of malice. "Now they can't pretend they don't."

"Little bitch!" Tavish almost wrenched free of his guards, but one step towards Belle and he stumbled, landing on his knees in the struggle. The guards renewed their grip, holding him there.

"You'll never strike your wife again," Belle told him, bending over slightly to be certain that he heard her. "Or your daughters either," she added, with a sudden and sorrowful insight into Lulie's defiance. "I'll see to that. My husband has given you the chance to deal with me instead, Master Tavish. He's done that for my sake, not yours. He's not in any mood to be patient and he isn't known for his mercy. Where did you get this coin?"

"That high an' mighty one who comes in her carriage," Tavish muttered, grudging every word. "She asks about the Lord, she asked about you."

Belle straightened, eyes narrowing as she thought. "Regina? The Queen?"

People all around started to speak to each other, to debate. Belle frowned. Regina _had_ said that she'd tested the loyalty of the people of Odstone. She was hardly unknown in these parts, either; she had been Rumpelstiltskin's pupil. Spent time at the Dark Castle.

"What did you tell her?" Belle asked, not really expecting a sensible answer from Tavish. Fear and loathing had twisted up what little remained of the man beneath the drunkard.

"Nothing," he said, begrudging her even that. "But she dropped her fan in some muck. She gave it me for bringing it back to her, that's all. Said I deserved it."

Belle almost laughed. "She had the measure of you, then," she said, imagining Regina's self-satisfied smirk as she gave the empty gift, and those dark eyes alight with private mirth. "Can he be locked away safely until he's sober?" she asked of Janek. "I'm speaking of _his_ safety," she clarified, lest anyone have the idea of saving her the trouble of dealing with the man later.

"Yes, my Lady. We've a cell behind the town hall. He'll come to no harm in there."

"See that he doesn't," Belle nodded. "He's to be well treated, and left there until he faces justice on the next market day."

"A Shaming, my Lady?" Janek looked doubtful. She had charged him with the protection of Lulie and her family. Was Tavish the sort of man to learn from a warning, from a punishment that did not physically prevent him from repeating his crime?

"Mistress Tavish must decide," she said, quietly. "When she's well enough, and not before." She turned to Lulie, taking the girl by the hand while her father was hauled away, silent now. "Do you know any more about this?" she asked, showing Lulie the iron coin.

"No, my Lady. If he'd any gold, he'd have kept it to spend on ale," the girl said. "We never saw it. I have to go back. Tend the herd. There's too much to do with Pa gone."

And what could her mistress do about that? Belle took Lulie by the shoulders, waiting until the girl looked at her, tearful. "Jules did it all," Lulie explained, swiping her sleeve across her nose. "Now he's gone. Ma's hurt. The girls are too little. There's only me."

Belle ached for her. She could bring Lulie with her to the castle, offer her a wonderful life, a future, but she could not do the same for the girl's mother and sisters. She could not wave her hand and keep Dacey Tavish from returning to his old ways the moment he was free. As Belle understood the written laws of Odstone, she could do nothing to keep him from returning to his dairy herd; his family's livelihood.

Perhaps though... "My Lady?" Lulie wanted to be on her way, back to her mother and the farm that needed her. She was waiting for Belle's leave to go.

"Oh... of course, Lulie," she said, apologetic.

"It's Tullia," the girl said shyly, turning pink. It was the most colour Belle had ever seen in her face. "Pa calls me Lulie. Ma named me for my gran. Tullia."

"Tullia." It was a strange, old name, yet it fit the girl somehow. She was what Belle's old nurse would call an old soul, young as she was. "Please speak to your mother for me," Belle said, her idea taking shape as she looked at Lulie. _Tullia._ "And tell her most of all that the choice is hers." Tullia nodded, that same hope lightening her eyes as before. "If she would like to go with you and your sisters, away from the farm and your father, she should tell me. Not to the castle," she smiled, when Tullia grimaced uncertainly. "Although you're still welcome to come to work for me, if that's what you'd like. It's up to you. I can think of plenty of other places where five hardworking women would be more than welcome."

Tullia smiled. "Ma worked in a big house when she was a girl. She always talks about the good food and soft beds. We're none of us afraid of hard work, my Lady."

It was _such_ a smile.

Belle watched her go, hurrying and then breaking into a run when she was free of the busy market street. Would it work? Oh, Belle was quite sure that she could find a good place for the family. She'd had The Apiary in mind when first she mentioned it, certain that she could win Randall's consent and even his gratitude, given that his entire household staff had abandoned him. It had taken her but a moment longer to realise that, however unwittingly, Randall and his family were the cause of the tragedy that had befallen the Tavish family. It might be too hard a thing to ask of them, to serve Randall and Flora now, and to see little Edward grow up strong.

There were other houses, estates. Belle's father would certainly know of a farm estate where they would be welcome and fairly treated, and it would be one even further away from Odstone and from Dacey Tavish.

She still had the lump of iron in her hand. Belle looked at it, wondering what Rumpelstiltskin would do when she told him what she had learned. That it had come from Queen Regina was nothing in and of itself. It might have been nothing more than a gesture of contempt for Tavish, a man beneath contempt in anyone's book. Did it please the woman to go about making mischief, just as it did Rumpelstiltskin? He was already wary of the Queen. Would he wait and listen to reason when Belle told him about Tavish and the cruel little reward?

Thirsty, her head and her back aching, Belle would dearly have liked to sit a while in the tavern with a cool drink. She could see that the place was busy, though. What was not discussed at the town hall was very likely discussed at the tavern, and her presence could only disquiet people further. She made her way past the inn, instead, to Wren's cottage, and found one of the women who had helped Wren home just leaving.

"She's poorly, my Lady." Belle recognised her then as the woman who had spoken up when she addressed the crowd, last market day. She looked a no-nonsense and sensible sort, slightly plump and age-worn, but strong. "Shouldn't have been out."

"What's your name?" Belle did her best to sound friendly, but the events of the morning were catching up to her; she sounded weary and worried instead.

"Martha. Widow Carter, my Lady."

"Are you a friend of Wren's?"

"As much as any, I suppose." The woman gave her a shrewd look, head cocked slightly. "Are you needing a midwife, then?"

Belle was speechless for several moments, then pulled herself together.

"Um... no. Just worried for Wren." Surely Wren hadn't told anyone else what she suspected? Martha caught her anxious look towards Wren's door and gave her the lightest of touches on the arm.

"She said naught, but you've come and gone here often, and asked the Fitchet girls for dresses now. It's been two moons, as well. Folks are wondering, as folks will. A child at the Dark Castle. That'd be a thing." In spite of the shameless gossip's gleam in the woman's eye, the unspoken question was a kindly one.

"Oh." Belle closed her eyes for a moment, composing herself, then gave Martha her best smile. "Well, thank you for being honest with me. It's nice to know that there's someone besides Wren who isn't too afraid. Martha." Hardly daring lest the woman flinch away, Belle offered her hand.

"Martha the midwife," the woman smiled knowingly as she squeezed Belle's hand in greeting, but the smile soon faded. "And doctor enough to know that Wren hasn't long left to live, my Lady."

"I know." Belle took a deep breath before the sadness could overcome her. "She calls me 'duckling'," she said, hopelessly, and didn't know why.

"Hah! And she calls me a daft old hen!"

The shared chuckle warmed Belle's heart. As the midwife turned to go, Belle called after her.

"May I call on you? If I should need a midwife?" Her voice wavered even trying to carry half a lie. Even as a child, Belle had never been very good at them, always feeling silly or ashamed before she'd finished speaking the untruthful words.

"Anyone who's friend to Wren and the likes of Lulie is welcome at my hearth, Lady Belle," Martha answered, and winked at her before she went on her way. "Need or no. We're the first cottage as you approach the town from the castle."

Nodding her sincere gratitude, Belle remembered the small boy who had been yanked out of her sight the first time she walked alone to Odstone. Her heart sank. Son? Grandson? Nephew? Playmate?

They had sorrowed so for the boys who died. Belle remembered only now that she had not asked Rumpelstiltskin which one of them had lived, nor thought of what he faced for being the only one spared.

Wren's cottage was dark, only the low fire in the hearth and one candle adding their illumination to that of the single small window beside the door. Belle hesitated just inside the door, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom.

"Wren?"

"Here, duckling," Wren croaked, and Belle followed the sound to the little bed that was tucked away in the hollow beneath the stairs. She was sitting up, her back to the wall and propped with what looked like every cushion, pillow and foldable cloth that Martha had been able to find. "Don't you mind that clucking hen," Wren said, trying to wag a finger at her. The finger stayed curled in towards her palm, pain making her wince when she tried to straighten it. Belle sat down beside her and took her hand. "She's a good enough midwife but she'll treat anyone like a babe given half the chance. Tucked me into my cradle, she has. Look at this." There was a horrible, thin wheeze behind her words and the crackle in her throat that would become a cough at the least provocation. "She'll feed me on pap next!"

Fidgeting, every movement a strain, Wren began to divest herself of the various blankets and pillows, trying to get up.

"It's time for your medicine," Belle said, firmly. "Is it upstairs?"

"Aye," Wren sighed. Defeated, at least for the moment, she let the remaining pillows take her weight. "One last time then. One last deal with the devil."

"Is that what he is?" Belle wore a wry smile as she mounted the stairs.

"Not him, child. Magic." As if the very word were poison to her, the sound of Wren's awful coughing followed Belle up the stairs.

Little up there had changed since Belle last saw it. The cot was before the hearth, stripped of its covers and pillow. The window was half shuttered. Weak as she was, it was a wonder that Wren had managed the stairs at all, but there was the large bottle of green medicine upon the mantelpiece, exactly where the last had been. It had to be half a pint of the stuff, and Belle was afraid to think what would happen if Wren found herself unable to swallow it in one as Rumpelstiltskin instructed. Magic was like that. The broad strokes and coloured smoke were what caught the eye, but the reality of it was in those fine details. The outcome of a spell turned upon something that might seem trivial. The difference between gold and iron that had been made to seem gold; between the letter and the spirit of a contract. Downing the potion in one.

Belle took the bottle back down to Wren and sat beside her again. The medicine would have to wait until Wren could at least catch her breath. For the moment she gulped for air, face streaming with tears that might have been from coughing, or might not. The old woman fumbled in her sleeve and withdrew a handkerchief, clumsily wiping her face with it. It was the one that Belle had bought for her. She looked down at the bottle in her lap and swallowed back her own tears. They would do no good, neither for her nor for Wren who needed her.

She didn't speak, lest she make Wren feel that she must waste her breath on a reply. It was peaceful in the dim cottage, the air warm and thick with the scent of herbs. For a little while, she could be too concerned about her friend to dwell on the things said and done out there in Odstone; on Rumpelstiltskin's spiteful anger, on the dangers of relying on reason from a man like Tavish. Even her own worries could be set aside for a while while she was needed.

Finally, when Belle's eyes had grown unfocused just like her thoughts and she had lost all sense of time, Wren patted her on the forearm to win her attention. Belle shook herself and turned to face the old woman, tugging the glass stopper from the bottle.

"You must drink it all at once," she reminded Wren, trying to sound as if it were nothing. "Here."

Pursing her lips in disapproval of this and all magic, Wren glared at the large bottle between her hands as if she meant to do battle with it.

Belle held her breath until every drop of the green stuff was, with difficulty, gulped down.

The bottle fell from Wren's hands, her body stiffening and her eyes opening wide. For a horrible moment Belle thought that it had not worked, that something had gone wrong, that Wren was _dying_ before her very eyes. Then the stiffness left her and she sagged back among the pillows, gulping in huge breaths and crying out faintly as she let them go again.

"Wren," Belle whispered. "Did it work?"

"Aye, it worked," Wren sighed. No crackle, no wheeze. Just weariness. "And the next potion's big enough to drown me in, is that it?" Before Belle could answer, Wren patted her hand. "A merciful end is all we can hope for, come the finish."

"I suppose so," Belle mumbled. How long would it last, this new dose of medicine? A few days? She couldn't bear it. On top of everything else, she couldn't bear it. But what could she do? Command Wren not to die?

"Time comes to us all," Wren soothed. "I'm not scared to go, but I don't mind admitting that I hope the going is easy. I've seen when it goes hard."

Belle nodded, pressing her lips together tightly until she was quite sure that she wouldn't let go a sob.

"Make us a pot of tea, then," the old woman said, kindly. "And tell old Wren if you're a mother duck or yet a duckling."

It was the kindness that broke down the last of Belle's defiance and obstinacy, and all else that had passed for strength and courage these past hours; it was that Wren, all but breathing her last easy breath, thought of _her_.

She wept in Wren's arms, and they were strong arms, safe arms. Wren patted her hair, stroked her back, fussed with the folds of her hood and cooed to her with 'hush now' and 'sweet child', and let her cry until she could cry no more. There was no shame in it, Belle found as she calmed herself, her head throbbing and her breath hiccoughing against Wren's bosom. She felt safe in the circle of those arms and she did not feel a fool when Wren finally let her go.

Still sniffing, Belle went to make the tea. Martha must have boiled the kettle before she left because Belle had only to put it back on top of the little stove to bring the water back to steaming. She spooned finely cut green leaves into the pot and breathed the scent of them as she poured over the hot water, trying to decide what this tea was made of. There was mint, but it was faint among the other scents - it smelled green, grassy and refreshing.

"It smells good," Belle said, not sure how to begin a conversation after... after _that_. She felt calm, strange. Stronger somehow. Her hands were steady, lighting two candle-lanterns to bring them a little light. "What is it?"

"Nettle and applemint," Wren told her. She had worked her way up to sitting while Belle was busy with the kettle, and waved Belle away when she hurried back to try to help her swing her legs from the bed. "The recipe's in my books. All my books'll be yours when I'm dead, and you be sure to read them."

Startled, Belle knocked the big teapot against the rim of a clay cup.

"Mine?"

"That husband of yours'll tell you about the magic in every plant and creature, I expect. Not so sure he knows the medicine. You'll find the place for all the things I wrote, if it don't suit you to use it."

 _The work of a lifetime,_ Belle thought, pouring the second cup. All that learning, all that experience. How much of it could a person leave behind them on parchment? How much would be lost when they passed from the world?

"I'll read every word," she promised, fervently. "And make sure that it's put to good use."

"Good girl." Wren sniffed, shuffling towards the fireplace and her favourite chair, walking stick in each hand. "I'm not much at drawing but I did my best. Plants and such."

Belle nodded, bringing her the tea as she settled herself in the rocking chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "Ah, that's better. Tuck me into my deathbed, that Carter woman would. Too much cluck, that one, and too much gossip. Trying to winkle out of me if you was expecting."

"She didn't try to hide it," Belle smiled, lowering herself into the opposite chair with her own cup. "Oh, Wren, she said the whole _town_ is wondering if I'm having a baby! Just because I visit you and need to buy new dresses!"

"And because you're two months wed, and he looks at you like you set him afire," Wren laughed, setting her chair to rocking. "He might look like a toad that grew legs but he burns like any man, I reckon. Burns and _loves_ , eh?"

Thinking of that tiny kiss at the crossroads, in front of all those people, Belle nodded.

"I told him," she said, uncertain that she should say it. "That I thought I might be pregnant." She took a sip of scalding tea, pulling herself together. "He says it's impossible."

"And what do you say?" Wren took a wary sip of her own drink, not seeming to trust her grip on the cup. "Did you bleed?"

"Only that little bit. It hurts though, as if I might." There was something about the way that Wren listened that reminded Belle of Rumpelstiltskin. He left space for her to fill with her thoughts, and time for her to let them form at the front of her mind. Wren waited as if she, too, had all the time in the world. "After I was with him..." she only hesitated for a heartbeat, expecting a blush that did not come. "It got worse."

"Normal, is he?" Wren frowned deeply, as if it had only just occurred to her to wonder. "In the trousers?"

"I think so!" Wide-eyed, not sure whether to laugh or scold, Belle stared at her. "I've only seen one other and he wasn't... um." She did blush, then, remembering how Gaston had drawn himself up tall, as if wounded dignity could take the place of cloth and armour in front of all those mocking stares. "He wasn't in any fit state to provide a comparison."

"Well then." Wren tried to shrug, her rounded shoulders too immobile to do more than twitch. "No harm in keeping a husband waiting a while 'til you know what's what. Pain's a friend, keeps us out of harm's way. Only a little pain, mind you. You come to Wren if there's blood, now, or if you've fever." She took another of those deep, steadying breaths. "Or go to clucking Martha Carter if old Wren's past helping."

They drank their tea for a while, until a log crumbled in the grate and Belle blinked herself out of another empty daze. Wren was watching her, the rocking chair gone still. "Have you ever seen him so angry with Odstone before?" she asked, calm in the knowledge that she would have to leave here, leave the comfort of Wren's presence and face the world outside again. "Does no-one stand up to him? Tell him the things that are wrong here?"

"His way makes it easy," Wren said, with a note of warning in her voice. "Let him deal with the likes of Dacey Tavish and we don't have to. Easy, see? Too easy. And hard. Too hard." She nodded, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "I should've done more. Against him and for him. I bided my time and now there's none left to me. I'm sorry for it."

"What can _I_ do?" Belle gestured weakly towards the door, the town beyond it. "What _good_ can I do? I'm not afraid of men like Tavish because I don't _have_ to be. Rumpelstiltskin believes that a wife is... is a treasure. It has nothing to do with love. From the start he..." She looked at her ring, warm and red in the gentle firelight. "He does know how to be kind." And how terrible it was that it felt like a betrayal of him to say so to anyone else. "I don't know why he treats people the way he does. I don't know why he's opposed to me being of _use_ here."

They were all the wrong words. She had wanted to seek Wren's counsel about Odstone, about Tavish and Lulie, and instead spoke about herself. Her own fears, her own doubts. "I never wanted a husband to rule me," she said, looking up into Wren's filmy eyes. "I didn't even want a husband at all." She thought again of Gaston, pasty and naked in the square and proud to the last. Proud above all. Did he care for the people who worked his land, fed his table? Did he care if they beat their wives or lost their sons? "I thought it was enough that I helped my people, my _father's_ people, my kingdom, but it's not enough. I'm here now, and I want to do some good."

"And what does Belle want for Belle's sake, when all's said and done?"

"What?" Belle blinked at Wren, shaking her head apologetically. "I told you..."

"Your husband's outside my cottage again," Wren interrupted, nodding towards the little window. "He guards what's his. Always has."

Thrown by Wren's question, Belle quickly drank down the rest of the tea. It had grown cold. She didn't want to leave, even if Rumpelstiltskin was outside and waiting for her, fretting. There suddenly seemed too much left unsaid; questions that she still had not the words for, and too little time left to find them.

"I do want love," she said, carrying their empty cups to the crowded table to spare Wren the chore of rising. She looked so tired. "I didn't know that I did, but I do." At Wren's impassive nod, she could only add, "His."

With tears misting her eyes, Wren nodded and smiled.


	85. Muddying the Waters

Belle did not doubt Wren's intuition about Rumpelstiltskin's comings and goings, so it surprised her to step outside the cottage and see no sign of him at all. She looked up and down the street, seeing only the busy life of an Odstone market day. Then, suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin _was_ there, fading into sight at the foot of the cottage steps, apparently having paced up and down until she emerged. She could make out the trails of his footsteps in the mud. He looked more agitated than ever, his expression strained and his eyes hard.

"Hardly the time for _visiting_ ," he said, peevishly, catching Belle by the arm at the gate and looking around - everywhere but at her. "D'you think?"

Thinking of Wren's kindness, of the medicine, of her own tears and the arms that had comforted her, Belle glared at him.

"No, I don't. Wren doesn't _have_ much time. If I can do nothing else, I can _visit_ a dying woman who's been a friend to me."

Startled into looking at her, Rumpelstiltskin blinked.

"Very well," he said, very deliberately turning his back on Wren's cottage. "What did you learn?" He began walking towards the crossroads, his hand still on Belle's arm. She shook him loose, refusing to be dragged along.

"You weren't watching?" Belle could not quite forgive him for the snappish greeting, nor for his disregard for Wren. "If you can be invisible..."

"I can be anything." The people in the street made way for them, as uncertain of their master's mood as was Belle herself. "I can't be _everywhere_. I was looking at the other wells." Rumpelstiltskin grimaced, indicating that his search had proved unhelpful. "Checking." He said the word through clenched teeth, spearing a man with a deadly look for darting out of their way.

"I'm very tired," Belle said, quickening her pace towards the corner. She _was_ tired, too. Her weeping had left her wrung out, her head aching even more than before. "I want to go home."

Her words, or perhaps her unusually sullen tone, drew Rumpelstiltskin with her in silence to the town gate. He helped her into the carriage without a word, slamming the door behind him when he joined her inside.

"If the task taxed you, I'll not ask again for your help," he said, seating himself opposite her and adopting a sprawling, careless posture that did not for one moment ring true. His remark was far from apologetic, his voice a barely-concealed taunt. It was _childish_.

"It's not the _task_ that taxes me," Belle told him, hotly. "I told you what's the matter with me. It's not my fault that you wouldn't listen. And you didn't _ask_." She turned her face away before he had time to react, determined not to cry again. Tears in Wren's arms were one thing. Tears in response to taunts were another. Besides, if all they could do was snap and gripe at one another, it was better to say nothing at all.

"It's Wren, isn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin demanded, not taking her hint to leave things alone until tempers cooled. "That old woman has filled your head with fancies and fears! She knows nothing of magic!"

 _Good for her,_ Belle thought. She managed not to say it aloud.

"What did you learn?" He leaned forward, impatient, incredulous at her silence. "Where did he get the coin?"

"He said that it was a gift of thanks when he returned Queen Regina's fan to her. She dropped it." Conscious that she sounded like a child herself, sulky and unpleasant, Belle nevertheless forced herself to look at him; to see his reaction. She was in time to see Rumpelstiltskin's eyes widen in shock. "She told you that she'd tested their loyalty. You knew she'd been among them."

"Take Regina at her word _at your peril_ ," Rumpelstiltskin said, jabbing a finger towards her. "Where did _she_ get it?"

"Tavish didn't know or care. He didn't know it wasn't a real reward. Why should he?" Belle kept to herself the suspicion that Regina had been mocking the man with his fool's gold. She had no proof of that.

"And to what punishment did you sentence the man who beats his wife, hmm?" Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward still further, beckoning for the information.

"A cell," Belle told him, trying to keep what remained of her composure. "Until he's sober. Next market day we'll decide what to do with him."

"Well, that's something I suppose," Rumpelstiltskin said, throwing himself back in the seat and spreading himself again, feigning that elegant ease again. "A dry cell is a torture for a drinking man. Assuming it doesn't kill him, what will you do? Send him home to his wife and ask him nicely not to strike her again?"

In truth, Belle preferred his cool amusement at her expense to the explosion of rage that she had been expecting about Regina and the gold coin. Preferred it, but did not _like_ it one little bit.

"It's not for me to decide his fate," she answered, and went back to looking out of the window. "I'll try to make sure that his wife and daughters are safe, instead."

"I can still turn him into a snail. Something furry for your pretty cat to hunt?"

"No!"

"Please yourself." Folding his arms, Rumpelstiltskin followed her example and avoided looking at her for the rest of the journey.

Belle longed to rub at her temples, to try to ease the throb there, but stubborn pride kept her perfectly still until the carriage drew to a halt. When she leaned to open the door, Rumpelstiltskin blocked her hand with his own. It was a far gentler touch than the ones in town, so she looked at his face, hoping to see something kinder there too.

"You persuaded the man to say what I would have torn from his lips," he said, though his voice lacked the gentleness of the hand that grasped hers. His expression was a terrible frown. "He may say more, remember more. Thank you."

Nodding, unable to find equally gracious words, Belle waited in silence for him to lift her down from the carriage. He held her by the waist when he had set her carefully upon her feet, and she could see that his foul mood was giving way to misery and regret. As was hers. She could not quite bring herself to offer him a kiss, all the same, and Rumpelstiltskin did not try to claim one.

Belle wished that she had asked Wren for a cure for her aching head. No doubt Rumpelstiltskin could brush it aside with magic, or dose her with something from one of his bottles, but if there was a child would it be harmed by magic or medicine? What should she do, if these pains were trying to guide her? Retire to her bed and behave like some feeble, ailing creature in a story book, wasting away in lonely luxury while she waited to be certain? Watch her husband shrink away from her strangeness, her frailty? Die of boredom or worry herself sick?

She took slow, deep breaths of the spring air as she walked up the long gravel path. To either side, snow was melting and slipping, revealing a fantastical formal garden beneath. What little of it peeked out was as green as if the snow had never been, and looked in no need of tending. Hedges appeared to be crisply clipped, the garden impossibly tidy after a harsh winter. It could not have been there before Rumpelstiltskin made the castle his own, she thought, and caught a glimpse of a rosebush.

He had promised her a rose garden.

"I don't mean to be quarrelsome," she managed, as the castle's great doors swung open to welcome them. "I do want to help you."

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin nodded, trying and failing to keep his expression composed. They unfastened their cloaks in another uneasy silence, draping them side by side across the table. "I'm no more used to having an ally than to having a wife," he said, trailing his fingertips through the fur trim of his cloak, watching with a deeply furrowed brow. Belle hated to be the cause of those deep-set lines, that unhappy expression, but what could she do to ease it? Stop speaking the truth, stop speaking her heart to him? Stop being _Belle_?

No.

"Regina was right, you know. They are loyal to you. They're frightened because something went wrong, but now they've seen why. Understanding will make them less afraid."

"And would you tell them about Randall, too?" This time he challenged her without resentment, curious.

"I'd be afraid of what they'd do," Belle admitted, and remembered her idea of finding a place for Lulie and her family at The Apiary. It seemed almost cruel, now, to offer the girl and her mother that while they mourned their dead. While Flora was saved and Edward nursed at her breast and Randall... Randall faced no justice for his actions at all, because the Dark One's wife had thought it better than leaving him to the Dark One's vengeance. "What law is there for this? What punishment is there for magic doing something it wasn't supposed to do?"

She had felt so fired up, in Odstone; so full of courage on behalf of others. Certain that she must act, even if she could not be sure what was the best thing to do. Now her head pounded and she felt sick, and there was only doubt.

"Magic will exact a fair price, I daresay," Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. "Might be kinder to let the fathers and mothers of Odstone finish it with pitchforks or a length of rope."

Belle shook her head. She had no answer, no _right_ answer except that Rumpelstiltskin's casual cruelty was _wrong_. He would enjoy seeing Randall swing, no doubt; this man who all but broke in her arms and trembled at her slightest kindness. Would Flora swing beside him, then? Would Rumpelstiltskin watch the mob kill baby Edward, after he'd cradled the boy so tenderly? "Not so easy, is it? Justice?"

It was only a dull hurt, that barb, on top of so much else. Belle simply turned away and strode through the great room, her head held high. She quickened her step and scurried when she came to the kitchen stairs, her hand against the wall to steady herself in the dizzying rush of her descent. She was out of breath by the time she reached the bottom.

The kitchen fire had gone out. In her anxious search for the cat, earlier, she must have forgotten all about it! Or had it already gone out that morning, and the mother cat moved her kittens because of it? Belle stood and rubbed her temples, wanting more than anything to make herself a pot of tea and sit down with her father's letter - to lose herself for a little while until she could collect her thoughts again.

Blowing out her cheeks, Belle moved the kettle onto the stove top. There was laundry to think about, all folded up neatly in a basket in her bathing room. She ought to rake out the cold ashes before she set a new fire. For the first time, she caught herself wanting to leave it all to the castle's magic and retreat into her books. For the first time since deciding to end the visit to her father, Belle longed to be back there again, in that old life where she knew her place, her purpose and what was expected of her.

It was the first time that she had ached to hear her father's voice, since then, and realising it only made her ache anew.

Belle went to peek in at the cat and her kittens. Other than the pricking up of two tufty grey ears there was no response to her soft 'hello'. Finely chopped liver once more filled the food bowl, this time cooked and in some sort of gravy. The water bowl beside it was fresh and full. Clearly she need not worry about forgetting _that_ duty, and starving her poor cat in this castle that was so empty of mice.

She was worried about what the cat might find for herself out in the kitchen garden, and among the yards and outbuildings beyond. Cats didn't hunt slugs and snails, did they? But frogs and toads... yes, she had seen cats playing with both of those. Would a cat know if it caught something that had once been... some _one_? And would it _care_?

Resting in the doorway, leaning her head against the stone to watch the sleeping animals, Belle saw the cat's ears return to their normal position. There was a faint purr.

"Please try not to eat anybody," she sighed. One of the castle cats at home had left a rat on Lotte's bed, once, missing most of its head. Suppose these took to leaving Belle similar gifts? Rumpelstiltskin would only laugh and let her believe that the prey was some unfortunate hero, some enemy. The thought quite turned her stomach.

Her husband really could be _horrid_. And what did it gain him? He loathed himself for being a monster more often than he celebrated it. He felt unworthy of the least shred of love, or trust, or happiness. He had power, he loved _power_ , but at what cost? She could see the cost, there in his eyes, each and every time he dropped the mask. It was loneliness and sorrow, and _forever_.

Taking down the stone jar that had contained her favourite of the exotic tea leaves, Belle looked sadly at the dust in the bottom of the jar. Of all the supplies not to replenish by magic, it would be her very favourite, and the one that Rumpelstiltskin chose whenever he conjured her a tray; that seemed to be the nature of Rumpelstiltskin's magic. Contrary, playful. Spiteful.

There were plenty of other teas. Belle chose mint to settle her stomach, but delved into a different jar for nettle, and then a third for the imported green leaves that turned a bright emerald when they touched hot water. Together, they smelled grassy and fresh in the teapot, the steam alone soothing to her head and her stomach. She smiled at the tiny triumph and fetched herself two of Hadley's pastries from the larder to go with the tea.

Cheered up by the nutty sweetness of the curly pastries and refreshed by the tea, Belle looked over at the cold hearth. It was a huge fireplace, from the days when whole animals would have roasted on spits while fish smoked in the chimney. She really had no need of it, not with the kitchen kept warm by her stove, but the room seemed darker for the want of a hearty fire. The stove did not bring the same good cheer or comfort as flickering flames.

Belle debated with herself for some time, while finishing off the pot of tea. Finally she rose, went to her fireside chair and perched at the edge of it, holding out her hands towards the cold hearth.

"A small fire," she said. "Please?"

At once, and with no fuss, there was a small fire, bright and cheerful. Belle warmed her hands and sighed.

"So you _do_ use my magic." Rumpelstiltskin's voice came from the kitchen doorway. "Good." He sounded pleasantly surprised.

Belle's first thought was to complain that he had startled her. He _always_ startled her when he appeared without the courtesy of approaching footsteps. She bit back those words and turned in the chair until she could see him.

"Sometimes," she said. "Have you come for some tea?" It seemed a forlorn hope, but she had to ask. This was her special place, she had claimed it from the beginning, so she could try to mend their quarrel by making him feel welcome.

Rumpelstiltskin hadn't come for tea, she could see it in his hesitation. He glanced at the table, though, and saw the pot, and nodded uncertainly. Half a peace-offering from each of them ought to be enough, surely?

"Let me," he said, hurriedly, when Belle stood up. He went to the stove, lifting the kettle without troubling himself with a cloth to guard against the heat, and carefully topped up the teapot. Quietly, Belle fetched another cup - his favourite cup, though it matched neither the silver pot nor her own, simple clay cup of the local style.

"Why did you really come?" She smiled as she asked, leaning against the table while Rumpelstiltskin took his place at the head of the table and sat fiddling with an empty cup on its saucer. "You didn't come for tea," she added, confidently, when he hesitated.

"The coin." He gestured to her chest and Belle had to look down, frowning, before she remembered tucking it inside her bodice for safekeeping. She could not have said why, but it had not seemed a good idea to put it among her real coins when its purpose was to deceive. "You have it about your..." he gestured again, flustered. "Person."

"You can fish it out if you like," Belle laughed, charmed as ever by his moments of bashfulness. She scooped her hair back behind her and then stood with her hands on her hips, leaning over so that he could reach. "Can you tell where it is?"

Nodding, taken aback by her teasing, Rumpelstiltskin reached towards her and let his hand drift from her shoulder to her bosom, not quite touching. A moment later, with no hesitation, he placed a fingertip over the coin and gave it a gentle tap.

"Fairy stinks," he said, by way of sheepish explanation.

"It's just iron to me." Belle bent forward a little further and let him dip his fingers beneath the trim of her bodice. She had not buried the coin deeply. He barely needed to touch her to retrieve it. He touched her carefully, all the same, anxious not to offend. "Iron and rust. Do I need to have a bath before you'll come to bed tonight?"

This time, Belle was taken aback herself. When had she grown so forward?! He merely shook his head, as though he'd barely understood the question. She took her own seat, quickly, and poured the tea. Rumpelstiltskin watched her with a strange expression for a few moments, then gave his attention to the coin. He rolled and flipped it between his fingers like a conjurer at the fair, before tossing it gently into the air and making it vanish.

His tension remained. Belle could see it clearly in the line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw; he was troubled, frustrated, and as uncomfortable as Belle felt herself, tiptoeing around making amends. Her forced good cheer and saucy hints had only thrown him into a greater confusion.

"Will you ask Regina about the coin?"

"I shall discover the truth," he said, too lightly. "She'll come running soon enough. Snow White is leading her quite the merry dance."

"You already refused to help her with that," Belle pointed out, drawing her cup towards her and blowing gently on the steaming tea.

"Regina doesn't choose to hear words like 'no'," Rumpelstiltskin said, with a mild sneer. His heart plainly wasn't in it. "Takes after her mother in that regard."

"Are you protecting the Princess Snow?" Belle tilted her head. She still hadn't got the measure of Regina, or of her place in Rumpelstiltskin's life. She had tried her best to leave aside what Rumpelstiltskin had told her about the death of King Leopold, since he had mentioned no proof, but... Belle no more believed that Snow White had committed treason and treachery than Rumpelstiltskin did.

Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted, taking refuge behind a sip of tea.

"I may be... muddying the waters a little," he allowed, with a wiggle of his fingertips that left the scalding hot cup balanced between his palms. The surface of the tea did not even ripple. "Regina mustn't know."

"Of course not." Halfway thrilled that he had confided a secret and half stung that he had felt the need to remind her to keep it close, Belle sat back and contemplated her own cup until the fresh tea was cool enough to drink. A second brewing of the blended leaves had produced a sweeter taste, more warming than soothing. She thought that Wren would like it.

"You draw her out," Rumpelstiltskin said, after a long time. The silence had not been particularly uncomfortable; Belle had felt her shoulders sink lower as it progressed, the worry sighing out of her in his quiet company. "Your presence here... our marriage... it offends her sensibilities. Provokes her."

"I gathered that." Belle did not want to think of Regina's thinly veiled mockery. She had almost _admired_ the empty gesture of giving Tavish his reward in fairy gold, but even that had been cruel; it had led to a terrible situation growing worse, with Rumpelstiltskin unawares when his people desperately needed him. Tavish deserved any woman's scorn, the stars knew, but Odstone had paid with more than gold for Regina's little joke. "Next time she comes I'll keep to my kitchen and talk with my cat," she decided.

"No, no!" Rumpelstiltskin put his cup down quickly and reached towards her, urgently. He stopped short of touching her wrist, his hand resting beside hers on the table. "Provoke her, my love, do. The more you baffle her, upset her understanding, the more her curiosity gnaws away." He snapped his fingertips against his thumb, rapidly, like teeth. "I can make use of that." He saw her expression and made a face that failed to conceal the guilty, hunted look in his eye. "She cannot hurt you. Of all the people in this world, remember that Regina _cannot_ hurt you. Not with her hands, not with magic, not with a weapon."

He thought she was afraid? For herself?

"I'd rather try to be her friend," Belle declared, with just an echo of her earlier petulance. She would not be _used_ , become a pawn in his perpetual games with the world, any more than she would allow Regina to use her to undermine Rumpelstiltskin!

Rumpelstiltskin burst out laughing, somewhere between his true laugh and that infantile giggle.

"That should do it," he said, nodding happily. "Oh yes, that should just about do it."

"It's not funny," she protested, but it was. In a horrible way, it was funny to picture Queen Regina's expression should Belle attempt to be her friend. She had to fight back a smirk of her own, if only from the relief of seeing her husband smile. "I don't want to collect enemies the way you collect dusty old things," she told him, but warmly.

He pouted. It was enough to break loose Belle's laughter, though she did her best to smother it with her hand.

"Those _dusty old things_ are the envy of the world. More than one world, as a matter of fact." Rumpelstiltskin was far better than she at hiding his smirks and smiles, but she could see the telltale twinkle in his eye as he tried to sound so aloof.

Belle poured them each some more tea. Bewildering as it was to be thrust from one extreme of emotion to another, from hurt to laughter, she much preferred his company to his absence. Even if he had only come to retrieve the coin from her, his willingness to pretend otherwise was sweet.

Sweet. The man who spoke easily of having Tavish hunted and killed by the house-cat; the man who urged her to pay out rope until Queen Regina hanged herself with it; the man who called his people _sheep_ for being afraid of him. He would not take tea with his wife unless he wanted to, would he, such a man as that?

"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin said, taking back the cup and setting it neatly into its saucer. "How is your tigress?"

"Spoiled." Belle glanced towards the door that led to the store rooms. "She's made her den in your straw piles. Her dish is never empty and she seems to be able to walk through doors to go where she likes." She wondered if he had enchanted the castle, or the cat.

"Really?" Drumming his fingers either side of the saucer, Rumpelstiltskin's expression betrayed nothing. "I prefer dogs. Loyal. Unquestioning." He thought for a long moment. "Useful."

They did not hurry to drink their tea. Rumpelstiltskin seemed lost in thought, staring at nothing in particular. Even his restless hands were still for once, wrapped around the porcelain cup.

"What will you do with the coin?" Belle ventured, when her tea had gone and she could think of nothing else to do with herself without leaving his side.

"Oh..." Rumpelstiltskin made a vague gesture, then drained his teacup and placed it carefully into the saucer. "I might be able to discover which fairy made it. Perhaps."

"And which made the magic that hurts you?"

"Well, that's the thing." As twitchy as ever when fairies were the subject, Rumpelstiltskin shifted in his chair, grimacing. "Even the worst of them wouldn't fashion something to be used for harm. Not _directly_. They stand by and see harm done, but they cannot... a fairy cannot do harm and still _be_ a fairy, do you see?"

"But it _is_ fairy magic."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Ask a fairy then," Belle suggested, shrugging her shoulders. "I would." Rumpelstiltskin stared at her until she began to squirm a bit. "Well... if someone wanted to know about _your_ magic they'd come and ask you, wouldn't they?"

"For all the good it would do them."

Belle thought again of her grey cat bringing her something limp and furry from the gardens, and swallowed her fresh revulsion. How many unwanted visitors had ended up living out their days in a different shape? Did Rumpelstiltskin stretch those days to an eternity, or was there something of mercy in the shortness of a snail's lifetime?

"All right," she conceded, "but it's still a good idea to ask a fairy about their magic."

It was plainly not an idea that made her husband a happy man. Belle watched his expressions shift, doubt struggling with distaste and annoyance.

"Yes it is," he said, finally, and it sounded more like accusation than agreement. "Bloody fairies," he muttered, pushing his cup and saucer away hard as he rose. The cup tipped over and rolled, and Belle only just caught it before it dropped from the edge of the table. "Meddlers, all of them. Do-gooders, all so smug, so _righteous_."

"There are others, in the stories," Belle said, doubtfully. She turned in her chair to watch Rumpelstiltskin pace up and down between the table and the fireplace. "Bad fairies who turn wishes dark. Curse mothers to empty cradles, princesses to never rest. What about those?"

"Most of them were me," Rumpelstiltskin said, pointing at himself with both hands and a grand flourish. "And believe you me, I don't appreciate being taken for a _fairy_ , even when the tale is told fourth-hand by people who weren't there."

Oh dear, now he was becoming agitated again! Belle got up, intercepting him the next time his pacing brought him to the back of her chair. Blocking his path, she looked up at his face.

"I've never once mistaken you for a fairy," she told him, solemnly.

"I should hope not!" Her words had amused him; she could see the light of laughter in his eyes, the settling of his hackles. "Say what you like about my magic, but I'm honest about the price."

"Yes." Belle took his hands, right then left. "You are."

Agreeing with him, appeasing him, appeared to disconcert him far more than her quarrelling had. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, awkwardly, left with no target for his temper.

"Well then," he said, mustering his dignity with a visible effort. "We'll speak no more of fairies, madam."

"As you wish, husband." For just a moment she managed to retain her careful solemnity, and then she laughed, just as Rumpelstiltskin made a grab for her waist and endeavoured to tickle her beneath the ribs. "For today!"

He tickled her until she twisted around, putting her back to him and trying to defend herself by doubling forwards. Then he relented and drew her against his body, arms coming about her as she straightened, panting from the laughter. He squeezed her tightly.

"Am I truly welcome in your bed tonight?" Rumpelstiltskin's voice could be so warm, so soft; so very different to the sneering, jeering creature who had baited her in the carriage. Belle closed her eyes and savoured it. "After today?"

"Of course you are." She followed the shape of his arms with her hands, until her own arms were crossed in front of her, clasping his. "Every night."

"Sweet Belle." There was a soft kiss, just above her ear. "You're too much temptation." Wistful, Rumpelstiltskin made to release her, loosening his arms. Belle held on to them as tightly as she could. "Rest and be well."

"My hands don't ache," she told him, hardly pleading at all. "My lips." She caught her breath, then, hearing herself; felt ashamed of herself and then chased the thought away as she might chase a cobweb with her broom. Seducing her husband was her right, and Rumpelstiltskin wanted her to speak of their love as freely and as wickedly as he did. Of the things they did together, and of how they felt. Of her desires, above all. "I want to be with you, even while I'm... I'm resting. I'll put up my hair with ribbons for you." Slowly, she slid her palms along his forearms until her hands were covering his, bare skin to bare skin. His felt dry, and warmer than her own. "I'll bathe with rose petals and oil so that my skin is soft and sweet when you suck on my breast. I'll kiss you everywhere until you come, then kiss you more. I'll do whatever you show me, to make you happy. I want to take you in my mouth again because you liked it so." Her voice tailed off, her breath and her nerve failing her at the same time. Her own words had left her heart racing!

Rumpelstiltskin had held his breath while she spoke. Now he let it out, a soft sigh against her hair, and his next breath was shallow, almost a gulp. "Temptress," he whispered. "I'll never get any work done."

"You've been working for two days and two nights," Belle said, patting his hands. "Even you need to rest. If I have to _tempt_ you then so be it. I think I enjoy it." She frowned slightly, a new thought occurring to her while Rumpelstiltskin nuzzled behind her ear. "Anyway, I think you just sit there spinning all night, not doing any work at all."

His laughter gusted against her cheek, softer even than his voice.

"My work is one part magic, nine parts thinking, treasure. And you're right, I can think as well beside you as at my wheel. Once I'm _sated_." He bumped his thighs against her buttocks, making her giggle. "Will I be sated, sweet? Will you slay the beast?"

"I'll try my best," Belle promised, still laughing. When Rumpelstiltskin let her go, Belle turned and slipped her hands behind his neck. She had succeeded in cheering him up, at least, and the soft look of love was back in his eyes; stronger than all the worry and ill-temper of the day. Gingerly, rising on her tiptoes, she touched her lips to his, unable to tear her gaze away even when the nearness made his face a blur. As she settled back onto her heels. "We can quarrel and still be friends, then?"

"Friends?" He looked, for just one moment, as if he did not fully understand the word. Then he blinked, twice, and nodded. "If you can love a monster, my dear, I can certainly love a scold." Rumpelstiltskin's voice faded to a whisper by the end of that, and his gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips. He cleared his throat, caught himself in that longing stare, and took a half step back. Away from temptation, Belle presumed. "I did listen," he said, nervously. "To what you said about your... troubles." He made a feeble gesture towards her midsection. "Never think that I don't listen."

Belle bowed her head, the hurt of it still too fresh; the shame of scolding him with it in the carriage fresher still.

"I only wanted to know that..." Belle stopped herself so that she could close her eyes tightly, and _think_ before she spoke of it again. "That if we do make a child, they'll be loved." And, because she could not leave it there, half a truth and so a lie, she forced herself to say the rest of it. The selfish part of it. "That you wouldn't let me die as my mother did, or as Wren's mother did."

Thank goodness she had spent her tears with Wren, or they would have come now in a flood and frightened Rumpelstiltskin back to his turret! As it was, only the reedy strain in her voice betrayed her.

"...Belle." Rumpelstiltskin lifted her chin with his forefinger. "Yes, of course." The furrows in his brow were back, but this time softened by his eyes. Those strange eyes could say so much. "If we had a child they would be loved. I would protect you. Is that what you've been fretting about?"

Nodding, rubbing her nose quickly to keep herself from sniffing, Belle dug beneath her belt for a handkerchief and found none. In a moment, with a dainty flourish and a flap of unfolding cloth, Rumpelstiltskin proffered the one that she had embroidered for him. She took it, dabbing sheepishly at her eyes before smoothing it out and offering it back, only very slightly damp at one corner.

"Is there magic in tears?" she asked, seeing how he studied the little patch of wetness on the silk. "There should be."

"Of course there is." Rumpelstiltskin tucked the handkerchief away beneath his waistcoat, and Belle flushed to see that he put it near to his heart. "Especially those that are never spent freely."

Belle laughed again, more in relief than in amusement.

"Is that why you disliked Lotte so? For spending tears too freely?"

"For abandoning you to face me alone. Disloyal. False friend. I won't have it. If you choose a maid to come here, she must be devoted to you above all." He had wagged a finger in front of her face as he said it. Now it drooped in the grip of an afterthought. "And a lot less soggy."

"I won't employ anyone soggy," Belle promised, and slipped her arms around his neck to hug him. Rumpelstiltskin clasped her, carefully at first, then he rested his cheek against her hair and embraced her tightly until Belle pulled back. Just far enough to offer him a kiss, this one a lingering, loving promise:

_Later._


	86. Seduction

Stories and songs spoke often of how a prince might woo a princess. They had little to say on the subject of wives seducing their own husbands.

Belle found herself at a loss as she readied herself to keep her promise. There had been little of seduction about her marriage, and even less of wooing; she and Rumpelstiltskin had discovered an enjoyment of one another by the mere willingness to try. She knew, in theory, about enhancing her beauty with clothing, with jewels, with rouge and perfumes, but she also recalled how Rumpelstiltskin had peered past all of Lotte's handiwork, before the King's feast. It had disconcerted him to find his wife so changed. He liked her just as she was. He had offered her jewels and gowns, but had only ever asked that she wear ribbons in her hair for his sake. Perhaps she ought not change herself too much?

Chewing gently at her bottom lip, Belle placed a chair before her long mirror and sat there trying different styles with her hair. Now that she could see what she was about, she could achieve a more intricate weave of plaits and ribbons. Tonight, though, she did not need to tempt Rumpelstiltskin to come and join her. She had felt the eagerness in his parting kiss; her words had been enough temptation. No, tonight she would not resort to powder and paint, to disguises. She wove a careful braid down from the crown of her head, catching it at the nape of her neck with one wide, silk ribbon in a cream that almost matched her favourite nightdress. After a little hesitation, she left the ponytail hanging loose as it was. He had suggested that she find other uses for her ribbons besides her hair, hadn't he?

She needed to dig deep into her travelling chest to bring out the underwear that belonged with her wedding dress. It was so horribly restrictive that she had never worn it again, the boned corset which had been so carefully made to lift her bosoms to the neckline of the white dress.

Rumpelstiltskin had rescued her from the tightly laced gown, on their wedding night, but the corset laced at the front. Belle mused, as she laid it out upon the bed. What would have happened that night if she had needed his help with this also? Would he have been so resolved not to enjoy her had he _seen_ her, undressed her with his own hands? Would he have seduced her, then, and taught her pleasure to wash away all her fears? Would she have flinched, forbidden him, had he tried?

It would have been nice, she thought as she drew her bath, to be kissed before she gave herself up to consummation. It was her first pang of true regret for that night, on her own behalf, and it felt strange alongside the sweet, persistent memory of Rumpelstiltskin kissing her palm as he took her. _He_ had regretted it, had told her as much when they returned to the inn, but Belle had only been sorry for Rumpelstiltskin's self-loathing. Until now.

She took her time in bathing, the water softly fragrant with the white rose petals that appeared at her whispered request. That led her to remember her fireside bath with Rumpelstiltskin, red rose petals clinging to his skin, and the memory filled her with longing. He'd made love to her afterwards, after rubbing healing oil all over her skin, and that had been _wonderful_... Belle caught herself, hand creeping to the inside of her thigh to answer the welcome throb between her legs. She let her head fall back against the bathtub, and sighed. The pain in her back and belly had subsided and she did not want to invite it back again for the sake of indulging herself. Rumpelstiltskin would like it if she did, though. He'd like to hear about her pleasure, about how she touched herself and the memories that had given rise to the urge.

Dry-mouthed, Belle stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself up in towels, hugging herself. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin's anticipation was as forceful as her own, and hoped as well that she would be able to set selfish desires aside when he came to her. Tonight was for his pleasure, to show him that he need not hide away from her when she declared herself untouchable.

The problem was, she very much wanted to be touched.

Binding herself up in the tight corset dampened her desires a little. It made her appear to have twice as much of a bust as she actually possessed, and so she would wear it and tease Rumpelstiltskin with it, but before she had even finished lacing it she was looking forward to its removal. Below, she wore the silk stockings and crisp cotton drawers that she had worn beneath her wedding gown. The stockings were impractical and the drawers too fussy - like the rest of the outfit, they had seen no use since she removed them on her wedding night. She chose them because the drawers tied with ribbons, both at the waist and above the knee, hiding away her garters. For tonight, Belle used nothing but two more lengths of ribbon to tie her stockings up, making sure that each was tied into a large and frivolous bow. They needed to be tight to keep from slipping, but Belle suspected that they would not last for very long once Rumpelstiltskin discovered them.

Lastly, she shrugged into her spider-silk robe and, fastening it, stepped into the matching slippers. Feeling too foolish to look at herself in the mirror, Belle toured the room instead. She turned back the bedclothes, invitingly, and plumped up all of the pillows before building them into a slope against the headboard. She closed the tapestry drapes on the window side of the bed and halfway across the door side, then went to close the curtains at the window. Candles came alight all around the room, but Belle went around and snuffed many of them, leaving only the gentlest light.

Was that enough seduction? Looking down at herself, Belle wondered if she ought to have tried another magical dress - perhaps tried to recreate the one that Rumpelstiltskin had conjured for her on the night of King George's feast. He had been full of passion for her, dressed like that, and circumstances had conspired to keep them from enjoying their finery later, in the privacy of her chambers.

Rumpelstiltskin had looked so... dashing... in that outrageous outfit of gold and cream. Belle sat in her fireside chair and closed her eyes so that she could recall the sight better. It made her smile. So often, when he chose to show off, Rumpelstiltskin was in a harsh mood. That night, when he conjured them finery to rival that of any king and queen, his playfulness had been... seduction? She blinked and stared into the fire. Had it been? Oh, he had been showing off to irritate King George, no doubt of that, but the promise of _later_ had been in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes, hadn't it?

Had he planned ahead, as Belle had tonight? Had he planned how to touch her, how to enjoy her?

The thought left her face warm and her heart pounding, the satisfaction at the idea far outweighing her self-consciousness. What would he have done?

Self-consciousness tended to tame her imagination when it came to their love play. It _need_ not, she knew that, for Rumpelstiltskin delighted in her every discovery; he revelled in her wantonness, her willingness. As cautious as he was about making demands of her, Belle had never felt that he hesitated out of anything other than a tender concern for her; he would meet her passions, satisfy her every whim, and think no less of her for anything she desired.

She desired _him_. Anything and everything, with _him_ , and the happy certainty that Rumpelstiltskin felt likewise. He did, she was certain of that. His passion, his lust, his tenderness - it was all for her alone. And his love.

Desire warmed her now, with soft throbs that took their time from her heartbeat. Belle could not be still, sitting or standing; having prepared herself, she was impatient for Rumpelstiltskin to join her. Sundown, she'd told him, anticipating his impatience but not her own. The pangs of bodily desire had been so strikingly absent, these past several days. It unsettled her now, reminding her of her confusion when she had first felt the heavy want between her thighs, and this restless dissatisfaction when it went unanswered. She felt too warm, too caught up in anticipation to think of anything else. And all because she had dressed herself to entice her husband!

Belle opened the curtain a little way, gazing beyond the castle's outer walls to the mountains and the reddening sky. Almost sunset, yet it seemed far too long to wait. For all that she had promised Rumpelstiltskin kisses, she most wanted to put her arms around him and squeeze him close to her. And, yes, to feel him inside her; that delicious sense of belonging that only filled her when they were joined. Shivering, though the room was warm, Belle let the curtain fall and wandered back to the bed. Leaning against the end post nearest the door, she surveyed her preparations once more.

What would Rumpelstiltskin make of it all? Sometimes - and most especially today, with his dark mood and his mockery - he made her certainties dissolve away. She felt a child again, when that happened; felt all at sea in a world where the horizons stretched too far, and everything seemed just out of her reach. She was afraid of doing everything wrong and of not even understanding _how_ she had done wrong. Did he indulge her, here, yet think her foolishly naïve?

He already thought her so for suspecting that a child was on the way. She had seen the cracks in his fond indulgence plainly enough when she mentioned _that_.

"Belle?"

She straightened at once, turning sharply. It was not yet sundown, but Rumpelstiltskin stood at her door. He had made efforts of his own, Belle saw. He had oiled his hair, left off his customary high collars and wore only the wine-red shirt over tight brown breeches and knee-high black boots. While she took in the sight of him, Rumpelstiltskin grew as self-conscious as Belle felt, lowering his gaze and controlling his expression to the point where the very stillness of his face betrayed him.

"You can come in." Belle leaned back against the bedpost, hands behind her and grasping the wood. It quickened her breathing just to watch him approach, to see how he hesitated before reaching for her waist.

"You looked sad. Standing there." It was almost a question. Belle had no answer for him, but smirked at herself.

"I was _trying_ to look alluring," she admitted, straightening her back and drawing back her shoulders, lifting her chin. Rumpelstiltskin glanced down at her attire, then watched her eyes once again.

"Always that," he said, tilting his head. "Always beautiful." His slow smirk grew to match hers, his hands tightening at her waist, where the corset widened to accommodate her hips. "But it flatters you, there's no denying that." Uncertain, moving slowly, he tried a kiss. Belle closed her eyes, trying to think of nothing but this moment - of kind words and flattery, and of being desired. Rumpelstiltskin's breathing was as unsteady as her own. The kiss was shallow and sweet.

Belle freed her hands from behind her back and rested them against Rumpelstiltskin's chest, instead. The warmth of another body still startled her senses, as familiar as it had become to touch him. Silk was cool to the touch but soon warmed when trapped between palm and chest. She could feel his heartbeat, too, skipping away madly. If her presence or her touch quickened it, it would be difficult to tell.

"What are you wearing under there?" Rumpelstiltskin drew her away from the bedpost, running his hands across her back and then down, following the shape of the whalebone. He looked intrigued and amused, and not one bit of it at Belle's expense. She relaxed slightly, caressing his arms while his hands found out the shape of the corset and explored how it nipped her at the waist. "Armour," he decided, confidently. They laughed together, Belle standing on her tiptoes to put her arms about his neck.

"That's what it felt like when I wore it before," she told him, managing to inject a certain tone of mystery into the truth. "If the Duchess had her way there would have been a chastity belt as well, and she would have kept the key."

"Ah." His hands cupped her buttocks, slipping slightly against the spider silk. "Your wedding outfit."

"I can breathe," she smiled, feeling his fingertips travel slowly down her spine. "Without the heavy dress on top of it." Recalling the direction of her own thoughts, earlier, Belle concealed her embarrassed grin by keeping her cheek pressed against his. "You never got the chance to see it. You turned your back."

She felt the shiver run through him, just before he drew her close and held her there against his body. Whalebone did not make it a comfortable embrace, but it was a comforting one.

"You married a fool."

"You did what you thought was best. You were kind. You didn't have to be kind." It was unimaginable, in his arms, that he could have been selfish or cruel instead - that he might have hurt her and frightened her, claiming what was his. "That's how I knew you weren't a monster," she said, squeezing him tightly about the neck before stepping back. She could go only as far as the bedpost - barely a step. Rumpelstiltskin did not let her go. "You thought of me."

He nodded, not even trying to grope for words. Not blinking. His eyes seemed yellow in the failing light. Belle touched his cheek, then his lips, earning a tiny kiss against her fingertips. "I can't imagine if we hadn't. Can you? I can't imagine how lonely it would be."

Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin had no need to imagine it. He gave her one of his empty smiles and shook his head.

"Is that why you lured me here tonight? Loneliness?"

"I suppose it is." Belle squeezed his hands. "A little bit. I'm not sure. I've never seduced anybody before."

"Not on purpose, perhaps." His smile became broader, full of mischief, and he took note of the bed, then of the miserly candlelight, and lastly of Belle herself. He looked her over, head to toes, smiling the whole while and rubbing the back of her hands with his thumbs. "You have my undivided attention, mistress."

"Good," Belle said, primly. "You have to find all my ribbons."

"Ah." Rumpelstiltskin's face lit up at the prospect. It wasn't a smile, some vague gesture that haunted his lips, but his whole face and his eyes with it, brightening suddenly. Relieved that he liked her half-planned game, Belle slipped past him to close the door. He watched her go - she could feel it, a tightening between her shoulder blades and a tingle up and down her spine that gave birth to an enjoyable shiver.

How frightened would she have been if he had stared at her that way on their wedding night?

Turning, offering her hand, Belle waited for Rumpelstiltskin to come and take it. Then she led him to the fireside, to the chair. He sat at her nod and was already reaching for her before she lowered herself onto his lap, twisting her body so that she could seek a kiss. This one was a proper greeting, drawn out and full of promise. Without breaking the kiss, Belle drew his hand to the top clasp of her robe. He only toyed with it, circling the copper rosebud with his fingertip until the kiss ended.

They both watched as he opened the clasp, revealing a mere inch more of Belle's bare skin. Carefully, Rumpelstiltskin adjusted his arm across her back, allowing her to turn further towards him and draw up her knees, her feet against the armrest of the chair.

"I've been thinking about our wedding night," she told him. She hadn't meant to say it. The silence and his nearness drew the words out of her, somehow. "Do you think about it?"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, pained. "Of course."

A little fidgeting and Belle was able to rest her head beside his on the chair back, just as she had the first time he had her sit with him beside the fire.

"The other times. Do you think about those? Like when we sat here and you touched me?"

He nodded, his breathing becoming shallow. He truly _did_ enjoy her voice, Belle realised. It wasn't only naughty words that he wanted to coax from her lips, then; he wanted to be teased with these reminiscences. He craved the trust that allowed her to give voice to the things that had, once, been unspeakable. Moved by the realisation, Belle closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to his temple, burying it among his curls. "I do too." She snorted at herself. "Sometimes I can't _stop_ thinking about them."

"Imagine you were trying to complete the most delicate and complex of spells while unable to _stop_ thinking about them," Rumpelstiltskin suggested, only a little playful. "About your skin, your hair. How you taste. How you sigh. Painstaking and costly magic that requires absolute self-mastery unravels in my hands, mistress, because I remember _you_ at the most inconvenient moment possible."

He did not sound altogether unhappy about it. Knowing the nature of his spells, she could not feel remotely sorry about it, either. Belle gave him another kiss, lowering her head this time to meet the top of his cheekbone with her lips.

"I never thought there would be anything that could distract me from a good book," she said. "From a whole library."

She watched him unfasten another of the rosebud catches. This one sat between her breasts, elevated in the firm half-cups of the corset. Rumpelstiltskin folded back the fabric of her robe as far as the next clasp would allow and gazed at what he had revealed. Belle looked, too. Her nipples had already shrunk to tight, dark pink peaks, just visible from above.

"The dressmaker said it would make me look like a woman," she confided, as Rumpelstiltskin ran his fingertips over the rounds of her breasts. Belle's skin responded with goosebumps, spreading from her breasts to her upper arms at the tickling touch.

"As opposed to what?" He sounded mystified and slightly offended on her behalf. Belle giggled.

"I don't know!"

Rumpelstiltskin reached for the next copper clasp, this one at the level of her navel. Belle shifted her weight a little, draping her legs over the arm of the chair so that he would be able to reach the next, and the next. He lingered over each, returning to her breasts to trail his finger down the weave of white ribbon that secured the corset. She closed her eyes and listened to how he breathed - eager anticipation at war with self-control. "I found a ribbon, mistress," he murmured, pushing open the robe just enough to expose the ruched waistband of her drawers. "Tied into a pretty bow." He caught the loops with a fingertip, lifting them.

"I have lots. Ribbons everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"If you steal that one, my drawers will fall down."

"That'd be a shame." Rumpelstiltskin pulled at one loose end of ribbon, delicate with thumb and forefinger. "And what happens when I've found them all?"

"I told you," Belle said, watching him delve beneath her drawers to find where the ribbon of her corset ended in another, smaller bow. "I kiss you all over." The flat of Rumpelstiltskin's hand glided across her belly, finding where the corset stopped and the much finer ribbon dangled over her hidden thatch of curls.

"And then?" Plucking the bow loose, he began to pull the ribbon from the eyelets, two by two, upwards.

"And then take you in my mouth."

"Take what in your mouth, sweet?" His fingernail dipped into her navel before his next tug at the lacing. His voice was pure temptation. Belle did her best to sound unconcerned, matter-of-fact, though the words felt the wrong shape for her tongue.

"Your cock. I'll take your cock in my mouth, and..." She faltered, there, recalling how she had struggled with him the last time. It had made her jaw ache, trying to accommodate him, girth and length, and she'd been so anxious not to hurt him with her teeth. "And try to do better at pleasing you than I did the last time," she concluded, sheepishly. "I don't think I'm very good at this."

But if her heart wasn't in the game of words, actions were a different matter. She could feel the slick desire between her legs, the yearning for a touch. Well, that would excite him, wouldn't it? To see her touch herself while he was forbidden? Growing shy even as she moved her hand to caress his, Belle licked her lips and pushed on downward into her drawers.

Rumpelstiltskin gasped. Only softly, but so near to her face that she could not fail to hear it. Belle brushed her fingertips across her curls, tickling her senses while she listened for Rumpelstiltskin's exhalation. When it came, it was carefully controlled - slow and deliberate. He did not want to startle her, to distract her from what she was doing. Belle could all but _feel_ how very badly he wanted to watch her hand go lower.

Hesitant, Rumpelstiltskin loosened another turn of her lacing, then lifted his hand to her face, touching her lips. Belle kissed his fingertips, hoping that his sense of anticipation was as great as her own. She felt wanton indeed, sprawled across his lap, cradled, half unwrapped and breathing faster as she tried the flat of her hand across her belly. It made her twitch, just as Rumpelstiltskin's hand could; the twitch fed the sting of want, the heat, the wetness between her legs. The prospect of her own fingers made her shudder.

"Go on," he urged in a hoarse whisper, easing her lower with his supporting arm. It left her lying across his lap, held securely so that she could see herself, all the way to where the arm of the chair raised her knees. They could see one another clearly again, then, and Belle waited for her blushes. There was only the heated flush of her excitement, and Rumpelstiltskin's longing gaze. He wanted them _both_ to watch her hand at work. "What can those dainty fingers do, hmm?"

It was only when she curled those fingers inward, allowing her fingertips to catch the slippery place, that Belle realised how little she _knew_ of what her dainty fingers could do for her. It was to Rumpelstiltskin's credit, she supposed, that she had felt so little need of her own touch - that when she yearned, he gave her satisfaction until she yearned no longer. He would be flattered if she told him that, but Belle felt too breathless to speak at all. She reached deeper between her thighs, sliding two fingers alongside the nub of tender flesh, and heard herself moan. Heard Rumpelstiltskin swallow, breathing through his mouth, but softly as if he feared to distract her from her pursuit.

Belle feared that she would have little enough to show him. That first caress had lanced her through with fire, tightening her, readying her. The mere thought of his touch might be enough; a few strokes of her fingers would send her into abandon. For Rumpelstiltskin's sake, she did not want to hurry.

He too seemed to think better of provoking her with a touch. His right hand drew her ribbon loose from another pair of eyelets, this one high enough up her ribs to give her more space to fill her lungs. He hesitated with his hand over her bosoms in their provocative half-shells of satin, as Belle took an appreciative deep breath, but he did not touch her.

Their eyes met. Rumpelstiltskin tried to smile, to give her a touch of his habitual insouciance, but he was as entranced as she.

"I thought about you while I dressed," she said, hushed and wondering. "So close, just from thinking about you. Making myself ready for you." The words earned her a shiver that took Rumpelstiltskin from head to toe. He blinked, slowly, and touched her lips again. Belle kissed his fingertips again, and pushed her own deeper between her legs. She wanted them inside her. No - she tilted her head back and tried not to laugh aloud - she wanted _him_ inside her, and two fingers were a poor substitute for clinging to her husband while he took her. They were a temptation, anyway. She clenched her teeth and kept her fingers outside. She circled her entrance, delicately, and had to bite her lip to keep silent.

"Treasure." Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin ran his hand down her arm, stopping where her drawers hung open, the white cloth covering her hand and wrist. "If I could bottle your beauty, I'd be able to buy the world." His strained voice had given way to a quiet wonder, warm and fond. "Show an old monster how beautiful you are when you come?"

Belle could not have refused him for anything; not for shame, not for modesty, not for shyness, nor fear of being thought silly or being seen in that state of disarray. She curled her toes, let her head fall back and let her hand go where she wanted it the most; the thumb over the silken nub and two fingertips dipping inside herself. She barely had to move her hand at all, then; the embers caught, flared white hot and shook her soundlessly where she lay, while Rumpelstiltskin watched it all and found it _beautiful_.

It took her but a moment to catch her breath again, to blink her eyes clear and look at him again. Lost for words, he helped her to right herself on his knee and kissed her, greedily; first her lips, then her neck, while his hand pulled hard at the last few turns of the ribbon that secured her bodice. It fell away from her, heavy, the ends of the ribbon whipping at her skin as Rumpelstiltskin claimed her left breast with his right hand and squeezed it, hard. The pain sent aftershocks of pleasure through her, stiffening her limbs again until Rumpelstiltskin remembered himself, his strength, his dark nails, and loosened his grip on the soft flesh. Belle thought that there would be bruises from his fingertips - marks of his desire. He had been proud to wear the small scratches inflicted in the throes of her passion, and Belle understood, now. She wanted there to be little dark marks, come the morning, tucked away out of sight. Their secret, their proof, their reminder of this private wonder.

"I want to have you in my mouth," she whispered, the next time he dragged his lips across hers, too quickly for her to indulge in a proper kiss. She wanted to _taste_ him, to _show_ him... Wriggling, struggling, she defeated herself in her own urgency and had to wait until Rumpelstiltskin steadied her before she could turn around. Her corset had slipped down inside the silk robe, her drawers were falling down, but he anticipated her there. While she sat with her back to him, preparing to turn and to kneel before the chair - yes, that would work! - Rumpelstiltskin reached around her and passed the back of his hand down the line of the remaining clasps of her robe, opening them all. Shrugging it away, Belle left the clothing behind her in his lap and stood, turned, snatched at the fabric and threw it aside as carelessly as she would a cleaning rag. Her husband grinned, either at her actions or at her half-mast drawers, and brought himself to the edge of the seat, spreading his knees wide apart.

Belle knelt, gazing up at him. She realised that she was grinning, that she felt like laughing; she could hardly contain her giddy happiness. It _was_ madness, this consuming passion for Rumpelstiltskin, and Belle had never been happier than when she gave herself up to it, utterly. Better yet, she could see it reflected in his eyes. He didn't grin, nor laugh; he looked almost hunted beneath the playful little smirk that answered her bold advances.

Her hands shook, reaching for his belt. Impatient that her own excitement so often worked against her, Belle bent to her task with stubborn determination, forcing her hands to do as she wished; to loosen Rumpelstiltskin's belt, then to untie the leather thongs beneath. He could have seen to it all with another wave of his hand, but a glance upward for reassurance told Belle that he would not. This was a part of it - her impatience, her clumsy hands at his waist. He wanted to watch it all, and to see her inexperience tangle with her passion was pleasing to him. His strange eyes could be quite beautiful, she thought, when they softened with love.

His belt defeated, Belle turned aside the flaps of soft leather to expose his cock. She had imagined it soft and small, ready for her to stir to life, but that had been before she ever thought of touching herself for his enjoyment. His cock was hard, dark, ready for his own pleasuring. Her mouth _watered_ for the want of it, and she bent over him before thought could interfere with this pure, unsullied appetite for her husband.

Burying her face there for a moment, she breathed the scent of leather, of skin, and of Rumpelstiltskin. He exhaled noisily and leaned back in the chair, presenting himself for her convenience. Belle gripped his shaft and kissed it, quickly, clumsy in her haste. Opening her eyes for a moment, she saw that his hand gripped the armrest of the chair, tightly. She smiled and let herself taste the head of his cock, where it was wide and spongy. That made him hiss, that little flash of her tongue. Belle thought of the tiny knob of flesh buried among her folds, so sensitive to any touch that to touch it directly was almost pain. Had she found his matching weakness?

Taking a deep breath, she tried to take him into her mouth. She had felt silly, before, and inadequate to the task. Hearing him moan at her least attempt to please him put paid to that, now. She moved her hand lower, holding him firmly, and lowered her head to encompass as much of him as she could. It brought her lips up against her own hand, and the heat of his cock against her tongue and the roof of her mouth at once. She felt gorged on him, on desire, and suddenly full of words that she could not utter now that her mouth was occupied. Belle moaned, instead, and Rumpelstiltskin twitched in the chair, one foot scuffing against the flagstones as he lost purchase, then carefully kept himself still again.

Full of him, trying to think and unable to do more than _want_ , Belle caressed his cock with her tongue, moving her head to chase the welcome sensation, then drawing back when she felt an uncomfortable catch at the back of her throat. She almost coughed, flinched slightly, and Rumpelstiltskin caressed her hair with a trembling hand.

"Not too much, sweet," he urged, and Belle raised her eyes to meet his, rubbing her lips against the head of his cock as she did so. She could taste his seed, and that was delicious too, there among the skin and leather scents; he leaked, watching her, and she licked, daring to watch him back. Rumpelstiltskin let his head fall back, laughing weakly. "Oh, Belle." Soft, breathless laughter accompanied another caress of her head. Belle had never been more certain of herself, in their loving; had never felt less foolish. She closed her eyes, ducked her head again and let his cock slip into her mouth, deep as she could bear, then out again, careful only that she did not catch at him with her teeth. Again, then again, until she almost managed a rhythm not unlike their gentle fucking. Rumpelstiltskin's hand fell to her shoulder, then fell away, and those weak, incredulous moans went on and on for as long as she gave him her mouth. Lips, tongue, or taking his cock and sucking it as best she could - he moaned at all of it, growing restless in the seat; Belle realised that he was fighting the urge to drive it into her mouth as he drove it between her thighs, and redoubled her effort to take him deeper still, to offer more sensation.

Belle's free hand, her left hand, rubbed at his leg, at his boot. She could not find enough of him, feel enough of him, _taste_ enough of him to sate her appetite, but for Rumpelstiltskin it was enough. He tried to push her away with both hands, trying to twist his body and deprive her of the thickness in her mouth. Belle grabbed at his hips, grasping two great handfuls of his loosened breeches to keep him from denying her, and heard him sob her name as the first of his seed flooded her mouth. The taste reminded her of the sea air, in that timeless moment as he twitched and groaned, hers utterly. Belle refused to surrender, even when she felt that she would drown if she could not swallow; she gave one last, long, lingering suck before she pulled away, gulping, her eyes streaming, and trying not to laugh in the middle of all of it.

Rumpelstiltskin's hand joined hers around his cock, guiding her to milk the last, meagre pulses from him while he sprawled, staring at her with sleepy eyes, and whispered her name with a tiny, helpless shake of his head. _"Belle."_


	87. Ribbons and Bows

Belle could not stop smiling.

With her husband half insensible, she applied herself to the laces of his boots, resting her cheek against his knee while she worked her way downwards. Hook and pull, hook and pull - even the repetition of it tickled her fancy, becoming a game rather than a chore. Rumpelstiltskin stroked her hair, sprawled and unresisting in the chair.

When Belle finally tugged off his right boot and found crimson stockings beneath to match his shirt, she laughed. It was a happy, free, musical sound - unlike any other laugh she could remember giving.

"What's funny?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, struggling with a reluctant tongue.

"Nothing," Belle said, patting his knee as she pushed herself up, turned herself around and settled down to begin on the left bootlace. "I'm happy, that's all."

"Strange girl," he mumbled, and remained silent while she applied her efforts to his other boot. Every now and then, tentative, he fingered her hair or drew her ponytail through his fist before letting it fall, heavy between Belle's bare shoulders.

She would have been chilly, had she not been so near to the fire; bare to the waist and wearing the thinnest of stockings herself, her remaining clothing did little for either modesty or warmth. As it was, Belle enjoyed the sensation of heat upon her skin, and the free movement that came of wearing very little at all. Another smile engulfed her. Would Rumpelstiltskin be more inclined to move with her to warmer quarters if she hinted that she might spend less time with her clothes on?

Dropping his boot beside its mate, Belle turned to face him again. Less sleepy than she had thought, Rumpelstiltskin watched her keenly from the comfort of his careless sprawl. He did not blink.

"What now, my Lady?"

"Ribbons."

"Ah." Rumpelstiltskin touched her cheek, tickling her skin with the tips of his fingers. "A quest."

"An adventure," Belle agreed, kissing his hand. When she stood, she had to use one hand to keep her drawers from falling down. Tied at the leg with their fussy ribbon nestled amidst cascading lace, they would hang about her knees, should she let go, and look ridiculous. Nevertheless, she managed to maintain some dignity, offering Rumpelstiltskin her free hand.

His shirt hung loose about him, maintaining his modesty, but he still looked... what was the word he had used? Debauched. Yes, Rumpelstiltskin looked _debauched_ , going with her to the bed. His hair, which had been so deliberately neat when he came to join her, was now all over the place. His breeches sagged, his belt hung uselessly from a single loop at the back, and the hem of his silk shirt was crumpled. It made a wonderful contrast to his usual appearance, which spoke of danger, of mystery, and of riches beyond imagining.

"Come here," she said, as they reached the side of the bed. Rumpelstiltskin stood still, watching her face intently while she caught up the red silk at the hem and lifted it. He made no protest as she bared him, merely ducking his head and raising his arms to let her pull the shirt off over his head. Belle put her palms flat against his chest, greedy for skin, and only then remembered that her husband was shy about being seen bare. She lifted her gaze, found his eyes, and saw no flinch. Only that mild incredulity again, and that drowsy interest in her equal nakedness.

Belle touched him, ignoring the sensation of her drawers slipping down past her buttocks. Her husband seemed not to lose flesh nor muscle, regardless of his eating habits. Her hands, sliding from his nipples to his shoulders, found firm muscles beneath sparse flesh, as always, his shape pleasing to her eye as well as to her touch. In bed, with little to see, it was the warmth of him that she liked best. Like this, it was the solidity of him, the neatness of his form. The uniqueness of green-grey and scaled skin, as familiar to her fingertips, by now, as her own soft peach flesh.

Kissing him, Belle slid her arms around him and ran her hands all over his back while she tasted him. And he was tasting her, she realised, deep in the kiss; he sought the taste of his seed in her mouth, on her lips, and it excited him to find it there. He grasped her by the buttocks, squeezing them with a grunt of appreciation, so Belle pushed at the leather of his breeches until it yielded, allowing her to do the same to him.

"Take these off," she whispered, her lips still against his, her hands pushing at the leather that only bunched up about his hips at her efforts. "All of it. Then find my ribbons."

Growing coy, as Belle sat herself on the bed to wait for him, Rumpelstiltskin did as she asked. He skinned the breeches down to his knees, letting them fall about his ankles before stepping of of them and flicking them aside with his stockinged toes. A moment later, and not without some nervous haste, he dragged off the knee-high crimson stockings and dropped them atop the leather. Then, naked, he straightened himself and coyness faded into true doubt.

She wanted to take her time, to study every inch of him; to have him turn for her so that she could study the back of him as well. To kiss him everywhere, as she had promised, but to _see_ him while she did so. Instead, not wanting to spoil things, Belle wriggled backwards and stretched herself out, distracting Rumpelstiltskin from his bare flesh with a wanton display of her own. Left leg dangling over the side of the bed, she straightened out the right and waited for him to understand that he was to hunt her ribbons there.

He minded less if she did not stare so, Belle realised, while she watched him grasp her outstretched leg and explore the place where silly frills met the barely-opaque stocking. He found where the lace cuff was pulled tight by the ribbon and loosened it with slow care. He pushed his hand up beneath the cotton, seeking a garter and finding, instead, a ribbon tied tightly about her lower thigh. His lips parted, then he licked them, and then he sought out the big bow at her outer thigh and pulled at the end.

"Found one," he breathed, drawing it out and holding it up for her inspection, draped across his first two fingers. Belle smiled, wiggling her toes. She was uncomfortable, propped up on her elbows and craning to see what Rumpelstiltskin was doing, but she had planned this game. She would see it through. "It isn't attached to anything," he said, the coyness returning as he spoke. He lowered his lashes, not quite looking at her. "May I keep it?"

"You may." It was a pale green ribbon, one that Belle had meant for her hair. But she had ribbons enough to amuse her husband, and gold enough to buy as many ribbons as she could ever want. Rumpelstiltskin smoothed the length of soft satin out very carefully, then wound it once about his middle finger and let it dangle across his palm. Only then did he draw down her stocking, and only then did Belle notice that kneeling upon the flagstones by the hearth had ruined the stocking at the knee. She felt a sad little pang, but reminded herself - not for the first time - that the wedding gown and its accoutrements had been made for a different wedding, and for a husband who likely would never have seen what she wore beneath the full, white skirts. There would be more ribbons; there could be other silk stockings, too.

Belle relaxed herself upon the bedclothes, watching Rumpelstiltskin slip the crumpled stocking from her foot. While she watched what he was doing, rather than gazing at _him_ in his naked glory, he seemed happy enough to be so. Even so, Belle could see so much of him from where she lay. She could not keep her gaze from straying, even when she gave him her other leg and he began again in his quest for bows and ribbons.

From a slight distance, in candlelight, Rumpelstiltskin looked no different to any other man whose skin was a few shades darker than her own. Rubbing at his hip with her bare foot, trying her best to keep her eyes on his quest for her second makeshift garter, Belle tried to remember if she had ever found him ugly. In all truth, she could not remember thinking _anyone_ ugly, regardless of their looks or any deformity. People's faces told a story. Rumpelstiltskin's told the same story whether he was pink-fleshed or scaled and green; his eyes spoke of the same bitter past and the same regrets, whether honey-brown and human, or enlarged and flecked with the colours of the forest.

Awkward as he was with her scrutiny, in his current form, Belle doubted that he would be any less so were he suddenly plain and human again. He had never thought himself worthy of desire, of an admiring stare, had he? It was all sleight of hand, wasn't it? The posturing, the eccentric clothing, the array of voices - one for every type of scorn. All of it to fool the eye, fool _all_ the senses, and keep anyone from seeing that behind it all, Rumpelstiltskin was only a man, imperfect and unique as any other.

Had she shown him, at last, how _much_ she desired him? _Could_ she ever show him how deep the yearning went, when her passion was inflamed? She knew of no words for it. She'd tried with words, before now, and found only fumbling frustration and silence. Words weren't enough, but surely she had _shown_ him, just now? Belle wanted him to know it.

Rumpelstiltskin drew loose the ribbon from her right leg. This one was a deeper green, though it went well with the first. He admired it a moment, smiling, then wound it once around his middle finger with the other ribbon and let it hang there, safe.

Resting her foot against his chest, Belle watched in dreamy thought as he peeled the stocking away, caressing her skin as he went. There was nothing left of her seduction now but her drawers, loose and simply waiting to be pulled off. And the ribbon that tied her hair, of course. Rumpelstiltskin had contented himself with the ribbons that did not belong to any garment, very much to her surprise. He would want the lavish length of ivory silk that finished her ponytail.

To tease him, to shock him, Belle pushed her hand between her legs again. That tense climax beside the fire had finished her for the moment, but a touch was pleasant; her hidden pink places were slippery and hot, gliding against her fingers. Rumpelstiltskin merely stared, her stocking at her ankle and forgotten, his lips parted. He had no thought but of her, of where her fingers were questing; he was her captive, awaiting her pleasure. Quite literally awaiting her pleasure. A few more brushes of her fingertips told Belle that she could not offer him that again, not yet. She felt swollen down there, and full of contentment.

Swallowing, composing himself, Rumpelstiltskin finished taking off her stocking. He stroked the bottom of her foot before he let her lower it, tickling her with fingers and ribbons alike. Belle giggled, squirming, her fingers slipping against her thigh.

What did he see, if she looked at him and saw debauchery?

Without the least warning, Rumpelstiltskin leaned over her and grasped the cotton at her hips, yanking it towards him. Belle gasped, then laughed, leaving it to him to work the garment to her ankles. She felt her hand creep shyly away from her privates, now that he could see everything, but forced herself to leave it resting on her belly, near enough to tantalise him with the possibility.

Careful of his two ribbons, Rumpelstiltskin lowered himself over her, belly to belly, hands beside her head. His hair all but shadowed his face as it fell in a curtain about him; Belle abandoned her teasing touch and reached up, instead, pushing away his hair and holding it there to let the candlelight show her his face. His eyes. As though her gaze was too much, Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, lowering himself to kiss her.

Belle hadn't known how badly she wanted him close until he pressed down like that. She had enjoyed every moment beside the fire, but the opportunity to wrap her bare limbs around his naked body... oh, she _wanted_ it! His kisses were all gentle devotion, so unhurried that Belle began to drowse where she lay; not the smothering fatigue that had accompanied her recent troubles, but deep relaxation giving rise to the deepest contentment. She had to shake herself awake, all the same, and Rumpelstiltskin lifted his head, teasing her with a tiny smile.

"Sleepy?"

She shook her head. "Peaceful. Warm." Even so, she _sounded_ sleepy, and Belle could not blame him for a certain amusement at her expense. She patted his arm, twisting beneath him. "Let's get in, before my feet get cold."

It was still light enough outside that the curtains were surrounded by a halo of orange warmth. With her husband to herself, Belle refused to entertain any shame about luring him to bed so early - especially when he had gone two days and nights sleepless.

Settling against the mound of pillows that she had constructed for him, making one or two adjustments before reaching for Belle, Rumpelstiltskin sighed with enjoyment. Belle pulled the bedclothes with her, up around her shoulders, and sat astride his thighs rather than make herself too comfortable at his side. Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin traced her shape with his hands; shoulders, arms, elbows, waist, hips, buttocks. His gaze roamed as well, to her breasts most of all, and Belle felt her nipples begin to firm with no more provocation than that. He admired them, desired them, and knowing that made his gaze feel like the most generous of caresses.

In her vague plans for seduction, Belle had not given enough thought to her own appetites. She had meant to give without receiving, to _rest_ her body while seeing to it that her husband hadn't the least urge to leave her bed tonight. She should have known, of course, that his passion would feed her own; that his pleasure would thrill her. She should have known that, once aroused, she would want him inside her.

"What's wrong?" Rumpelstiltskin lifted her chin, and Belle realised that she had begun to frown. She shook her head, anxious to reassure him, but at the same time she considered the question. He had fallen for a wife who was _honest_ in his bed.

"Even though I know I should rest," she said, slowly, taking care to say what she thought she meant, "I want to be with you." She placed both hands against his shoulders, resting a little of her weight on him. "Is it the same for you? Like hunger that you can't ignore?"

"Yes." Playful, he tugged her right nipple. "All appetites can be mastered."

Belle nodded, supposing that it must be true.

"Did you want it before we married?" At Rumpelstiltskin's raised eyebrows, she hurried to make her meaning clear. "I mean, is it because _I'm_ here that you've an appetite? If I'd never known you, would I still... burn for this?" She managed to hold his gaze for just long enough to see understanding dawn. Then she looked down at his chest, fixing her gaze there and hoping that she didn't blush.

"It's a long time since I was young and full of fire, love," Rumpelstiltskin told her, with gentle apology. "It's not the same. It's you I burn for." He fingered her jaw, her chin, so gently. "I've not looked at another in... _so_ long." He let out a gusty sigh, saying that; it filled Belle with a sense of those long years - of his unimaginably long life. His weariness. "I'm glad you're here, Belle."

Startled, she forgot about shyness and met his eyes. Blinked. He showed her a weary smile to match his tone of voice, and brushed a stray lock of hair back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

They kissed, Belle folding her arms behind Rumpelstiltskin's neck, their weight nestled in all the pillows. When the bedclothes slipped from her shoulders, her husband drew them back to keep her warm; he did not mean for this kiss to be brief, and wanted her to be comfortable. Belle grasped that understanding and gave herself to the moment; to the play of their mouths, the cooperative rhythm of kissing. They'd become very good at it, now - at anticipating each other, allowing for each other. Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed the pressure of lips against lips, the dry, sensual stroke of a bottom lip against a mouth unmoving. Belle favoured the moist warmth of a deeper kiss, of teasing with her tongue, of his sharp inhalation against her parted lips. And, for all that she enjoyed the taste of his skin, Belle preferred to kiss Rumpelstiltskin on the lips, while he craved a taste of her chin, her cheek, her jaw, her throat, and - always - her breasts.

Belle arched herself, lazily, when he dragged his kisses downward; she braced her hands among the pillows and lifted herself, dangling her breasts within reach of his mouth. He dug hard fingernails into the small of her back, at that, and craned his neck until he could catch at her right nipple with his lips. Belle bit her own lip, then ran her tongue across it to taste all that lingered of his kisses, while Rumpelstiltskin slid his palms up to her shoulder blades and drew her down, mouthing at her breasts with an appetite that he saved only for that soft part of her. Remembering her desire to fill her mouth up with his cock, Belle shivered, and hoped that her breasts gave her husband every bit as much enjoyment.

If she concentrated on the sensation, on the heat of his mouth when it lingered on her nipple, Belle could feel the beginnings of a fresh excitement. It was elusive, darting away if she thought she had the measure of it, but undeniable; the finest of threads, and each touch of Rumpelstiltskin's mouth gave that thread of pleasure a tug. It could never be enough, by itself, but there were his greedy sounds, the scent of the sweet oil in his hair, and the feel of his hair against the backs of her hands. She had the leftover taste of his lips, of kisses, and his strong hands kneaded at her back, keeping time with the movements of his mouth. All of it was enough, filling her belly with sweet wanting, and Belle moaned.

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated at the sound, breathing hard against her right breast, but he was still only for long enough to allow her time to protest, or to direct him. When she kept silent, tensed above him and breathing hard herself, he reclaimed her nipple and eased his right hand between them, down, until he could offer the satisfaction of his fingers.

She _meant_ to say 'yes', but managed only a quiet yelp when he rubbed her. Not his fingers, she realised, but the back of his hand, where his skin hardened; it felt extraordinary, marvellous, and Belle wanted nothing but repetition. Moving against his hand, meeting it, growing hot and flushed and overwrought, Belle managed not to drag her breast from his mouth; laughed breathlessly at the thought of them enjoying such different pleasures at once.

So often had he been in her, meeting the deep inner ache with his cock, that Belle had forgotten the sweetness of this other touch, the teasing outside. It maddened, as his cock did not; it took time to find the place, the rhythm, the pace of her desire, and then time again to bring her near to coming.

Belle thought about Rumpelstiltskin's fingers, so blunt and yet so deft; she pictured the textured skin below his knuckles and across the back of his hand; she pictured his expression at her breast, almost a scowl of concentration as he savoured her.

She came, slowly and sweetly, the waves reaching deeper and deeper into her until they rendered her helpless. Clawing at feather pillows, squirming on her knees, toes digging into the mattress, she _came_ , with the distant awareness that Rumpelstiltskin had surrendered her nipple in order to watch her instead. He liked to see her come, to savour the sounds she made, so she held nothing back for the sake of dignity; she rode his hand until she was shaken and finished, too weak to take her own weight any longer, and then she slumped atop him, sliding down until her head was beside his on the pillow and his tightening arms kept her in place.

It required some rearrangement of limbs and pillows before they were comfortable. Belle complied, in a daze, with Rumpelstiltskin's movements, until she was nestled against his side, his arm about her and her hand free to roam his torso, exploring him as if everything were new.

Drowsy, damp with her own perspiration, Belle mustered the presence of mind to offer her hand for his pleasure. His cock was soft, though, when she caressed him with her palm, and Rumpelstiltskin caught her wrist and drew her hand back to his chest. She watched the ends of the ribbons trail across his skin in the wake of their hands, still wrapped safely around his middle finger after everything. Rumpelstiltskin guarded what was precious to him.

"Later," he murmured, and the kiss he pressed against her brow was clumsy. "Sleep now."

Perhaps he meant for her to sleep, perhaps he spoke of himself. Belle couldn't tell and, comfortable beside him in their nest of pillows, did not mind.

They both slept.

Hunger woke her, to a darkened room and a fire burned low.

Rumpelstiltskin had been restless, while Belle had slept unmoving on the slope of pillows. Her husband was beside the pillows, instead, face down and dead to the world. How long had they slept?

Sitting up slowly so as not to disturb Rumpelstiltskin, Belle looked about her. She felt wide awake, bright and clear, and her heart beat too hard as if something had startled her awake. The drapes around the bed seemed suddenly too confining, where they had lent a sense of intimacy before; Belle drew the one nearest the window back a way and felt better for it, even if cold air crept in and turned her all to shivers.

Belle had not thought to put out a nightdress when she made her plans. She crept to her trunk, now, and quietly brought out the one nearest to hand - her blue silk. It dropped easily over her head, her arms slipping into the loose sleeves, her senses alert to everything. The brief chill of the cloth before it caught her body's warmth, the soft rustle and flap of the silk falling about her. Everything seemed stark as a nightmare, yet everything was as it should be. Rumpelstiltskin slept on, past nightmares and turning in his sleep. He had found a still place, now, and his breathing was slow and even.

Still chilly, Belle retrieved her long robe from beside the fire. For a few moments the weight of it in her hand surprised her, until she recalled that her corset was all caught up in it; she had discarded them as one, in too much of a hurry to be at her husband to give any thought to the beautiful cloth. Smoothing out the robe as best she could, leaving her corset on the chair, Belle found her hands unsteady when she tried to work the rosebud clasps. She left them, impatient with herself, and made a visit to her bathing room, tiptoeing in the darkness.

A part of her was too deeply accustomed to a busy castle to be at ease in a barren one. As a child she had learned to know the hour by the sounds around her, near or distant. Here, Belle could tell from the white light at the edges of the curtains that a bright moon was high in the sky. She had nothing else to guide her senses save that she was hungry and thirsty. Late, then.

Unwilling to leave, lest Rumpelstiltskin wake and find her gone, Belle went to her reading room and stood for a while in thought. The window there was cold, the moonlight almost blinding in its cool whiteness; Belle wanted something hot to fill her belly.

"A mug of warm milk," she said, under her breath, looking hard at the table. One of the heavy clay mugs from the kitchen appeared, and a moment later she smelled the sweet milk. In her mind she had pictured the big jug in the larder, and the milk heating gently in her smallest copper saucepan, but for all she knew the milk had come from the other side of the world. It made her uneasy, as it always had, but she was hungry and cold. The milk tasted just as warm milk should. Belle wrapped both hands around the mug and gazed out of the window while she drank it.

The dull pain had returned to the small of her back, grasping at her innards. Belle put a hand to her belly, ashamed of her self-indulgence earlier. Rumpelstiltskin was quite right - any appetite could be mastered, and she would need to master her lust if even gentle touches left her hurting. It was a heavy and unwelcome thought, though. Suppose she was unable to be with Rumpelstiltskin for _months_? Perhaps he was right to stay away from her? Belle could not trust herself, it seemed. She should allow that Rumpelstiltskin might not trust _him_ self to show restraint if he slept beside her. And yet...

Leaving the mug, the milk gone, Belle wandered back to the bedchamber and went around the bed to sit beside Rumpelstiltskin. She had wanted this so badly, her husband sleeping in her bed. Lust had little to do with that; it was belonging, again, and her growing certainty that Rumpelstiltskin must do human things, _ordinary_ things, if he was to remember how to be a mortal man. When he made love to her, when he ate a meal with her, when he slept beside her, he used no magic. Those tiny concessions _did_ change him, she was sure of it. They stilled him, as he was still now, peaceful in sleep.

That _was_ what he wanted of her, wasn't it? To keep him from going so deeply into the darkness that he could find no way back. It somehow seemed a harder responsibility than the expectation of bringing him sons. Many women bore that duty, but this... this thing with which Rumpelstiltskin had tasked her... Belle bore that alone.

Her immediate urge was to curl up beside him and try to go back to sleep - to trust that she would be less daunted by her new life, in daylight. But a growing discomfort kept her restless at the edge of the bed; hot and cold shivers and damp, trembling hands; her throat tightening as her breathing became erratic. She waited and waited for it to pass, impatient with herself, and almost failed to reach her washbasin in time to retch up the milk as the world spun about her.

The commotion roused Rumpelstiltskin, adding hot embarrassment to Belle's dismay. He found her sitting on the edge of the bathtub, too dizzy to move, though not too blinded by her dizziness to note that he had hurried to her stark naked. He was clothed in black before he sat beside her, his arm across her back to steady her. Belle rested against him, not trusting her treacherous stomach enough to chance speaking, even to apologise for waking him.

When her gulping breaths had grown quiet, Rumpelstiltskin produced a cloth, damp and hot, and applied it gently to the back of her neck, then to her cheeks, then her lips. Finally he pressed it into her hands and let her scrub at her face with it, refreshing herself. She almost laughed, hidden away behind the cloth, to think that the Dark One was such an excellent nurse. Who would believe that, if she told them?

"Better?" Gingerly, Rumpelstiltskin arranged the loose hair about her face.

"Yes," she said, steadily. "You didn't need to fuss," she added, grateful that he had done. "I think magic milk doesn't agree with me."

"Magic milk?" He shook his head, his worried expression gaining still deeper frown lines. Belle shook her head, smiling weakly.

"I didn't want to leave you," she explained, getting carefully to her feet. Other than the way her nightdress clung to damp skin, she felt much better - tired but steady enough to twist her arm from Rumpelstiltskin's support and wave him gently away. "So I asked for a cup of warm milk."

" _Fetched_ by magic, treasure," he said, pained at needing to explain this to her yet again. "It came from a cow, I give you my word. My castle won't poison you."

Belle crawled into the bed and shamelessly installed herself in the patch of warmth that her husband had so recently left behind him, forcing Rumpelstiltskin to go around to the other side before he could rejoin her.

No, she thought, as he made himself comfortable with his stack of pillows, then put a hand on her back in companionable silence. She probably couldn't blame the milk.


	88. A Nest of Vipers

Belle first thought that Rumpelstiltskin had left her during the night. A few sleepy blinks to focus her eyes, however, and she saw him lounging at the foot of the great bed, fully clothed, his back to the bedpost and his knees raised to support the book he was reading.

"Good morning," she mumbled, still half caught up in sleep and cosy where she lay. Reluctantly, she sat up and pulled the bedclothes to her chin, unwilling to surrender the warmth.

"Good morning." Rumpelstiltskin set aside the heavy, leather-bound book. Belle saw that he left her two green ribbons to mark his place, and smiled. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes." Pausing a moment, finding nothing amiss but the persistent ache low down, Belle shrugged her shoulders. "Is it late?"

"Quite late." Gracefully, Rumpelstiltskin crawled up the bed to sit before her, legs crossed. "Rest yourself, today?" He hadn't the nerve to command her, but Belle could see that he would fuss and worry if she did not agree. She allowed the bedclothes to fall, reaching for his hand and holding it between both of her own, resting upon her knees.

"I'll rest," she promised, gently. "I want to read about law and justice," she added, wondering if a promise to spend the day resting could allow for a visit to the library and a search of the shelves.

Rumpelstiltskin frowned, though with humour.

"You can read all day about law, treasure," he told her. "But you'll not find justice in a book." Nevertheless, he gestured to the empty space beside Belle and, as the purple smoke of his magic faded, there was a small stack of books.

"Thank you." Belle squeezed his hand. "I used to think I wanted nothing more than to sit about and read all day."

"There are worse things." He patted her hand, awkwardly. "Breakfast, then, and then I must leave you."

"Leave?" Something about his tone told her that he did not mean a retreat to his turret for the day.

"I want words with Regina," Rumpelstiltskin said, dropping from the edge of the bed with a spring in his step. He made his way to her sitting room and returned with a tray, heavily laden. "But I made you this. _Properly,_ " he stressed, as he placed the tray beside her new books and lifted a silver cover from a platter. Belle's mouth watered at the sight of crisp back bacon, sausage and a fried egg. It _looked_ as if he had fried it in a pan rather than conjuring it by magic - all the more delicious for the fact that one end of a sausage was near burnt, and the bacon so crispy that she could probably snap a piece between her fingers.

"Thank you," she said, touched that he would cook for her when he thought her silly for objecting to food brought by magic. There was a pot of tea, as well, and she poured some gratefully, far more thirsty than she was hungry. It was mint tea, for her stomach, and she was touched again. Rumpelstiltskin stood watching, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot as she arranged herself with pillows, platter and tea things. "Where does the black tea come from? The shrivelled leaves that taste smoky and sweet? They've all gone."

He blinked, startled by an unexpected question.

"From across the sea. Far, far away. I'll fetch more."

And he would, Belle knew. It was nothing to Rumpelstiltskin to cross the sea. Not even an adventure.

"I don't think that Queen Regina will be very forthcoming," she said, teasing lightly before tasting her first mouthful of breakfast. "I've seen you do nothing but bicker."

"She'll tell me what I want to know," Rumpelstiltskin assured her, humourlessly. "Or suffer the consequences."

"And if she tells you she came by the coin innocently. Will you believe her?" From what little she had seen of Regina and Rumpelstiltskin together, Belle doubted that either would be inclined to give the other a fair hearing.

"Don't trouble yourself about it," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Rest, read, be well again." His expression brightened. "Shall I fetch your cats?"

"No!" Belle managed, unladylike around a mouthful of egg and bacon. She gulped it down, hastily. "No, please, let her be. She chose a quiet place to keep her kittens. They'll come out when they're ready."

"Well then." He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Until later, my dear."

Belle nodded, relieved that he would be returning soon from his errands. Having seen how easily he could move from place to place, she doubted whether his extended absences were ever truly necessary. When first they married, Rumpelstiltskin had wanted to be away from her, hadn't he? Now he was eager to return.

She had further reassurance of that when, her breakfast finished, she pushed back the bedclothes and saw Rumpelstiltskin's black nightgown lying, neatly folded, beneath the blankets beside her.

Happy beyond measure, Belle blushed to the roots of her hair.

Her stomach felt much better since her misadventure with the milk, but the pain when she rose was worse than ever. It sat at the base of her spine, dull and deep, leaving her glad that her monthly pains had always passed within half a day or so. A day with her hot water bottle nestled behind her seemed a more welcome prospect, when even the walk to her bathing room made her feel worse than before.

While she wanted to sit and read, Belle found herself worrying about Rumpelstiltskin instead. If he confronted Regina with baseless accusations, in his quest to learn about the fairy gold, would it come to a fight between them? Did the folk tales have it right about the devastation caused by battles between sorcerers? Lands laid waste, rivers cursed, islands sunk... It was difficult not to wonder, to worry, when Belle thought about that!

As much as she was able, she gave her day over to reading. Rumpelstiltskin had given her a variety of books dealing with the subject of law, ranging from philosophy to the written laws of King Leopold's reign, pristine in their calf-hide binding. He, unexpectedly the King of a great land, had devoted himself to an enlightened rule and had rewritten the laws of the land himself, in consultation with a great council of learned men. That had always sounded like an heroic enterprise, to Belle, but she could see that even with care and compassion, the rule of law left space for dreadful injustice in the world.

Under Leopold's law, a man who beat his wife was beaten in his turn. Belle thought about that, and about the Shaming, and wondered grimly if Rumpelstiltskin didn't have the right of it. In his cell, without drink, Dacey Tavish would know true suffering. He might die, awaiting justice. Would anyone be truly sorry if he did? Would his wife mourn him? Had he a mother and father living?

Belle plumped up her pillows and settled herself again, Leopold's book of law open across her knees. Rumpelstiltskin had been right to question the simplicity of her thinking. He had so irritated her with his mockery that she had not stopped to ask herself the questions that he'd posed. What would she _do_ if the people of Odstone began to look to her as a leader, as a protector? What would she _do_ to make the laws of their land just and fair? Could she do any better than Rumpelstiltskin did when he let it be known that a wife-beater would be turned into a snail?

Fear of his magic worked, until it didn't. The same was true of the most well-intended law. Leopold could not have foreseen that his daughter would be left a fugitive, subject to his painstaking laws governing treason and treachery in their kingdom. He had given Regina the very tool that she needed to seize the throne from its rightful heir, his beloved Snow White. Snow could prove her innocence only by standing to face the king's justice, but the question of her guilt or innocence would be decided by Regina, or by those loyal to her. Snow would find no justice there.

Perhaps it was better that the laws of Odstone spoke of property and of boundaries, and left other judgements to the men of the moment. Janek seemed a good man, wise enough in his weary way. It would be a thankless task to speak for the people to Rumpelstiltskin, no matter how much gold was his reward.

Janek kept order in Odstone, but Belle suspected that his first concern in dealing with any trouble was to avoid angering their Lord. _That_ couldn't be right, could it?

When Belle's head began to ache, she put aside the books and closed her eyes. She had forgotten to ask Wren about the schooling of children in Odstone. Lulie - _Tullia_ \- might not be alone in wanting to learn to read and write. Certainly Belle would teach her, but the skill was more easily learned if one began young. Did Odstone require a school, and a law to say that none should be prevented from learning if they wished to learn?

One of her father's Councilmen, Arnos, used to say that you could pour learning into a person but that doing so did not drive the ignorance out. Belle had never understood what he meant by it, only smiled to herself at his wit. Now, perhaps, she understood. Knowledge and understanding were not always the same thing, and how much knowledge would it take before Dacey Tavish disposed of his ignorance and used words instead of fists to settle a quarrel?

Odstone's own tenancy laws appeared to protect Tavish and imprison his wife. Belle would have liked nothing better than to turn the dairy farm over to Mistress Tavish and her daughters, allowing them the income and the security of it. But if Tavish had paid all his dues to the castle and to the town, he was immovable. If Mistress Tavish chose to escape her husband, Belle would have to find a new place for her to go and leave Dacey Tavish to manage as best he could. How long would a drunkard manage a dairy herd with only hired hands to help him? She could hardly imagine him selling cheese and butter at Lulie's little market stall.

Belle had begun to drowse, half thinking of Lulie, when a distant thump startled her back to full awareness. Heart pounding, Belle swung her legs out of bed and perched there at the edge, listening for further sounds. Rumpelstiltskin, for all his showmanship, tended to move about the place quietly; had he dropped something?

Half afraid to do anything, Belle slid her feet into her slippers and straightened her silk robe as she stood up. An intruder in the Dark Castle hardly seemed likely, and she was mistress here. Drawing herself up tall, Belle made her way down the first half-flight of stairs. There was another, quieter banging noise from down below, and a harsh voice shouting,

"Rumpelstiltskin!"

Alarm and anger took Belle in equal measure as she recognised Queen Regina's voice. Hurrying her steps, she descended towards the main doors and the marble entrance hall, outraged to see that the big double doors stood wide open. The doors to the great room stood open as well. How dare she?!

Belle would have rushed in to confront the intruder, but jerked herself to a halt at the top of the final half-flight of marble stairs. She was in her nightdress, in her slippers, and had not glanced at a mirror since tying back her hair with a ribbon last night. She had been unwell; she had been in bed all morning. And she meant to confront a Queen.

Setting her jaw, Belle looked down at herself. "My golden dress," she said, under her breath. With a whisper of magic, she was dressed to receive royalty. "And tidy my hair." For this, Belle shut her eyes, tight, and waited for her hair to stop moving of its own accord, hoping for the best. The castle's magic understood her intentions, however, and did no more than restore her simple ponytail to its original neatness. Thus armoured, Belle descended the last few steps and crossed the marble tile in sedate, measured steps.

Queen Regina spun sharply at Belle's entrance, her expression one of pure venom. She had meant it for Rumpelstiltskin, however, and the dark loathing went out of her eyes. Out of her whole stance, Belle saw.

"I would have greeted you properly," Belle told her, proud of her steady, clear voice. "Had you knocked."

"I want to see your husband," Regina said, low voiced and grave, putting her hands on her hips. "I find it helps not to give him time to run away."

Belle did her best not to stare at the woman's unusual attire. Regina had dressed to ride, clearly, with a tunic over long leather breeches and shiny black boots, all topped with a coat of red velvet cut for riding. It swept to her ankles, but did nothing to conceal the skin-tight leather that she wore beneath it. She looked magnificent, even if she did not look like a queen.

Well, Rumpelstiltskin _had_ wanted to speak to Regina. He probably would not have been any more courteous about his entrance, either.

"You're welcome to wait," Belle said, with forced brightness. "Until my husband returns." She made a generous gesture towards the chair at the head of the dining table. "Will you have tea?"

It was difficult to treat Regina as a queen when she neither dressed nor behaved as one. But Belle could make her a guest, and hope that she felt _some_ obligation to be courteous towards her hostess as a result.

After a moment too long, Regina smiled. "Why not? Thank you, my dear."

 _I'm not your 'dear',_ Belle thought, but she didn't say it aloud. Instead, determined not to be unsettled by Regina's presence as she had been in the past, she looked hard at the table and thought of a laden tea tray and a platter of the sliced, orange fruits.

"Tea," she whispered, as the Queen seated herself. A tea tray appeared, just as she had wished it to be. To Belle's private satisfaction, Regina looked startled.

"I thought you had no magic, Lady Belle?" she asked, transparent in her curiosity.

Belle took the second seat, arranging her skirts with proper ladylike care as she did so, and began to arrange plates and cups.

"None at all," she said, evenly, pouring tea. Regina's cup had plenty of milk, with one brown and one white sugar cube. Again, Belle had that slight satisfaction at seeing the Queen startled, this time because Belle recalled how she took her tea. Regina wasn't to know that she had been the _only_ guest here in all the weeks of Belle's marriage.

"You seem to have settled in nicely," Regina said, her nod of thanks falling short of gracious. "Does he leave you alone here often?"

"Not often." Belle sweetened her own tea, although she preferred this particular brew without. She wanted to keep her mind alert and her wits about her! "Why such an urgent visit, Your Majesty?"

It was funny, she thought, watching Regina over the rim of her cup, how two women could turn tea into a battleground.

"Perhaps it's you that I should speak to in any case," Regina said, smoothly. She sat back, balancing her cup and saucer perfectly as she crossed her legs. Belle couldn't help thinking that breeches and boots looked a lot more _comfortable_ than a sweeping and bejewelled gown. "Tell me what you know of Sir Gaston. He was your intended, wasn't he?"

Regina knew full well that Belle had been betrothed to Gaston. She had mentioned it during her last unannounced visit! Belle nodded, doing her best to look no more than politely interested. "What sort of a man is he?"

Well, that seemed an innocent enough question. Belle hardly knew Gaston well enough to let slip anything inappropriate.

"A proud man. A brave soldier." And, really, that was all that she knew of him. Regina would likely not be interested in hearing that Gaston disliked books and thought reading a foolish pastime, nor that he kissed as though he were throwing himself at the foe. Belle shrugged, conscious of her bare shoulders and, suddenly, conscious that her bruised breast might not be fully concealed by its jewel-hung neckline. She flushed, and Regina saw.

"A hero," she suggested, her glossy plum-coloured smile inviting conspiracy. "Dashing?"

"...not really," Belle said, losing her certainty in the face of unexpected questions. "I don't think that heroes should be too proud."

"Ah." Her expression one of pleasant amusement, Regina finally took a sip of tea. "Is it true that he tried to rescue you from Rumple?"

"I suppose so," Belle said. "His father petitioned King George."

"Hubert must want your father's lands very badly." Regina gestured, her long, manicured nails almost a perfect match for the colour of her lips. "To risk the wrath of the Dark One. To open his halls to a girl who was no longer... unspoiled."

Bristling, Belle set down her cup and saucer.

"The wrath of King George was quite enough, in the end," she said, ignoring the rest of the Queen's statement. It had been too much like a question. "Why should you want to know about Sir Gaston, Your Majesty?" It crossed Belle's mind that _marriage_ might be the reason, and she almost laughed aloud at the thought of Gaston trying his clumsy charms upon Queen Regina. "An alliance?" she asked, half hoping that it was so.

"Goodness, no!" Regina's laughter was musical, when startled from her. "I have my own nest of vipers."

"Gaston fought bravely against the ogres." Belle said it to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts. She could not imagine why Regina had asked about him, and her lack of knowledge left her vulnerable. Not so vulnerable as all that, though. Belle saw the painted impression of Regina's lips upon the rim of her cup, and remembered the spell that protected her now. Come what may, Regina could not harm her. "I never heard his men speak ill of him." That was not the same thing as hearing them speak well of him, but still. Soldiers complained, every bit as readily as they ate and slept, and no whisper of Gaston had ever reached Belle's ears. Or had that been because she was betrothed to him, and people took care that she should hear nothing to dismay her?

"An honourable man?"

"I thought so," Belle said, remembering how he had named her _demon's whore_ before the court. "I'm sure that he means to be. Why?"

"Curiosity," Regina replied, with such patent and shameless falsehood that Belle almost gasped. "But enough about what might have been," the woman continued, before Belle could challenge the lie. "How are things with Rumple?" She asked with a smiling, conspiratorial relish that was not quite malicious. Not _quite_.

"He is well, thank you." Two could play at falsehood, after all, and Belle knew how to do it without ever lying. She offered the Queen the platter of fruit, which Regina declined with a polite gesture.

"You know perfectly well that I mean how are things _between_ you and Rumple," the older woman chided. "He's not everyone's idea of husband material."

"I was lucky, there," Belle told her, solemnly. "I had no idea of what a husband ought to be like."

This time, the Queen's laugh was softer, and far less pretty.

"He's had you for the best part of two months. He has unknowable magic at his fingertips. He must have given you a child by now, surely?"

Belle stood up, her chair almost toppling behind her in her haste.

"Why does that matter to you?" she demanded, the sheer effrontery of the woman driving out her own determination to remain measured and deliberate in their dealings. "From the beginning, you've wanted to know if I'm with child yet. Why?"

Regina put down her cup and saucer with dainty care, then rested her hands on the arms of the chair.

"If the Dark One means to have a child, dear, it matters to everyone."

"Why?" There was something about her fear that Belle could not contain. If there was a child then it was _her_ child, and this... this _witch_ had no part in it! "He's as old as anyone can imagine. He could have had a dozen wives and a hundred sons, if that mattered to him. Why does it matter to anyone else?"

"Because he _hasn't_ had a dozen wives," Regina said, and her patience appeared to be genuine, even if her growing air of motherly concern was an absolute fraud. "He hasn't had a hundred sons, or _any_ sons. Then suddenly his world revolves around you." Leaning across the corner of the table, Regina patted the place beside Belle's teacup, encouragingly. "Sit down, my dear. You're very pale."

Pale? Belle felt flushed and out of sorts, confused by her urge to protect something that she did not yet possess. She sat, anyway. This was _her_ home.

"I still don't see how it matters to anyone but Rumpelstiltskin," she said, proud of herself for keeping the sulky note from her voice. It so often crept in when she had been angry, when shame was washing the anger away.

"Rumple does nothing without good reason." Regina sat back, watching her. "All of a sudden he wants a wife. Almost a child herself, and betrothed. He needn't have gone to the trouble if all he wanted was... company."

"I'm not a child," Belle said.

"An innocent, then," Regina corrected herself, raising a hand in apology. "One neither steeped in magic nor experienced with men. A maiden."

That, too, was a question masquerading as a statement. Belle did not answer it.

"More tea, Your Majesty?"

"Thank you, dear." Regina seemed less certain for a moment, but she rallied while Belle refilled her cup. "My mother made sure that I would know the signs," she said. "An heir to secure my position - that was important, you see." It was that confiding tone again, albeit without the smile this time. Belle listened, and held on to her wariness like a weapon. "You were very young when your mother died, I think?"

"Yes," Belle agreed. King Leopold had fathered no heir with his young queen - everyone knew that. Had that been their tragedy, or their own choice? Leopold's laws secured the succession for the Princess Snow, no matter what male heirs came after her. Regina's son could never have taken the throne while Snow White lived, but Regina herself could. And had. "I understand the signs," she said, hoping that Regina would let the matter rest. Let her ask Rumpelstiltskin, who found some perverse pleasure in their game of words!

"I can help you," Regina said, after a little while. "A place at my court. My protection. I can even send you where he cannot follow. You and your child."

Belle glanced down at herself. It was the barest fraction of a glance, really, but she might as well have given Regina the truth of it in writing. Furious with herself, Belle stared into her cup. "Whatever he wants with a son, I wouldn't wish it on one of mine," Regina said. Her gentleness seemed almost genuine, for a moment. "And I wouldn't wish Rumple on any woman," she added, and pointed to Belle's chest. Following the pointing finger, Belle looked down again. The bruises left by three of Rumpelstiltskin's fingertips were just visible above the neck of her gown, as she had feared. She had wanted them as a private thing, a trophy, the way Rumpelstiltskin hoarded her ribbons. She had never wanted them _seen_ , nor shared with the world! With _this_ woman!

"You assume, Your Majesty," Belle managed, her voice almost steady. "My father made sure that I knew the folly of that. I'm not in need of rescue."

Regina watched her in unnerving silence, her cup and saucer held perfectly still.

"Well," she said. "You really have fallen for him, haven't you? I thought it was loyalty, but..." Again, she gestured towards the visible bruises, and this time there was something suggestive about the way she did so. "No wonder he's so puffed up and proud of himself. Maybe he's in no hurry after all?"

"Stop it," Belle said, standing up again. This time, she managed it with dignity. "Whatever your quarrel with Rumpelstiltskin, I want no part of it. Speak to him. Ask _him_ your questions with your horrid insinuations. Leave me alone."

Rage passed across the Queen's features, so briefly ugly that Belle could have missed it had she blinked. Then Regina was composed again, unconcerned again.

"As you wish, my dear," she said, mildly. "Do you think he'll be back soon?"

Would he? Belle hoped so. How long would it take Rumpelstiltskin to cross the seas and fetch the tea that she had asked about? Not very long, surely, when he could travel in a heartbeat. And how long to discover that Regina was not at her own castle?

"I don't know," Belle said, weary of the game of deceptions. "You're welcome to wait, of course."

So much for her day of rest. While Regina looked perfectly at ease, smiling benignly as she studied the room's many decorations, Belle wandered restlessly. She would have liked to visit her cats, now that she was out of bed, but leaving the Queen alone seemed unwise. She might go prying where Rumpelstiltskin did not want her to go, and Belle could not allow that.

Rumpelstiltskin had changed the treasures on display, since last Belle paid them any mind. Gone were some of the exotic weapons, to be replaced with a golden chalice, a mysterious piece of folded green cloth that frayed at the edges, and a battered wooden flute. He had taken care to keep dust from settling on his display, she noted, and smiled to herself.

Once around the room, and Belle had no more to occupy her. She could call a book into her hand, she knew, but it seemed rude to sit and read even if she had no desire to make further conversation with the visitor. Reluctantly, she returned to the table and stood with her hands on the back of her chair.

"Would you like anything else to eat?"

"No, thank you." Regina drummed her fingers delicately beside her empty cup. "I didn't mean to offend you, you know."

"You press me about matters that don't concern you. That would offend anyone," Belle pointed out. "I think that you want to make trouble, Your Majesty. Trouble for my husband. If you can use me then you will."

"Oh my." Laughing, Regina rose. "Has he made a cynic of you so soon? It took him _months_ to do the same to me." Smiling, as though at a pleasant memory, Regina went to warm her hands before the fire.

"He taught you magic," Belle said, turning to watch the woman. "Is that how it's done? A mistrust of the world? Cynicism and spite?"

"Not at all. But anything that interferes with the will - with clarity of purpose." Regina shook her head, causing her long ponytail to fall beside her face as she bent towards the fire. "That has to go."

"Like love."

"Most definitely."

Belle shook her head. She didn't believe it, although she thought that Regina did. Rumpelstiltskin too.

"I heard in town that you gave a fellow a gold coin for retrieving your fan," she said, deciding that she may as well make use of the wait. "Dark sorcerers aren't known for their charity."

"I'm not dark, dear," Regina said, unsmiling as she turned. Belle studied her eyes and saw something new there - something fleeting and uncalculating beneath all the falsehood. "I do what must be done. And I wouldn't call it charity," she added, with a low laugh at her own joke. "The man was so drunk he could barely stand. It was fairy gold I gave him, and much good may it do him." She gave an exaggerated little shudder. "He tried to kiss my _hand_."

"Where did you get fairy gold?" Belle had only to moderate her tone to leave Regina unaware that there had been any ulterior motive for the questions. It was frightening how easily the calculation came to her. "My nurse said that it was only real in stories."

"My late husband was a collector of oddities." Perhaps Regina suspected that there had been more to Belle's question than idle curiosity. Perhaps not. She tilted her head slightly, watching Belle. "He never _did_ anything with any of it."

That seemed to be that. No mystery, no evil ploy. Regina had tossed an empty treasure to a contemptible fool, and thought no more about it. Would it sadden her to know the part that her joke had played in Odstone's tragedy, or would she enjoy that too?

"I was reading the laws of your land, before you arrived," Belle said, deciding that conversation was better than uneasy silence, as long as it stayed away from the subject of her marriage. There _was_ much to be learned from a woman in Regina's position. It would be foolish to scorn knowledge because she found the Queen's person disagreeable. "He was a learned man, King Leopold."

"Yes, he was." Regina installed herself in the left-hand armchair, arranging the coat tails of her extraordinary robe and crossing her legs. Giving in, Belle went and sat in the other chair. "So is Rumple, I suppose," Regina went on, thoughtfully. "Not really an asset in a husband, unless it keeps him out of one's... hair."

As one who had dreamed of books and stories, of learning and understanding about the world, Belle could not agree with that. A learned husband who found no fault with her for wanting to learn herself... what more could she ask for?

"Belle?" To her relief, it was Rumpelstiltskin's voice, echoing in the marble hall and full of puzzlement. Belle got up quickly, remembering that she had left the outer doors standing wide open in her haste to confront the intruder. She hurried to greet Rumpelstiltskin at the door, before Regina could do so first.

"We have a visitor," Belle said, with forced cheer, placing herself in her husband's path. Rumpelstiltskin looked her over, frowning, then seemed to reach some conclusion about her dress. He had a wickerwork box tucked beneath his left arm. "Her Majesty has solved the mystery of Dacey Tavish and the gold coin," she said, before Rumpelstiltskin could move on to confront the woman. "It was fairy gold she gave him. Worthless. He offended her." She held his gaze, steadily, and felt miserable with the small deceit.

"I see," Rumpelstiltskin said, nodding. Belle had hoped to see amusement in his eyes, or pride at her audacity, but she could not make out what she saw there at all. He looked at Regina, brushing past Belle gently enough. "It seems the man manages to offend everybody. I'll thank you not to bring any more _fairy_ into my lands, Your Majesty. I might take it the wrong way. What do you want?"

Belle saw Regina stiffen, a mixture of incredulity and outrage in her expression.

"I came to return something of yours," she snapped, and made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. As if pushed, a figure appeared from a cloud of smoky magic and stumbled forward to sprawl at Rumpelstiltskin's feet. Her path blocked by the chair at the head of the table, Belle glimpsed only dark hair, grey rags from hood to hem, and a great deal of blood. "Your assassin," Regina spat, triumphantly. "You'll have to try harder than this, Rumple."

Rumpelstiltskin prodded the man with the toe of his boot, moving slightly aside to allow Belle to join him. Regina planted her hands on her hips and looked smugly at them both.

"Assassin," Rumpelstiltskin said, giving the man's head another poke with his boot. "That doesn't sound like me."

"He tried to kill me in my _bed_ ," Regina said, her tone darkening. "And when I had him tortured, the only word he uttered was _your_ name."

"Really?" As if it were merely a matter of mild interest, Rumpelstiltskin turned and offered Belle the wicker box. "My dear," he said, with a fixed and false smile that was far too much like the Queen's. "Your tea."

"T-thank you," Belle managed. She caught Regina's irritated glance in her direction as Rumpelstiltskin, flicking back his coat tails, squatted beside the hooded assassin.

She gasped when Rumpelstiltskin tugged aside the bloodstained hood to show the man's face.

"Gaston!?" Belle hurried around the figures on the floor so that she would have room to join them. She dropped to her knees beside Gaston and stared at Rumpelstiltskin, lost for words. "He's not..."

"He's alive," Regina said, sounding bored. "Don't deny it, Rumple. He even bears your mark."

"My mark?" Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, as if Regina spoke of something that was little to do with him. "Really?"

Beneath her hands, Gaston was cold. Belle could feel that he wore nothing beneath the thin, hooded robe. Of course, it would be easier to torture somebody if there was no need to remove layer upon layer of clothing before you began. Fright, compassion and loathing made for an uncomfortable knot in her chest, and looking at the bloodstained cloth made her feel sick. She pushed herself to her feet, turning away and pressing the back of her wrist to her lips, revolted.

"Above his hip. Look for yourself!"

Shrugging, Rumpelstiltskin turned Gaston over, heedless of his wounds, and tore the robe open from collar to groin with two brisk tugs. He hissed between his teeth, springing to his feet and taking a step backwards. Her eyes watering, Belle turned back to see what had happened. What had startled Rumpelstiltskin so?

Regina's triumphant look was already fading at the sight of Rumpelstiltskin's shock. Blinking until her eyes cleared, bending turning her head to better make it out, Belle saw that the mark in question was a two-inch long tattoo, worked in black just above Gaston's left hipbone. It showed a dagger with a slender, wavy blade.

Belle looked from Rumpelstiltskin to Regina.

"He's nothing to do with me, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, through clenched teeth. "If I wanted you dead I'd just wrap my hands around your throat and watch you struggle for every last gasp of air, don't you think?" He stepped right over Gaston's body and grabbed Regina by the upper arms before she could evade him. "In fact, I'm sorely tempted to do it right now," he told her, his voice clear and crisp as ice as he held her fast.

"In front of your charming, trusting little bride, Rumple?" Regina should have been terrified. _Belle_ was terrified that Rumpelstiltskin would make good on the threat, and that nothing she did would prevent it! But the Queen looked down at Rumpelstiltskin as though the situation were entirely hers to command, and her voice dripped contempt. "In her condition?"


	89. Cuckoo

Rumpelstiltskin stared at Regina as if she had spoken gibberish, but the Queen only laughed at him.

"The girl's _pregnant_ , Rumple." She shrugged her shoulders, freeing her arms from Rumpelstiltskin's grasp without difficulty this time. Belle put her hand to her throat and tried to catch her breath, staring from one to the other and afraid that, at any moment, magic would be brought into play. "Don't look at me like that. A woman knows these things, and you tried to have me _killed_."

"I'll look at you as I please," Rumpelstiltskin told her, but the retort lacked a cutting edge. "And if I decide that you must die, it won't be an assassin at your bedside. Believe me." He gave her a nod, affirming that promise, watching her eyes to be certain that he had been heard. Regina shrugged, easily, and turned her gaze to Belle.

"You hadn't told him the happy news?" Lifting her hand to her mouth as if mortified, Regina frowned. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Whyever not, dear?"

Left speechless by the naked spite, Belle just stared at the woman.

"Leave," Rumpelstiltskin said, pointing towards the doors. His voice was hard, controlled, and icy cold. "I have better things to do than indulge your delusions of persecution."

Regina simply laughed. "Well, if you don't want him," she said, extending a hand towards Gaston, already glowing with magic. Belle hurried to put herself between Gaston and the Queen, but she need not have troubled herself; Rumpelstiltskin knocked the woman's hand aside.

"He stays. You go."

"Oh well." Regina paused, face to face with Belle, on her way to the door. "I should think on my offer, Belle. Think of your child's safety." Shaking her head, sadly, Regina swept out of the room without looking back.

Rumpelstiltskin twitched where he stood, plainly aching to throw some magic spell after Regina that would wipe the smile from her face. He did not, but he clenched his fists tightly by his sides as if the effort of not doing so was a struggle involving his every sinew.

Sagging with relief when she heard the castle's main doors crash shut, Belle reached for her husband's hands, fighting back her tears.

"Why does she--" Belle began, but Rumpelstiltskin twisted his hands away from hers as though she stung him, staring at her in an agony of silence, and her question died upon her lips.

Behind Belle, Gaston groaned. "Help me with him?" she begged, hardly knowing where to begin. "His wounds need tending. I think he's been hit on the head."

"He'll live," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Long enough to answer my questions, certainly."

Shocked by such indifference, Belle paused in the act of bending over the injured man and straightened, staring at her husband. The sudden movement left her dizzy, though, and she stumbled until Rumpelstiltskin caught her beneath the elbow. "Th-thank you," she managed, hoping that her stomach wouldn't choose _this_ moment to betray her once again.

"Pregnant." Still holding her elbow, his grip like a vice, Rumpelstiltskin narrowed his eyes as he studied her.

"I tried to tell you," Belle protested, a sob welling up in her throat. Regina carried herself as a Queen should, she _dressed_ herself in royal velvets, but she treated the world as if it were a box of toys to be played with or smashed as the mood took her. "I'm not sure."

"Regina is," Rumpelstiltskin answered, coolly.

"Her?" Belle managed to wrench her arm free on a second try, losing patience with his accusing stare. She had _tried_ to tell him and he had dismissed her! It was not as if she had tried to conceal it from him! "She's been fishing to find out if we're expecting since the moment I met her. She's convinced that's all you want from me. A son."

Rumpelstiltskin seemed hardly to listen to her. He pointed to her left hand.

"Take off your ring."

"My... my ring?" Belle half-raised her left hand, glancing doubtfully at the band of gold. Gaston lay bleeding, needing bandages and blankets and who knew what else, and Rumpelstiltskin wanted her to take off a _ring?_ She shook her head. "Why?"

"Because I ask it," Rumpelstiltskin said slowly, leaning towards her as he had towards Regina - a threat in every clipped and careful word. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't _need_ to raise his voice to make his displeasure known; his chilly eyes were sign enough. She could feel magic about her. About _him_ , as agitated as a pack of hounds excited for the hunt. "I'll have the truth of this."

Reluctant, her hands trembling, Belle worked the ring from her finger and offered it to him. Rumpelstiltskin indicated with a nod that she should put it on the table.

"I don't understand," she said, wishing that her head didn't spin so; her stomach roil so; her innards ache so. She could barely _think!_

Rumpelstiltskin didn't answer. He came up behind her, trapping her between his body and the table, and reached around to place a hand against her belly. It was not ungentle, but neither was there any affection in the touch, and none at all in the storm-winds of his magic. His magic was frantic, it was everywhere, and then it was _in_ her as well as around her. Belle cried out, though it didn't hurt; it was a sensation so unfamiliar and so disagreeable that she feared he meant her harm. It was gone again in a moment, when Rumpelstiltskin removed his hand from her belly.

"So, then. A cuckoo in the nest." His head was beside hers, his breathing harsh and broken. "I'll not ask you who put it there," he said, his words - his tone - freezing her immobile as his magic had not. "Because then I'd have to kill him."

It took long moments for his words to mean anything to her, and then Belle spun, fighting him in the little space that he allowed her, elbows and pushing hands and a scream that wouldn't be born.

"How dare you?" she demanded, when she could catch breath enough to voice the words. "If there's a child then it's _your_ child, and you know it!" Enraged by his tiny, mirthless smirk, Belle pushed at his chest, driving him back half a step. "How dare you!"

"Not possible," he said, so calm that it was a mockery of her sudden passion. "That was the deal, dearie. You wed the Dark One. No children. Not from _me_."

Lost for words, for any utterance that wasn't a scream of frustration and outrage, Belle stared at him. She brought him the hope of something he'd believed impossible, of _children_ , and instead he believed her untrue? Her mind refused to accept the enormity of it, the black cruelty of it. There was a man bleeding on the floor, and though she was no doctor she could _do_ something about that. She could _help_ Gaston and it needed no words from her, no understanding. Mindless action would do.

Bowing her head, Belle made to pass Rumpelstiltskin and go to Gaston's side, but he put out his arm to stop her.

"He's mine. You've a child to think of." There was nothing solicitous about the remark. Nothing tender, or kind. His soft malice promised the worst for Gaston. Belle felt her tears fall, then tasted their salt.

"Our child," she said, and the sob that she'd denied made a broken croak of the words - a feeble sound. "Wouldn't you like a son, Rumple?" She tried to smile, to appeal to reason.

His breath caught, just as if she had struck him, and then he wrenched her back to stand in front of him, almost tearing her arm from its socket before he let her go.

"I have a son," he hissed, his face almost against hers, his breath hot against her skin. Such an ugly parody of a kiss. When Belle gave no answer, Rumpelstiltskin seized her by the arms and shook her, his face contorting with hideous rage. "I _have_ a son!" he shouted, and Belle turned her face away, cringing at the mercy of his terrible strength.

With a sound not unlike a whimper, Rumpelstiltskin released her, as if only then noticing how he hurt her. He stumbled backwards a step or two and was brought up short when his boot caught Gaston's bare foot. He rounded on the fallen man, his expression murderous.

"Leave her alone," Gaston mumbled, but it was plain to see that he could not so much as work his way up to sitting, let alone challenge Rumpelstiltskin. But he might _try_ , Belle realised, through her fog of horror and hurt. Gaston might _try_ , and Rumpelstiltskin would not spare him.

"You have a champion, my Lady," Rumpelstiltskin said, bowing slightly to Belle. "A handsome hero. How nice."

"It's a fine lookout if even _Gaston_ can see that you're being pigheaded," Belle said, hotly. "I'm going to tend to his wounds."

"Tend him in the dungeon, then." As Gaston made a fresh effort to sit up, Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers and Gaston vanished, leaving his outline behind him, picked out in the oily purple-black smoke of magic. "I'd put that ring back on, if I were you," he said, nastily. "And keep to your rooms with the door locked if you know what's good for you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Belle did snatch up her ring, however. She had not liked to take it off. She brandished it at him. "You said that this protects me. From you? Your magic?"

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged, his expression stony. "It would take me a while to counter its protection, certainly. Long enough, perhaps, to save you from the Dark One's unthinking rage." He flexed his fingers as he spoke, as if they itched to reach for her, to... what? Hurt her? Shake her again? Use his magic against her?

"Ridiculous!" Belle did put the ring back on her finger, all the same. It was hers, protection or no; it was a tangible reminder of a husband suddenly lost to her beneath this cold and intractable rage.

He looked a little taken aback by her answering rage, and allowed her to speak in spite of himself. "In my book, that _stupid_ book you gave to me about how a wife ought to behave, I've marked my days and my blood. _Look_ at it, and tell me whose child this is." She pulled her hands tight to her belly as she said it, her voice cracking as the tears began. The sobs began. Rumpelstiltskin stood unmoved, save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. "You're right," she choked, all her fear gone as her pain rose up and clutched at her heart, far worse than the nagging pain lower down. "I married a fool."

And Belle ran from him, then, but only so that he would not see her cry.

Her tears were a brief and violent storm, head in her folded arms upon the kitchen table. They had run their course before she heard the slam of a door, far off upstairs, and used the stab of anger that it gave her to master herself.

Her lip still trembled, she still sniffed and gulped, but Belle boiled a kettle and put on an apron over her satin skirt, and listed all the things that she ought to take with her down to the dungeon. Collecting them, she put them into her big apron pockets, concentrating on each tiny task as she went. She did not doubt for one moment that Rumpelstiltskin had been serious about putting Gaston down there below the castle, injured and ill-dressed for the chill.

Belle was hardly dressed for it herself. As she took the nearest steps that led downward the cold bit at her bare arms. She had never explored further than the bottom of these stairs - far enough to see heavy iron and oak doors, some with bars and some with hatches, clearly meant to be locked from the outside and to keep something in. Or someone. The stones were older here than the rest of the castle - rougher and larger, and so steeped in cold and damp that it wouldn't make a difference if she lit a hundred braziers.

An enormous bunch of iron keys hung at the foot of the steps, beside a nook that contained a candle box. There were torches along the passageway in front of her, already blazing, but Belle lit a candle from the first, and put two more candles into the pocket of her apron. She took the keys as well, although she could see that for most of the doors, the heavy bar did away with any need for a more complicated lock. At the end of the passage, however, a barred gate stood firmly locked, and chained and padlocked too.

She tried the first cell, pulling at the solid door until she could peek inside. It was pitch black inside and stank of damp, but was empty.

The second was barred shut, and Belle had to put down the kettle so that she could use both hands to lift the plank of wood that secured it. This cell, too, was empty. It smelled very faintly of old burning.

Well, she could not go and ask Rumpelstiltskin which cell he had sent Gaston to. She _would_ not, and he would only spite her further if she did. Belle rubbed at her belly beneath the apron and looked along the rest of the corridor. Four more doors before the way was blocked by the iron gate. If Gaston was somewhere beyond that, further and deeper into the bowels of the castle, she could be searching all day. She would need to go back for her cloak.

"Gaston!" Her first attempt found her feeble-voiced, still muffled by her tears. Belle cleared her throat and made a better effort. "Gaston!"

Just as she was about to give it up, to leave the heavy kettle and begin opening each cell that she found in turn, she heard a scuffle some way ahead of her, and then a slow pounding on wood. Snatching up the kettle again, Belle hurried towards the sound. The last door before the iron gate. A little light showed beneath this door.

It was easier to move the wooden bar on this particular door, and the door swung more easily too, as if its hinges had been oiled within living memory. Gaston almost fell at her feet when she pulled the door towards her. The jolt of him knocking against her shins almost spilled scalding water all over him before Belle caught her balance, the kettle swinging where it hung from her arm. Hot wax spilled down her hand and wrist from the candle.

"Belle," he said, trying to pull himself upright using the door frame. "Did he hurt you?"

Surprised by the question, although she could not have said why, Belle shook her head.

"Of course not. I've come to see to your wounds," she explained, stepping over Gaston's legs and into the cell. She looked around at the grim walls, but they were at least dry. A tiny, barred window high up in one wall gave the room its light. There was a sleeping platform - nothing more than a wooden shelf against the wall. There was a bucket in one corner, and a scattering of straw on the stone floor.

Belle set down the kettle and dug into her pockets for one of the spare candles. Crouching beside the sleeping platform, she brushed straw and dust from it and then upended the lit candle, dribbling a pool of wax into which she set a fresh candle. She lit it from the first candle, then poured more wax and stood that one beside it. Enough light to see Gaston's wounds, at least.

"What are you doing?" Gaston protested. He _did_ look as though someone had hit him on the head; his eyes were unfocused and he swayed whenever he tried to move his own weight at all, his arms and legs failing him. He tried to make his way out into the passage, even so. "We have to... to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Belle said, firmly, and went back to him, half pulling and half steadying him until he was on his feet, then taking his weight to keep him that way for long enough to stagger across to the sleeping platform. Gaston sat, heavily, slumping to his right. The man could barely keep conscious. "You can hardly stand, so neither are you."

She brought a clay cup out from her pocket and filled it with hot water. Clean cloth had been harder to come by without going upstairs to her wardrobe to bring out the linens of her trousseau, but Belle had brought another of her aprons, never used, and now tore off the pocket before bundling the rest in her lap as she knelt. Gaston watched her groggily, and she realised that he was clutching his ragged robe closed where Rumpelstiltskin had torn it open. Overwrought as she was, Belle almost laughed aloud at his prudery.

"I'm a married woman now," she told him, her false cheer sounding dreadful to her own ears. "I've seen a man's bare chest before." He grunted, scowling, and Belle remembered that she had seen _Gaston's_ bare chest before. Gaston's _everything_. Everyone had, back at home, when Rumpelstiltskin had shamed him in the marketplace. He hadn't had the dagger mark above his hip, then, had he? She would have thought little of it if he had. Soldiers often had their skin tattooed, didn't they? "You don't have anything I haven't seen already, so let me clean your wounds," she said, pushing her torn rectangle of cloth into the cup of hot water. When she looked up from doing so, Gaston had let go of the tear and pulled the robe open far enough to expose his chest and his left shoulder.

Belle had seen some of it upstairs, but this close she could see that Gaston had been beaten, and recently. Red welts were forming darker bruises across the soft flesh below his ribs. Most of the blood staining the front of the robe came from a sword cut at his right shoulder, which Belle cleaned with as little fuss as she could manage, afraid as she was of making things worse. Gaston clenched his teeth, holding his breath when the hot cloth touched near the wound, but he kept silent.

"This might need stitching," Belle said, doubtfully. Doubtful even that Gaston would understand her, but needing the reassurance of hearing a voice. "It's quite deep."

"Strong... liquor..." Gaston grated, and she looked up at him in annoyance. He grimaced at her expression, then gestured to the wound with his right hand and mimed a pouring motion.

"Oh." Belle felt ashamed of herself. It would be no shame for a man in pain to ask for strong drink to ease it a while, in any case. "Yes, of course. The castle isn't short of that." Yes, strong liquor would clean the wound, but not close it up or help it to heal. She had seen soldiers having their wounds stitched, but could she do that? _Should_ she? Fresh, dark blood oozed from Gaston's wound now that she had cleaned it, but it was little enough. A dressing might do, if she could keep the wound clean. "I'll do what I can," she decided, "then you need to rest."

"No. Some food," Gaston said, his hand landing on her shoulder, startling her with a sudden surge of strength. "Some wine. Then we have to go. The beast will kill us."

"I won't let him hurt you," she answered, crossly, but when Gaston did not answer - when he left his hand there on her bare shoulder and simply waited - Belle knew that she could not make a promise of that. She had not been certain, upstairs, that Rumpelstiltskin wasn't going to harm _her_ , or their child. She could not be certain about Gaston, either. She shuddered, flinching away from Gaston's hand. He was still much too cold, and clammy with it, and she had never welcomed his touch. "When did you become an assassin?" she asked, tearing a long strip from the apron and folding it before pressing it carefully over the open wound. "Why did Regina think that Rumpelstiltskin sent you?"

"Can't," Gaston grunted, pressing his lips together tightly. Belle clambered to her feet, her foot catching in her petticoats and tearing them. She bit back a curse as she righted herself, the pain in her back flaring as though she had been struck. It made her see spots before her eyes, and she had to brace her hand against the wall behind Gaston for a few moments until she could straighten. "He's a monster," Gaston said, and Belle realised that he had been watching her the whole time. Watching, and drawing conclusions from what he saw; tears and weakness and fear.

"He doesn't murder women in their beds," she told him, unable to hold back her contempt. Never mind that the woman in question had been Regina; vicious, venomous, smiling Regina who quite probably deserved to reap whatever she sowed. It was only a coward who crept about in the dark and wielded an assassin's justice. "You're lucky to be alive. Turn around."

The back of Gaston's thin robe was streaked with blood. When she had him turn one shoulder to the wall, his back to the candles so that she could see better, she could see the pattern in the stains. Whipping. She winced as she eased the robe away from the flesh. The wounds were not as bad as she had feared, the cuts of the lash not so very deep, but there were very many of them. Belle could not count them, and each one was a line of bloody fire across Gaston's back. Taking a steadying breath, Belle sat beside him, poured fresh water, and cleaned him as best she could.

"Tell me what he wants to know," she said. Realised that she was begging, and tried to be stronger. "That mark, the dagger. What is it? Why did you say his name when you were questioned? Why _did_ you try to kill the Queen? Who were the men who assaulted me at the King's feast? They were no clerics."

She _saw_ him try to speak - a struggle with his own tongue that left Gaston grimacing and shaking his head. "The same as before," Belle said, nodding. "Something binds you. Magic." She waited for his tiny nod. "That won't stop him from trying to force you to speak," Belle said. "Can you write it down?"

Gaston gave her a pitying look, over his shoulder, his eyelids heavy. She had exhausted him with this much conversation, and she could not let a weak man become weaker. "Well, some magic is as silly as that," she said, looking away. Magic _was_ that silly, if carelessly used - a twist of words, changing the intent. Most people who wished to keep a secret were not so careless.

Magic. Yes. She had been too upset to think of it before, but there was no need for her to be running about with kettles and bottles, nor shivering herself while she tended her patient either. Belle closed her eyes and thought of what she needed, pointing to the floor of the cell. "A bottle of spirits. A warm blanket and a pillow. Hot stew and a cup of water." Gaston had asked for wine, perhaps for the pain, but he would need his wits about him if Rumpelstiltskin came to question him. She would give him water. "My velvet cloak," she added, and then opened her eyes to see Gaston staring at all the things she had spoken of, now lying at their feet.

"Magic," he hissed, trying to push himself away from her without letting the remains of his robe slip beneath his hips. "You..."

"Not me," Belle said, tiredly. "The castle." She picked up her cloak and shrugged into it, grateful for its heavy warmth. "I cooked the stew myself," she added, seeing that Gaston's suspicious glare continued. "The spirits come from a cellar full of dusty bottles, the water from a pump. I don't know about the pillow, or the blanket," she concluded, draping it about his legs and helping him to cover himself with the remnants of the torn robe, "but I'd use them if I were you."

" _His_ magic," Gaston said, his words slurring but his revulsion plain enough. "Evil."

"Perhaps." Belle wondered whether she ought to make him eat first, or bathe his wounds with the spirits first. That would hurt. A lot. "I doubt that his blankets are evil though, or his cups." She bent to pick up the cup of water and gasped, fresh pain seizing her lower belly and grasping all the way down into her thighs. She would have cried out, but pride kept her silent in front of Gaston. She caught her breath while she held the cup to his lips, feeling light-headed. Gaston drank, slumping further and further over to his left as he did so, until Belle could no longer keep him upright. He half sat, half lay on the wooden boards, too weak even to make himself comfortable there.

Cover him with the blanket and let him rest, or pour the spirits over his wounds while he might feel a little less of the pain? Belle tried prodding Gaston hard in the upper arm, but he barely reacted. She bent again, careful this time, and exchanged the empty cup for the full bottle. It was tightly corked, but a whisper to the castle dealt with that for her, and the stink of clear liquor rose up and made her retch. Holding her breath, Belle grasped Gaston's arm as firmly as she could, removed the makeshift dressing, then poured the clear stuff all over his right shoulder and the gaping wound just beneath.

It woke him up, without a doubt, but choking on an intake of breath rather than on the scream that Belle had steeled herself for. Gaston struggled, dislodged her restraining hand easily, but the deed was already done. While he panted, trying to right himself, trying not to sob like an infant in agony and relief combined, Belle tore off another long strip of cloth with which to cover the wound. By the time she had finished folding it, taking a little longer than necessary about doing so, Gaston was able to nod his thanks to her. He helped her to press the pad of cloth to his wound.

"My back," he said, with a bravery that was entirely forced. "Hurry." He turned so that she could reach it easily - all of the overlapping lashes with one tilt of the bottle. Belle pretended not to see when Gaston bit down on his own wrist, smothering a howl of pain.

Her heart hammering beneath her ribs, her mouth dry, Belle felt her hands shake as she corked the bottle again. What now? Try to help Gaston to leave this place? What use would that be? Rumpelstiltskin could bring him back in a moment! Try to bring help here, to the Dark Castle? Dare she ask anyone from Odstone to take that chance, with Rumpelstiltskin in that cruel, irrational mood? Or stitch the wound and hope that she did not, with her ineptitude, kill Gaston herself?

"I... I don't know how to sew the wound," she said, hating to confess such a thing to Gaston. She had never wanted him to see her falter. "Can you tell me what to do?"

"I can do it myself, if you bring me a mirror," Gaston declared. That was his old arrogance, bordering on insolence; unthinking, proud. Stupid. As always, it irked her.

"Then slay the beast and rescue the maiden, no doubt, with a sword held in your left hand," she replied, all of her fear turning to acid on her tongue. "Don't be a fool." She busied herself with the apron again, directing her mood into violence against the cloth. "I'm no maiden, you're badly hurt and the _beast_ only has to snap his fingers to turn you into something slimy."

"I can't leave you here," Gaston said, trying to stand. He sat back down, hard, when his legs would not bear his weight, and Belle stood over him, glaring. "Not if you're with child."

Belle had hoped that he hadn't overheard that news. She had yet to have a moment with it herself - with certainty where the wondering had been. A child.

"That's none of your concern," she said. "I'll help you, if I can. He kept you here for a reason, and you know what it is even if you can't speak of it. He'll make you speak, if anyone can, and it won't trouble his sleep if you die in the attempt." Belle pushed the bowl of stew into his hands. He looked sheepish, fumbling and catching the spoon before it tipped out of the shallow dish. "So if you can tell him, I suggest that you do."

Gaston, an assassin! It was hardly credible, but Regina's outrage had been genuine, even if it had been misdirected. As Rumpelstiltskin had said, he needed to send no assassin to do his work. Belle didn't doubt that she had, as she claimed, awoken to find Gaston beside her bed.

"Who sent you to kill the Queen?"

Gulping down what was in his mouth, Gaston shook his head. He ate as if his empty belly hurt far worse than his wounds. "Isn't there _anything_ you can tell me?" Something, anything that she could offer to Rumpelstiltskin so that he might be more inclined towards mercy? The gods help Gaston if he had any part in the death of the children in Odstone! Who would save him then? Would she? "Why are you _here_ instead of with the King?" she tried. "He wanted you where he could keep an eye on you." Her eyes widened at a shocking thought. "Surely _he_ didn't send you to murder Regina?"

"My mother gave birth to a son," Gaston said, flatly. "I'm disowned, disinherited. I chose my own cause." Again, he was unable to say the words that he wished to say. Belle wondered what would happen to him if he fought against it. He scowled, stirring the meat and vegetables about in his bowl. "A knight is all that I am."

"You were... looking to recover your honour," Belle said, dully. Like something in a book of stories - a fallen knight on his quest for redemption, or at least for an honourable death. "But instead you became an assassin and you keep unspeakable secrets, and they somehow involve my husband. There's no honour in that, is there?"

Gaston looked at her, steadily, and did not try to reply. His silence seemed confirmation enough - and certainly all that she was going to get.

Another wave of pain forced her to shut her eyes, to clench her fists. It was worse than her usual pains, her bleeding pains; it was the pain of the past days magnified and turned into hammer blows, and it left her feeling weak and frightened, and guilty too. If she bled, now...

"Belle?" Gaston was still watching her; watching as she lost her strength, her courage. She _would_ not weep where he could see her. "Are you ill?"

"I don't know. No," she told him, impatiently, turning away. Of course she wasn't _ill_. If the new life bled out of her, she wasn't _ill_ , was she? But she was sick with grief at Rumpelstiltskin's cold denial, and afraid that whatever she did next would lead to Gaston's death, and it left her shaking all over. When the pain washed over her, she couldn't hold on to any thoughts at all.

Belle wanted to run back to her room and hide beneath the bedclothes, to weep in peace, and to find out if her heart had broken or only cracked across. Instead, she folded up the remains of her apron and offered the cloth to Gaston along with the spare candle from her pocket. She left him the kettle of cooling water and went to the door, shoving it closed behind her and dropping the bar before he could understand and try to prevent her.

She heard him stagger across to the door and thump it with his fist.

"Belle! You have to let me go!"

"I think he'll kill you if you run," she said, quietly. "Later on, when he's himself again, he might listen when I speak for you." If Rumpelstiltskin let Gaston run now then it would only be for the sport of catching him again. "I'm sorry, Gaston.

He continued to pound on the door, calling after her, as she trudged back up the stairs. She did not turn back.


	90. A Handful of Rags

Upstairs, the great room was in chaos. It looked as if Rumpelstiltskin had exercised his wrath upon every stick of furniture within reach. The huge table had been overturned, a chair smashed, pedestals knocked over and their treasures scattered. One of the tapestries nearest the door had been torn down and the glass doors of the cabinet were in ruins. Only Rumpelstiltskin's spinning wheel stood untouched, and Belle stood in the doorway with her hands covering her mouth, staring at what he had done.

Of Rumpelstiltskin himself, there was no sign. He would run and hide from her, of course, just as he always did when in a temper. Belle stood and stared, and remembered the way he had shouted as he shook her.

Indecision took hold of her again. The cramping pains told her to see Wren; reason told her to stay near Gaston so that she could intervene if Rumpelstiltskin turned this evil temper on him. Her heart told her to run, run from the hurt of it, the responsibility of it, and hide until everything was all right again. She wanted to cry, and what use would that be?

Belle picked her way around the fallen and smashed furniture and went out into the hall. The table there had been pushed out of place. She could all but feel the ghost of Rumpelstiltskin's passing through the room - the strength of his outburst, colouring the air. She shuddered, and doubled up at another wave of cramping deep inside, reaching for the edge of the table to keep herself from falling.

There shouldn't be so much pain, should there? Should she go to her room? Lie down? Calling for Rumpelstiltskin seemed to be out of the question, although there was pain enough that she would consider swallowing her pride. He wouldn't help her with this.

If there was anything to be done, then Wren would know of it. Belle told herself that she was not running away, as she pulled the fur-trimmed hood about her face; Odstone was not _running away_ , it was Rumpelstiltskin's land, and Wren's cottage was but a mile or two away. It wasn't as if she entertained thoughts of never coming back.

When she tugged at the main doors, they remained firmly shut. There was no visible lock and the doors were never barred; usually, they opened gracefully at her approach and closed quietly behind her, as did most of the other doors in the castle. This time, although she shook and rattled them, they stayed firmly shut, and the fresh anger threatened to have her weeping again. Anger and just a little fear.

"You let me out," she demanded, her voice trembling. She did not know whether she spoke to Rumpelstiltskin or to the castle itself. "I'm no prisoner, I'm your _wife_."

When she pulled again, the left-hand door opened as if there had never been any obstacle. When she reached the end of the long gravel path, the outer gates opened for her in a smooth sweep that reminded her of Rumpelstiltskin's mocking bow.

Why? _Why?_ The question clamoured at Belle as she took the Odstone road. She was too warm in her cloak and hood, the shoes beneath her golden dress far too impractical for walking anywhere out of doors, but she could not turn back now. She could almost feel his scorn behind her, driving her stumbling steps onward.

 _Why_ had he been so angry, so far beyond the reach of plain reason? Rational enough to have her remove her ring rather than battle whatever protection he had placed there, yet unable to see that the child must be his. It _could_ be no man's but his, because his wife was true and had come to him a maid. He _knew_ that! It was so bitterly unfair of him to accuse her, and yet it was the other thing that kept returning to her ears and making her want to sob out loud; it was the other words, and the desperate fury behind them: _'I have a son!'_

It was late afternoon, the low sun leaving most of the road in the shade of the pine trees. In spite of the shade, Belle sweated beneath the cloak. She would have taken it off, but she shivered also - each time her belly tightened with the sickening pain her sweat turned cold, and she wanted to huddle deeper inside the velvet.

Far more cruel than Rumpelstiltskin's hateful turn were the memories of last night. He had been happy - she had _made_ him happy, and the vision of his hopeful smiles and his gentle wonder sat horribly with the memory of his snarling face, his bared teeth. All of it was Rumpelstiltskin, and of course Belle had _known_ it. She had even believed that she was capable of _understanding_ it, when she saw how fear provoked him and how the past wounded him. She had almost believed that her patience and her compassion - her love - would be enough to turn him away from the darker paths.

Belle had to stop to rest, where a rise in the road made harder going. Walking, moving, eased the pains, but she was worn out.

Beyond the rise the road fell again, a gentle slope down through scattered dwellings to the gates of Odstone. There was little shade ahead, but the sun was already lower in the sky. How long had it taken her to come this far? Unnerved, dazed, Belle looked around her and realised that she'd had no idea of how slowly she had been moving. It must have taken her ages in the silly shoes, distracted and in pain. Cross with herself, and glad of it because it distracted her mind from other things, Belle tugged off her shoes and continued barefoot. They were absurd shoes, made to match her golden dress; made to make her seem taller, just as as the cut of the bodice had been made to make her seem more a woman than a girl.

She was bleeding. She understood that, dimly, as she crested the rise and looked down towards Odstone in the soft red light. Her drawers clung to her thighs, heavy and unpleasant, but while the walking kept the pain at bay she could disregard that and tell herself that it was nothing to fear. Wren would know what ought to be done, and would see that it _was_ done as well. All she had to do was reach the sagging little cottage opposite the tavern, and then she could rest.

It was easier to make progress with the foolish shoes dangling from her hand rather than hindering her feet. Belle pushed open her cloak as well and dropped the hood, letting the breeze cool her a little. That felt better. Even so, her footsteps were dragging by the time she drew level with the first cottage, and Belle stopped to rest with her hand against the dry stone wall that fronted onto the road. It seemed a lifetime since her first walk to Odstone, when she had briefly seen a little boy there behind the wall.

Sad, Belle was about to move on when the cottage door opened and a young woman hurried out to the gate, wrapping a green shawl about her shoulders as she came. She had hair the colour of straw and just as untidy; most of it had escaped from the red ribbon with which she tied it. She had a friendly face, a young face, and something about her seemed familiar.

"My Lady," she said, still in a breathless hurry, reaching for Belle's arm before remembering herself and, instead, taking a step back and dropping a curtsey. Belle smiled at her, as best she could, and remembered; this was the midwife's house.

"Are you Martha's daughter?" she asked, recognising the dumbstruck expression that had replaced the girl's initial concern at finding her mistress sagging against her garden wall. She had come outside with good intentions, only to remember that she addressed _Rumpelstiltskin's wife_. Belle's friendly question appeared to put her more at ease.

"Um... Sister, my Lady. Clara." Belle must have been unable to conceal her surprise because the young woman laughed, plainly used to it. She could have been half Martha's age, if not less. "We're a big family, miss. All shapes and sizes, here." Her bustling boldness came back, with that, and she took Belle's arm. "You're not well. Will you come in and sit a while? Should we send to the castle?"

Belle hesitated, unable to think clearly. A midwife might be who she needed, but it was Wren's company that she longed for, and that quiet, dark cottage where she felt safe. She closed her eyes, doing her best to muster her thoughts, and saw gentle compassion on Clara's face when she looked again.

"Is Martha here, Clara?"

"No, my Lady. She's out visiting." Clara had not released her arm, and Belle belatedly realised that she had been leaning her weight on the other woman. Clara, for her part, had been staring at Belle's dress beneath the cloak while she awaited a reply. Belle looked down, afraid that her blood had soaked through her petticoats to mark the golden cloth, but there was nothing. She looked at Clara, confused. "I'm sorry," Clara said, quickly. "I never saw such fine clothes, that's all. Why are you carrying your shoes, Lady?"

"Oh." Belle looked at them, her mind blank. The true question was not why she carried them now but why she had left the castle wearing them to begin with. "They're silly shoes." With Clara still steadying her, she sat down hard on the garden wall. She didn't quite mean to. "I need to reach Odstone," she said, while her head spun and the world felt like a dream. "Is there someone who might walk with me?"

There were voices. Female voices, young and old. Belle tried to take it all in, but was only truly aware of someone behind her, gently taking off her cloak, and of the feeling of lightness when it was gone from her shoulders. Clara pressed the back of her hand to Belle's forehead.

"It's not a fever," she said, confidently. "Run and fetch her some water, Aggie."

Within a few moments, a cup of water was pressed into Belle's hands and Clara helped her to drink it. It made Belle think again of Gaston and how she had done the same for him, and filled her up with the fear that she had done the wrong thing in leaving him locked up in Rumpelstiltskin's dungeon. She blinked as the water refreshed her, and realised that she now had a small girl to her left, standing no higher than the top of the stone wall, and a woman to her right who might have been Clara's twin were it not for the difference in their ages. Someone stood behind her, too, behind the wall; a firm, hot hand between her shoulders made sure that she would not topple backwards.

"Thank you for your help," Belle said, passing the empty cup to the little girl, who beamed at her, a miniature likeness of Clara with a smudge of soot across her chin. "I must go on to Odstone. To see Wren."

"As you like, my Lady," the older woman said, with a doubtful look at Clara. They clearly thought that she ought not go on, or go anywhere, but she _was_ their mistress. "We'll come with you, then?"

"Thank you," Belle said again, lost for anything else to say. She felt stronger after the cool drink and with the weight of the velvet gone from her shoulders. "That would be very kind of you."

The child was chased back inside the cottage, but Clara and the older woman stayed with Belle and helped her to her feet. Clara picked up Belle's cloak from the wall and the other woman gently took the shoes from her hands.

"What's your name?" Belle asked, bewildered by so much of a welcome after Odstone's reluctance to embrace her.

"Emery, my Lady. Come now, save your feet." She crouched on the grass verge and waited for Belle to offer her feet in turn for the shoes, while Clara steadied her with an arm across her back. "Be sure you have your cloak back from our Clara when we get there," she smiled, rising and taking up station on Belle's left. "She dreams of finery."

Belle thought at once of Lotte and almost burst into tears. Instead, finding a brittle laugh as they began to walk, she nodded to the cloak across Clara's free arm.

"Try it on, if you like," she said. "It's terribly heavy, but so soft."

Clara looked as though Belle had offered her riches beyond measure, but she looked to her elder sister for guidance rather than seize the opportunity.

"A cloak's a cloak, Cla," Emery said, diffidently, but Belle could see the smile that she was trying to hide.

They paused a moment so that a grinning Clara could throw the plum velvet about her shoulders and work her arms into the fur trimmed slits. It swept the ground, on Belle, but came only to mid-calf on Clara. She had the build to wear it, too, with her strong shoulders, while Belle herself always felt swamped inside it.

"Thank you so much, my Lady," she said, capturing Belle's arm again, although she walked steadily enough. Belle felt strangely safe, there between the two of them; safe as she felt when she was with Wren.

Thinking better of telling them that Rumpelstiltskin had conjured the cloak by magic, Belle nodded, happy to see the girl so happy. Happy that _anyone_ in Odstone would accept something from her in return for a kindness.

"Your sister is right," she said. "A cloak is only a cloak. It looks very nice on you, all the same."

It was not long before Clara looked as hot and bothered beneath the velvet as Belle had felt, herself. Nothing would have parted the girl from the cloak, and if it meant arriving at the gates of Odstone beetroot-faced and sweating, so be it. She seemed so like Lotte, in that yearning for finery, while Belle often felt that the privileges of her station were wasted on her. She liked to wear wool and cotton in plain colours, to be comfortable when she curled up with a book, and thought nothing of wearing what had belonged to her mother before she was even born. She thought nothing of _fashion_ , which seemed to her a game of the royal courts and wasted wealth, but girls like Clara did think of it. The Fitchett girls looked forward to making fine clothing for her, and perhaps not only so that they could make full use of their skill.

Still in a daze, Belle only realised as they approached the crossroads that she had not been making conversation with the women. She hardly knew what to say, and was afraid that to say _anything_ might be to frighten them with the reminder that she was Rumpelstiltskin's wife. It was surely a danger to know her, today of all days, but she was sorry for wasting an opportunity to make friends. How badly she needed friends here!

"Lady Belle?" Hurrying up the street behind them, Martha was struggling to unfasten a soaking wet apron. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows and she had the flushed look of someone who had been working hard. "Emery, what's this?"

"We found her half faint outside the house," Emery explained. "On her way to see old Wren."

Belle saw Martha frown at Clara and the cloak, as she pulled off the apron and bundled it up in her arms.

"You walked, my Lady?" she asked, doubtfully. "Well, you can rest at Wren's, sure of that. The magic medicine you brought her is like nothing I ever saw," she added, following when Belle began to walk again, her watchful companions beside her but no longer touching her. They looked ready to catch her if she stumbled, and Belle wondered how ill she _did_ look. She ought not to be seen like this, here; these people deserved her strength, not her weakness.

"I'm very grateful to your sisters, Martha," she said, not quite able to catch her breath to lend strength to the words. "I think you should persuade Clara to take off the velvet before she roasts under it."

"I hope she didn't badger you for it," Martha sighed. "She loves a fine piece of cloth, does Clara." She said it as if she thought it foolish, and Clara scowled.

"It suits her better than it suits me," Belle pointed out, and saw Martha look again, and realise that she was quite right. She smiled, turning carefully to face the three of them outside Wren's cottage. "Thank you for making sure I arrived safely," she said, sincerity coming easily even if her smile did not. Shyly, Clara held out the cloak to her.

"Thank you for letting me wear it, Lady," she said. Belle hoped that Clara hadn't taken Martha's scorn to heart. The cloak _had_ suited her very well.

"Run along home now," Martha told her sisters, shooing them with such a vigorous flapping of her hands and the bundled apron that Belle could see why Wren likened the woman to a fussing hen. Reluctant to miss anything, Clara and Emery wandered slowly back towards the crossroads, glancing back often. "I've fifteen brothers and sisters, Lady Belle," Martha said, standing close beside her. "Living, that is. Our mam and dad made it their life's work, you might say. Clara's the youngest of us, just sixteen."

To her shame, Belle felt a sense of relief. There had been no younger brothers - none to fall to the Rot. She nodded, but she could not muster a smile. She felt no need to pretend good cheer in Martha's company.

"Would you come in with me, Martha?" she asked, wretchedly. "I think..." She bowed her head, looking blankly at the cloak draped over her arm. She placed the other hand over her belly. "I think I was with child, but now I'm bleeding." Even saying the words aloud couldn't make it feel real to her. Belle felt as though she were standing beside herself, watching, removed from it all and feeling only the heavy fatigue and her dull, aching sorrow.

Martha's face fell, all thoughts of gossip leaving her at once. She squeezed Belle's shoulder, understanding.

"I'd best have a look then," she said, and the reassurance in her voice was almost solid enough for Belle to grasp hold of with her hands.

Wren had come to the door - she must have heard voices outside. She ushered them inside, silent, and Belle was glad, at least, to see the old woman well and moving easily with the aid of only one of her walking sticks. She closed the door behind Martha, who turned to speak quietly to her. Belle heard the voices without taking in their words; she grasped the worn post at the bottom of the bannister, staring at the bunches of lavender that hung from it. She felt as if she had passed her burden to Martha, in some way, and it was a relief.

"Upstairs with you, duckling," Wren said, nudging her arm while Martha took the heavy cloak away. Belle nodded, content to do as she was bid, and held tightly to the bannister on her way up the uneven staircase. It turned sharply near the top, away to Belle's left, and the final few stairs seemed to take the last of the strength out of her legs.

Martha came close behind. "You look worn out, my Lady."

"Belle," she said, automatically. "My name is Belle." She gave it no more thought until she was seated on the three-legged stool beside the empty hearth, with Martha crouching before her. Then she saw the older woman's expression, her discomfort, and remembered that she was their mistress. All of these people, with all the things that they knew which Belle did not, but _she_ was mistress here. "In private, anyway," she tried, with a hopeful quaver that turned the command into a question. "It won't anger him," she added, and bowed her head while she helped Martha to lift up her skirts and petticoats.

It had felt like so much blood that she ought to have been afraid for her own safety, but Belle was only quietly surprised at how little there was, in truth. Perhaps a little more than when she began to bleed in bed, that horrid gush come morning when she sat up for the first time and it caught her unawares. She blinked, unmoved by the sight of spoiled petticoats and stained stockings. She thought vaguely of the laundry, and then wondered at herself. Where was her grief?

"I'm sorry for it, m..." Martha caught herself. "Belle." She left Belle with a bundle of skirts and petticoats piled in her lap. "Wren says it can be no more than a month since you fell pregnant?"

It was so hard to focus on the words. To think. Belle shook her head.

"I wasn't even sure. Rumpelstiltskin..." He had been sure. He had demanded that she remove her ring so that he could _make_ sure of it. He'd done no _more_ than that, had he? He hadn't made this happen? Belle swallowed, her agitation returning all in a rush at the dreadful notion. "It's hardly more than a month since last I bled," she managed, not daring to say very much lest she let her ugly thought out.

"It won't go hard, then," Martha said, patting her hand. "Worst's probably over." 

Belle nodded. The pain that had reached its worst before she left the shade of the pine forest had faded to a dull ache, now - familiar to her from every monthly trial of the past few years. She felt better than she had in days, in truth, and that shocked her when the rest of it did not. She ought to feel grief, or dreadful pain, but instead her head felt better and her stomach quieter, and even the soreness in her back had let her go.

"What should I do?" Belle gestured weakly to the bundled skirts and stained underthings. "I don't know what I ought to do."

"Wren can tend you if there's aught needs doing," Martha assured her, leaving her for a moment and rummaging in a black chest beneath Wren's work table. There was so little space in the upstairs room that bending wedged Martha's rather large buttocks against the chimney breast. Belle smothered a giggle, despising herself for finding anything to laugh at until she recognised hysteria in place of humour. "You just rest, now."

Martha straightened up with a bundle of rags in each hand, then edged around the empty cot to sit on the end of it, facing Belle. "You'll need some of these, and I'll take your things and wash them if you like. They say you've no servants at all up at the castle."

"I... I can manage it," Belle told her, strain shaking her voice. "But thank you." She took the bundle of cloth and held it in her lap. "Your sisters were very kind. Please thank them for me." Had she thanked Clara and Emery herself? She couldn't remember.

They were distracted by the sound of Wren making her way up the stairs, slowly and carefully. The effort did not cause her to cough once, Belle was glad to note, but she was still out of breath by the time she reached the top of the staircase, and blew out her cheeks in relief at having arrived at last.

"You make yourself useful, Miss Martha, and bring up that kettle," Wren said. "There's nothing to be done?"

"Nothing," Martha said, and patted Belle's shoulder as she picked her way past Wren to the top of the stairs. There had been room enough without the cot in the middle of the floor; Belle supposed that Wren must have kept it pushed beneath her big work table when it was not needed.

"Does it hurt you, duckling?" Wren asked.

"It's not very bad now. It hurt before." Belle might have been hearing someone else speak the words; her voice sounded so foreign to her ears. "The pain I had before got worse and worse, and then..." Belle frowned, clasping her hands in her lap. "I didn't rest. You said I should."

"For your sake, not the babe's. They stay or they leave, duckling. We can make them leave but we can't make them stay. Take it from me." Belle looked up at her, wishing that the tears that filled her eyes were of grief and not of fearful guilt. "It happens, precious. Reckon it happens to most of us."

"That's right enough." Martha had brought up Wren's heavy kettle, and Belle's cloak as well. "I ought to get back to old Fenton. I left his washing half done and him in his drawers. Wren will see to you, my..." Again she caught herself and made a determined face. "Belle. Any troubles and you just send someone to call for me."

"Thank you," Belle said, sorry now that she had troubled the woman. Martha had told her nothing that she had not known herself when she began to bleed. "Please tell no-one of this," she said, wretched at having to say the words. But Martha had many sisters and she seemed the sort to share any news she ran across.

"Count on that." Martha left the kettle on the work table and squeezed back past Wren to reach the stairs. She was busy with others who needed her time. Belle envied her. "Send if I'm needed, Wren. Should I send word to the castle?" she asked, hesitating on the top stair and turning back to look at Belle over the rail. "To the master?"

"No," Belle said, proud of herself for not blurting the word too quickly or too passionately. "Thank you, Martha. There's no need."

Martha frowned slightly at that, understanding that something was amiss but unable to know what it was. "Rest well then," she said, gently. "Belle."

Wren went to her shelves of herbs and took down a large jar, and then two small bottles. Belle watched, dully, as hands curled inward like claws made neat work of crumbling dried leaves into a cup of boiled water. It was something that Wren had done so often that she need give it no thought - a skill, hidden away here in her dark cottage, and probably noticed by no-one.

"This'll soothe you," Wren told her, indicating the cup. "And I've these for pain." She gestured to the bottles.

"Thank you." Belle shifted cautiously on the stool, testing how it felt to move. "It doesn't hurt very much, now. I'm sorry to have troubled you," she added, angry with herself. "I knew for myself. It hurt too much, and then the blood. I knew it was gone."

"Why come all the way to me, then? And on foot, too? Our master knows his medicines." She asked as if she already half suspected the answer; that Belle had come to Odstone because she could not look to Rumpelstiltskin for help.

Careful to test her balance before she moved, Belle went around the bed and stood beside the table, reaching for the cup. She felt in need of soothing, and she was thirsty besides.

"He said the child couldn't be his," she said. "He used magic to see if it was there, and then..." her words simply died away. Belle hadn't the strength to say them, nor to stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "He was so angry," she whispered, hanging her head over the steaming cup. It smelled strange, like hedgerows and drying straw. "So full of hate, Wren. I hardly knew him."

"Couldn't be his?" Wren echoed her, as shocked as Belle had ever seen her. The old woman stared at her, clutching one of her clear bottles of medicine to her bosom. "He said that?"

Belle nodded, grateful to share the hateful conversation with someone - to have someone react so, to remind her that she had not been at fault. It made her feel a traitor to Rumpelstiltskin to speak of it, but had he not betrayed her with his words, his _thoughts_?

"I've been true to him, Wren. I swear it. There's been no-one but him." The tears took her, then, shallow little sobs with no strength in them, but she forced down the soothing tea. It was gritty, full of the crumbled leaves and quite hard to swallow, but Belle emptied the cup. "How could he say that?" she pleaded, and Wren took her by the elbows, shaking her head. She looked as heartbroken as Belle felt.

"No call for it, duckling," she said, shaking her head again. Belle had never before seen her so lost for words - for the right thing to do or say. "He did this to you, too?"

Belle sniffed back her tears and looked where Wren's nod indicated; angry red marks at the top of each arm where Rumpelstiltskin had held her so tightly, and there were the darker bruises above her bosom, too. She hadn't the strength to explain - didn't, in truth, know _how_ to explain about those.

"He shook me," she said, shamefaced. "He was so angry, so..." she wanted to say 'afraid', but that was too generous a word for what Rumpelstiltskin had been, shaking her and spitting venomous words, and... "I called him a fool!"

"Fool he is," Wren muttered. "You sit here, now, on my old cot, and I'll bring you a nightdress and a pillow so's you can rest a while."

Belle sat, wiping her face on the backs of her wrists. She could not stop the tears rolling from her eyes, but she did not sob and wail either. Perhaps it was the herbs, working quickly. Soothing. "Take two spoons of this for pain," Wren urged, giving her the clear bottle. It had a small wooden spoon hanging from it by a length of string. "And it'll help you to rest too. Best thing."

Seeing that Wren meant to make her way back downstairs, Belle hurried to stop her. "Let me fetch the things," she pleaded. "Tell me where."

For a moment or two, Wren looked reluctant, but then she looked at the stairs and chuckled softly to herself.

"That might be best too," she conceded. "If you're steady on your feet, my Lady."

She was certainly less unsteady than Wren, and glad that fetching the things kept her busy for a little while. The chest of clothing at the foot of Wren's bed beneath the stairs was almost empty. It seemed that Wren chose to wear almost all that she owned and to wash things little by little. But there was a spare nightdress, the cotton so old that it had worn thin in places and gone incredibly soft all over. Belle could hardly imagine so many ruffles and frills on Wren, or why anyone would go to the trouble of sewing so many when a nightdress was for warmth, comfort and modesty before all else. She took a cushion from the fireside chair for a pillow, and made her way back upstairs, treading heavily and breathing harder than she ought to.

"You're done in," Wren fussed, taking the things from her and shooing her towards the cot. "Old Wren never had so grand a patient up here," she said, trying to make a quip of it.

"I don't suppose there's much difference," Belle said, small-voiced, picking up the medicine bottle as she sat down again on the cot. "Once people are in a nightgown."

"Not much," Wren agreed. "Now, how does that daft dress work? Glue?" She gestured to the back of Belle's bodice and Belle groaned inwardly, wishing that she had stopped to change her clothing before she left the castle. Wren's curled old hands might have plenty of strength in them, but they were not nimble. She would struggle with the hidden hooks and lacing that troubled even Lotte's hands.

Even Rumpelstiltskin's, she remembered, and began to shiver. She couldn't stop again.

They managed, with Belle wriggling and Wren tugging; they lifted the bodice off over her head, half unlaced, and Belle pulled on the borrowed nightgown, quickly. Why was she so shy? She had never been so around women, before - modest, of course, but not shy. She had kept Wren from having a good look at her bruised breast, in any case. It did not _look_ as though it had been subjected to a prolonged and greedy loving only last night; it _looked_ as if her husband had been a thoughtless brute with her.

A clean nightdress, a brisk wash and a handful of rags. Wren had done all of this before, she could tell. She did it now with few words, leaving room for Belle to speak if she wanted to. For the moment, she did not. The combination of the herbs and two spoons of Wren's strong medicine had silenced Belle's thoughts. She only wanted to sleep for a while, here where she was welcome; to gather her strength, knowing that she must go back. Gaston was a prisoner, and Rumpelstiltskin... what was Rumpelstiltskin doing now? Still smashing his own prized possessions in a fury? Drinking from his flask, trying to chase away his own thoughts and any memory of the wife he mistrusted so? Sitting alone in his son's room, ruing the day he ever laid eyes on Belle?

_'I have a son!'_

As she lay down, Wren tucking the velvet cloak around her as a blanket, Belle knew only one thing; she _had_ to go back. Things could not be left as they were; Rumpelstiltskin was her _husband_ and she would not be denied. Not like this. Child or no, she would _not_ be denied.

She had to go back and face him.


	91. Happy Yesterday

It wasn't quite sleep that Belle fell into. The medicines give her heavy eyes and sluggish thoughts, and took away all pain. Grateful for it, she curled up beneath her cloak and listened to the small sounds made by Wren as she went about her business. Later, Belle listened to the soft click-click of knitting needles, with Wren seated on the little stool at the foot of the cot. It was peaceful, and she closed her eyes and half-slept, half-dreamed.

When the heaviness of the medicine began to wear off, Belle surfaced from that half slumber but lay quite still, listening to the sounds of Odstone. During the day it was difficult to distinguish any one sound from the bustle of the town, but now Belle could hear the tavern across the street - conversation, occasional laughter and the banging of the door whenever a patron came or went. There were footsteps on the cobbles, softening suddenly if the person came past Wren's cottage and trod the dirt road, or fading slowly if they walked in the other direction, towards the crossroads and the well. Belle could picture the people in her mind, as if they were the characters from one of her books.

It made such a change from the deathly silence that surrounded the castle, and was different again to the busy sounds of her childhood home. Belle liked it, and let it wash over her until Wren's voice forced her back to the here and now. The old woman prodded her in the foot, not so much in an effort to awaken Belle but to show that she already _knew_ Belle to be awake.

"Are you hungry, my duckling?" Her voice was kind.

Slowly, her limbs not wanting to obey her, Belle sat up. Where she had grown to expect the pain at the small of her back there was only a dull discomfort, now; a relief, until she recalled the reason why. Then she felt ashamed of the relief, and hopelessly lost in the tangle of her own feelings.

Belle could only just make out the shape of Wren, there at the foot of the narrow bed. The only light came from the floor below, and from a half-hearted moon just rising in the sky outside.

"I'm... no," Belle decided, with an effort. It was difficult to concentrate, to take stock of herself. To find the energy to speak. "Thirsty, I think."

She felt guilty, watching the dark shape that was Wren struggle to her feet and shuffle around to the head of the bed, to the table. She was no invalid; surely she was capable of fetching and carrying for herself? But Belle sat quietly and let Wren pour her a cup of water from the kettle.

"Thank you," she said, meekly, and sipped. The water was very nearly cold, giving her some idea of how long she had lain there in her daze. "Is it very late?"

"Just gone dark." Wren went back to her stool, back to her knitting, sighing with relief to be seated again. "Does it hurt you now, sweet thing?"

"No," Belle said. It felt like a dreadful confession. "I feel... better." Better than she had in many days, without the pain like a solid weight between her hip bones. "Does it always hurt so much?" She clutched the clay cup to her chest to stop her hands trembling. "Carrying a child? Does it hurt until it's born?"

"No," Wren assured her, gently. "Not that it's comfortable, mind, 'specially towards the end. Something was wrong there, I reckon."

"It hurt more after... after I was with him," Belle explained, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them. "I knew I shouldn't but... I should have been more careful."

"You stop that." Wren tapped the bed, firmly. "You just stop that, my Lady. 'Twas nothing you did or failed to do. You'd never even have known if some daft old woman hadn't put the thought in your head. I'm sorry for that, truly. For making you shoulder my foolish old hopes."

"Oh, Wren..."

"But you tell me what _he_ did. You tell me that." When Wren spoke like that it was impossible to refuse her, but Belle hesitated. She had told all that she cared to tell - all that seemed to matter. "Did he strike you?"

"No!" Almost sloshing water into her lap in her shock, Belle forced herself to sit still. "No, never."

"Hurt you in your bed?"

"No! Wren, _no_ ," she cried, almost pleading because she felt as though Wren doubted her, and she could not bear that. Not doubt from Wren as well. "He was angry and he shook me, he shouted. He smashed _everything_ ," Belle added, bowing her head and wincing at the memory of fine furniture reduced to firewood. "It was his words that hurt me, Wren," she said, after a while - after several slow breaths, while the sorrow piled up below her ribs and made her stomach feel like a block of cold lead. "He didn't even accuse me," she recalled, with a bitterness that startled her. "Nothing I could answer. It was as though he'd waited for the chance to find me wanting. For me to fail at being his wife." Misery was seeping in where the blank stillness had been. It turned her voice to a croak. "But he did use magic," she confessed, one hand creeping to her belly, hidden away beneath the cloak. "To find out if I was with child."

Wren was silent for too long before she said, "And who does he say fathered the child, if not him?"

Belle shook her head. Laughed, shaking her head. It was absurd. "The men here are too afraid even to look me in the eye," she scoffed. "And all the men at home thought me bewitched. He knows there's been no opportunity, even if he truly believes that I'd betray him."

"Aye," Wren said, heavily. "I daresay he knows." She sounded heartbroken, defeated, and that frightened Belle terribly.

"I'll fetch us some light," she said, getting up carefully and leaving her cup on the table. She felt weak, shaken, but still better able to manage the steep staircase than Wren.

"You stop here," Wren chided, pushing herself up and blocking Belle's way to the stairs. "You'll need clean rags I expect, duckling. You leave the soaked ones with your petticoats so old Wren can see what's what, and I'll bring up a light."

Belle couldn't even muster a protest until Wren had already begun to lumber down the stairs. She wondered if this was how it felt to have a mother, for in some ways this treatment made her feel like a child, like a little girl. But it was Wren's home, and she was mistress of it; Belle could not insist, no matter how much it pained her to see the old woman hobble and clutch at the bannister.

Wren was right - the handful of rags she'd used earlier were already soaked through. Belle fretted about the state of her borrowed nightgown and the cot, in the darkness, and then scolded herself for it as she had scolded Gaston earlier. There was nothing here that Wren had not seen before. Belle only hoped that she would not run out of clean rags before morning; the heavy bleeding showed no sign of slowing. She left the old cloth with her ruined petticoats and drawers when she had finished, just as Wren had asked, and sat down again to finish her cup of water.

Now that she was up, her head had begun to clear. It was not altogether welcome, not when it let in the hurtful memories and the fearful thoughts. Everything was simple, here, while Wren decided what she must and must not do, and listened with sympathy to her woes. There would be none of that when she returned to the castle and to Rumpelstiltskin's blind accusations. What would she do?

What would she _do?_

The sound of men laughing drifted across from the tavern again - beery laughter, followed by a clumsy song that Belle didn't know. She eased her way to the window, behind Wren's work table, and leaned there to gaze down the street at the warm light of the tavern windows. Was that Odstone, when the spectre of their master was far from their minds? A happy place, and united by their troubles? Belle hoped so.

Was it only this morning that she had sat reading about law and wondering what good she might do here?

She turned to pour herself some more water, and wondered if Wren would scold her for taking the kettle downstairs to warm it for some tea. Biting her lip, Belle had just decided to chance it - and to help Wren back upstairs with a lantern as well - when she jumped at a sudden pounding on the door. There had been no footsteps on the cobbles.

Trying to call out to Wren, a warning, Belle found that her voice failed her. She went to the bannister rail and leaned over it as she heard Wren open the door.

"You," Wren barked, and her voice was like a blow. Belle clung to the rail, slipping down the first few steps to where the staircase turned. From there, she could see the door - see Wren's back, and Rumpelstiltskin's shadowed figure beyond her. "What do you want?"

"My wife," Rumpelstiltskin said, trying to brush Wren aside. It was the lightest of touches, Belle noted, frozen where she was and clutching the bannister, and Wren did not give way in the slightest. "She's here."

"I'm tending her," Wren told him, standing her ground. "You've no place here. You!" She pushed Rumpelstiltskin back a step. "Scorn that sweet girl would you? Deny your own child, would you? You old fool!" Wren swept her walking stick at Rumpelstiltskin's ankles, sending him stumbling backwards down the short flight of stone steps outside her door. "Turn aside from love, would you? You blind old fool!" She went after him, one step then two, and cuffed Rumpelstiltskin across the temple. "Tie you over a donkey beside Dacey Tavish, shall we?"

"Wren!" Belle gasped, seeing the old woman stumble on the last step. She ran as fast as she could, dizzy from the sudden exertion, but Rumpelstiltskin had caught Wren by the shoulders. He set her upright before retreating to the gate, staring at Wren in naked astonishment.

"You daft old fool," Wren sobbed, and it was only then that Belle realised the old woman was weeping. She slumped against Belle, her shoulders shaking, waving her walking stick weakly at Rumpelstiltskin. "You daft old _fool_."

"She's mad," Rumpelstiltskin muttered, and Belle speared him with a look. He wore a dark cloak, the hood bulky about his shoulders; he looked wild, frightened, as shocked as Belle felt. The faint light from the cottage doorway picked out his hard features and made him look every inch the monster.

"She isn't mad," Belle said, squeezing Wren protectively. The older woman's sobs were all the more piteous for being so silent. "What did you mean to do, drag me from her house?"

"To take you home of course." Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Rumpelstiltskin had a hunted look about him. Did it conceal that dreadful rage beneath? "It's not safe here."

"Safe?" Incredulous, half convinced that she was dreaming and none of this was real, Belle shook her head. She needed to take Wren inside, to make her comfortable, to comfort her. "I came here to be _safe_ , because I needed _help_. You leave Wren be."

"Leave _her_ be?" Rumpelstiltskin came after them, as far as the door but no further. "I wasn't the one--" Ignoring him, Belle helped Wren to her rocking chair, half broken by the dry little sobs. She could never have imagined Wren weeping; it shook her world. Only when Wren was comfortable, fishing up her sleeve for a handkerchief and waving her away for the want of privacy, did Belle turn back - go back to the door and face Rumpelstiltskin, her head held high.

"She's right," she said, startled at the sound of her own contempt. "We should tie you next to Tavish on market day. How _dare_ you hurt me? No matter what you think I've done, how dare you?!" Wren's raw grief had fed her own; it gave her courage, now, as she stood in a nightgown that was far too long and too large for her, and faced the husband whose rage had come from nowhere to cut her down. He could kill her with a thought, Belle knew. But he wouldn't.

Rumpelstiltskin ducked his head, but not before she saw the flinch. The fear. He wrung his hands at his sides.

"I would never..." He had the decency not to finish the lie. "The child. I couldn't see how... but I know you're true, Belle." Anguished, Rumpelstiltskin made a fist and pressed it over his heart. "I feel it." He sought her eyes, then, and Belle stared back at him, clinging to pride and to indignation just as she had clung to the wooden rail. Without them, she would crumple to her knees in the face of his sincerity. "You did marry a fool," he whispered, and went back to looking at his boots.

"I did," Belle agreed, but without fire in her words. She had spent all her strength in that dash to the door, in helping Wren back inside, and in finding those first words of accusation. She sank down onto the second stair, not caring that it left her looking up at Rumpelstiltskin. He would not set foot inside the cottage until Wren gave him leave, would he? He danced around Wren's life as he always had, as he did to everyone, but he did not trample her underfoot.

"The child," Rumpelstiltskin began, with a fresh effort, but Belle held up her hand and he fell silent, obedient.

"If there was a child," Belle said quietly, "then there isn't now."

Rumpelstiltskin stumbled back, down one of the outer steps, just as he had when Wren first struck him, his lips parting on a soft cry. Surprise? Shock? Horror? Trying to make out his expression, Belle was surprised that he hadn't known. She'd thought... oh, that he'd watch her. The silver hand mirror, perhaps; sit and watch her, looking for proof of her guilt or some new betrayal, working himself to new heights of self-delusion. But he hadn't seen the blood. He hadn't known. He looked as if he might be sick.

A chilly breeze crept up under the hem of her nightgown and Belle pulled her feet in tighter, pulling down the gown to cover her toes. She didn't know what to say to him.

"Have him in or throw him out, my precious," Wren called, her voice hoarse. "But have him shut that door."

"May he come in?" Belle turned and peered through the rails at Wren. She sat quite still in her rocking chair, staring into the embers as if she meant never to look at Rumpelstiltskin again. Not if her life depended on it.

"As it please _you_ , he may," she said, sniffing with contempt.

"Come in then," Belle said, pulling herself to her feet and regarding her husband. Once he stepped out of the doorway and into the light, he was just her husband - the gaunt and eerie monster was left outside with the other shadows. The whites of his eyes were reddened, his expression almost pleading. "And close the door."

Rumpelstiltskin turned, meekly, and closed the door. He spared one, reluctant glance for Wren and then looked away, scowling at her dismissal of him.

"We should at least speak in private," he complained, with a trace of resentment.

"I've had the blood of your unborn child on my hands tonight, Rumpelstiltskin," Wren said, fiercely. Belle felt tears begin to prickle at the back of her eyes. She couldn't bear this. Not now. "You speak where the lady wants to speak."

"I want to sleep," Belle said, seeing how Rumpelstiltskin bristled at Wren's commanding tone. But he flinched at the words, as well. Did he have space in his heart for sorrow, for their child that had never been? _Oh please,_ she thought, watching him and trying to remember love. _Please let him have room in his heart for that._ "That's what I want."

She turned and began to climb the stairs, her heart a turmoil of anger, hurt, fear and loss. And it wasn't the loss of a child that tore at her, but the loss of tenderness and understanding, of her sweet trust in her husband. He trod lightly behind her on the stairs, and brought light with him when he came behind her into the cramped work room. Just light, she saw; a yellow-white glow cupped in the palm of his hand, as if he had plucked it from a candle's flame. A moment later it faded, a lantern on the mantelpiece taking up the burden of illuminating the room. A beautiful trick, harmless, without show or ceremony. Useful. At any other time it would have charmed her.

"You... you should lie down." Belle saw his shaken glance towards the pile of petticoats and bloodied rags on the table. He looked sick, afraid, just as she had been all alone on the road, and some horrid little part of her was glad of it. "Wren's right," he said, blankly. "She must tend you." Rumpelstiltskin gestured to the cot, and Belle was unsurprised to see it dressed with plump pillows and her red blanket when she glanced down. Wren wouldn't like that, she thought, distantly. She wouldn't want magic here in her cottage, her home.

Belle sat down beside the pillows, then pulled one into her lap and hugged it to herself. It smelled of home, of _him_. Of _them_ , and of yesterday. Happy yesterday. Rumpelstiltskin simply stood, one hand gripping the bannister rail tightly. He reminded her of a man awaiting judgement.

Perhaps that's what he was.

"It _was_ yours," she said, trying to set out her impossible thoughts in the same orderly fashion that she set out the steps of a recipe that she wanted to try. "Your child. There's been no-one else."

With a sigh, or perhaps a moan, Rumpelstiltskin sank down to sit on the top step, and buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees.

"Yes," he said, just as Belle decided that the next words would have to be hers as well. She nodded, satisfied with his answer.

"Did you hurt Gaston?"

"What?" Rumpelstiltskin snatched his hands from his face, twisting to stare at her in frank astonishment.

"Gaston. My former betrothed. In your dungeon." Belle heard her own tone - dry, verging on mockery and desperately unkind. She hated to hear it, and hated still more that it reminded her of the Queen, of _Regina_. "I left him there because I thought you'd probably kill him if he ran away."

"...probably," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, turning away again. This time he stared fixedly at the wall a few feet ahead of him, down the stairs. "If he ran away."

"Then you didn't harm him?"

"I haven't touched him!" He hunched down into the folds of his cloak, miserable as a scolded child.

"Then I'll stay here until morning," Belle decided. She found that she couldn't think of Rumpelstiltskin. Not now. What he thought and what he wanted... what he believed. What he intended. None of it. "I'm too tired."

"Belle..."

"In the morning," she said, finding firmness for her voice though she had no true strength left. She couldn't find any of the sharp rage that Wren had shown him; she had said all that she wished to say, for now. And, in spite of all, Belle could not be sorry that her husband was near. Could you still love someone while thoroughly, utterly disliking them?

She waited for Rumpelstiltskin's reluctant nod before easing herself beneath the blanket.

Discomfort was creeping back. Not the deep pains from before, but it kept Belle from making herself comfortable, even with the pillows and her snug blanket. She fidgeted a while, watching Rumpelstiltskin. He didn't move, other than to cease staring at the wall and gaze at his boots instead. Had he really come to make sure that she was safe tonight? When he saw danger everywhere, had Rumpelstiltskin come to his senses and thought of _her?_ Of _her_ safety, away from the castle?

"Rumple," Belle said, and he sprang to his feet, turning neatly on the top step to watch her. "Please ask Wren if I can have more of the medicine I took earlier? The one for pain?"

Briefly, she begrudged him even that - even a small task in service to her, because she knew that he was desperate to make amends. Something deeper inside her, though, wanted stillness rather than provoke more conflict. And something deeper still softened towards Rumpelstiltskin, seeing his expression waver between relief at being asked for something and reluctance at the prospect of speaking to Wren again.

He could tell her all about the medicine himself, Belle was sure, or he could brush away her pain with a wave of his fingers, but she had charged him, instead, to speak with Wren.

With a nod, Rumpelstiltskin went downstairs and did so.

Belle listened carefully to the voices. She could not make out the words, but she heard Rumpelstiltskin, gruff and sparing, then Wren, reluctant. It twisted Belle's heart to think of a rift between them where there had been that grudging respect before.

It was Wren who came back to her. Belle forced herself to lie still, listening to the slow and heavy climb. She could make it no easier by crowding Wren on the stairs.

"Now then, my duckling," Wren said, out of breath on the top two steps. "Pain, is there?"

"A little," Belle said, sorry now that she had sent Rumpelstiltskin on the errand. She could have called down to Wren with her simple question and saved her the climb. She sat up, her arms trembling with the effort of supporting her own weight.

Wren brought the bottle to her, leaving it to Belle to pour two of the little spoonfuls and drink them down. She shuddered at the taste and the strong vapours, corking the bottle and giving it back to Wren while her eyes still watered. "Thank you."

"Want him here, do you?" Wren stood over the cot, and her voice, though tired, was stern. "Tonight?"

"He might be right," Belle said, hardly knowing what she was saying. "About there being danger. Someone's been hounding him. He's afraid they'll hurt me, too."

"More fool him for doing it himself, then," Wren said, bitterly. "A fine protector."

"Wren," Belle sighed, absentmindedly untying her hair. "Please, don't." Tears dripped onto her hand, soaking through the pale ribbon.

"Ah, duckling." Wren stroked the crown of her head. "I hoped you'd find the joy of it. Hoped you'd find love here in spite of his cracked old heart. Not tears. Not grief. Not fear."

She'd found all of those, Belle thought, settling back down among the pillows while Wren took down the lantern from the mantelpiece and, sighing, sorted through the soiled cloth on the table. Wren seemed satisfied with what she found or did not find, nodding, and took the stained things away with her when she went back downstairs.

Voices again. Quieter, this time, the conversation slow and without barbs. Belle wondered what they were saying, as the medicine sent her back to the floaty dream-state far from pain.

Rumpelstiltskin came back to her in the night. It was long after the warm sounds of Odstone faded into sleepy silence, long after the last footsteps clattered away from the tavern in a chorus of well-supped farewells. He moved so silently that he would not have awakened her, had she been truly sleeping, and sat cross-legged beside the cot, his back to the bannister rails. His face was a mask of stone, frozen over the torment that Belle could see quite plainly in his eyes. He pulled his cloak around him, settling as if he meant to stay there for the whole night.

Was he waiting for forgiveness?

Belle swallowed a few times, wrestling the mastery of her tongue back from the grip of the pain potion.

"What did you mean," she asked, her voice deep and drowsy. "That you have a son?"

He had been looking at her and through her. When she spoke, he focused on her so suddenly, so intently that Belle caught her breath, startled. Almost at once, Rumpelstiltskin blinked and she knew his eyes once more, but the moment had reminded her of his rage and his cruelty. Her heart beat too fast.

"Baelfire," he said, quietly.

That was a new twist of the knife, and Belle could hardly bear it. That he'd reject a child of theirs for the memory of a boy long dead? Yet she could not leave it alone, and wait for morning as she had said he must. She wanted to _know_.

"He lived and died hundreds of years ago," she protested, as gentle as she could force herself to be. "The first ogre war, you told me--"

"He lived," Rumpelstiltskin said, looking to his left and then his right, and then down at his hands, unable to escape her scrutiny in so small a space. "He didn't die. He's lost. I _lost_ him." He spoke without any trace of his usual affectation; his voice was strangled to a near-whisper by his reluctance to speak the words at all. "One moment." He unclenched his right hand, spreading the fingers and staring at them. "It takes just one moment, one poor choice and everything I love is gone."

Tears glistened, pooling in his eyes. Belle realised that she had begun to hold her breath while he spoke, and exhaled slowly. Equally slowly, still staring at it, Rumpelstiltskin lowered his hand.

"Do you love me, Rumpelstiltskin?" she asked, for once not caring that she sounded like a frightened child instead of a self-possessed young woman. She _was_ frightened. _He_ had frightened her, so why should she spare him her quavering and her question?

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, and the tears coursed down his cheeks, ignored. He battled for self-control, for dignity, and he lost.

"I do, Belle." More tears left his cheeks shining, every shallow peak and dip of his skin a facet, glistening in lamplight. "I do." He made it sound like some dreadful confession of fault, like an apology. "I'd have loved our child too, I swear it."

Belle could feel her own tears, sliding unheeded down her cheeks just as Rumpelstiltskin's did and wetting the pillow beneath her right cheek. She bit her lip, gulping wetly.

"Nobody welcomed it," she said, a feeble wail that brought Rumpelstiltskin crawling to her bedside, almost daring to reach for her. "I didn't. You didn't. No!" Was that a laugh or a sob? She couldn't tell. "Wren did. She welcomed it. _She_ was glad."

"Yes," he whispered. Again he almost touched her; he wanted to touch her face, to stroke, to soothe, but he dared not. Belle didn't know if she wanted his comfort or wanted to lash out at him, to weep in his arms or to scream at him. She settled, in the end, for capturing his wavering right hand and clutching it beneath her chin while she curled up and wept. As she quieted again, Rumpelstiltskin tried a tentative touch to her hair, brushing damp strands away from her temple and her cheek. He touched her as if she would shatter, and she felt as though she might.

"You do believe me?" she pleaded, damply, as exhaustion and medicine both caught up with her in the wake of her tears. "You do believe I've been true to you?"

He nodded, his eyes so full of despair that Belle thought he must feel worse than she did herself. "Of course you have," he managed, every word a strain on his self-control. "You've been everything that I don't deserve, Belle. Everything I could never have hoped for. And I'm sorry I doubted you for a moment."

Did she draw him down or did he simply collapse, his forehead beside her face on the pillow as he knelt there? Belle touched his hair, biting hard on her lip to keep from crying again. She had made her head hurt and her pillow soggy already. She had to rest now, to be strong for tomorrow. For all the tomorrows. Rumpelstiltskin sucked in a long, ragged breath, and what he let go again was not quite a sob. Not quite a groan.

It had to be love, the way his pain tore at her. Belle found her thoughts beginning to swirl around that new centre, that idea. This agony she felt for his sake could only be love, because what else could impinge upon her own sorrow, her own hurt? It was bitter and heady and driven, that love; it might have been a breath away from turning to hate it was so soured. But it was real, and it was theirs. Hers. Belle let his lank, wavy hair slide between her fingers until she no longer had the strength to lift her arm. She listened to her husband breathe, his face hidden away now in his anguish as he so often hid it from her in his passion. All of it was love.

It was a reassurance among doubts and Belle clung to it as something solid, as she had clung to Rumpelstiltskin's hand a few minutes before.

She slept, somehow, curled up on her side with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her dreams were hot and cramped, short of air and full of misery, but sleep she did, until daylight.

Opening her eyes to pain - a screaming back and frozen limbs - Belle gasped aloud, then pressed her lips tightly together so as not to whimper while she uncurled herself. Rumpelstiltskin had retreated to the bannister rails again, and had slumped to his left in his sleep, his cloak pulled tightly about him.

Relaxing as the pins and needles passed, Belle moved her head to the edge of the pillow so that she could see him better. Even in sleep, Rumpelstiltskin's expression was a twist of misery, and he twitched, forever on the verge of startling himself awake. He slept better beside her, though they seldom slept in each other's arms. What had his life been, Belle wondered, that even a wife he mistrusted was such a comfort to him?

Rumpelstiltskin jerked awake at once when Belle threw back the blanket and sat up. He scrambled to his feet, ready to steady her, his hands hovering just short of catching her beneath the elbows. Belle swayed on her feet, but it was only the medicine, clouding her head.

"I'm all right," she said, looking vaguely about her. Wren had left her a chamberpot and a pile of folded cloths. "Leave me alone for a moment?"

He looked stricken.

"Belle..."

Sighing, Belle gestured to the pot. Sheepish, Rumpelstiltskin straightened his cloak and went downstairs, tiptoe light. Belle sincerely doubted that he would find Wren sleeping, now that the sun was up. Sure enough, a moment later, she heard their voices, so quietly that she thought they must be outside. It sounded less quarrelsome than before, at least.

She could not face dressing herself again in the golden gown, even if she called on Rumpelstiltskin to help her by magic. Instead, she did her best to comb her hair through with her fingers and then tied it at the back of her neck. Nor could she face asking Wren to bring her water for a wash, so she settled for pouring a little from the cold kettle and splashing it onto her face.

There was still so much blood. It frightened her, for the first time, but Wren had kept her eye on the used cloth, hadn't she? Belle folded together as many rags as she could usefully wear at once, and thought longingly of her bath and of the carefully edged, soft cloths that she had been using each month. Someone in Odstone had made them for her, and although Belle had extracted shy admissions from most of the stall holders about what their wedding gift had been, nobody had owned up to sending those. A woman, certainly, and wise enough to guess that a bride who wed in a hurry might not come prepared for her new life with a very solitary man.

She wrapped the plum velvet around herself and, fingers trembling, fastened it at her throat with the gold clasp.

Belle had known almost since she arrived at Wren's cottage that she must return home without delay. What startled her was that she _wanted_ to go back there so soon. She longed for her own room, for her bed, her many pillows, her hot water bottle that never cooled, and her books. Rumpelstiltskin no doubt expected her to abandon him, now; he expected as much at their least disagreement. But he had come to her, come _for_ her, humble and still able to accept her tenderness in his grief. They were not enemies, but lovers mired in hurt. Rumpelstiltskin would think the worst if she stayed away, and if she was going to find fault with him for always thinking the worst of people, what else could she do but be there, showing him how to look for hope instead?

Love like this... it was like a knife in the chest; a sharp agony with every breath, ready to become a sob. But love it was, all mingled with sorrow for the child she would never know, and fear for a future that would be many things, but never easy. Not when Rumpelstiltskin was a part of it.

He would, she knew, always be a part of it. Even if she fled now, back to her father or in search of the adventure she had always hoped for, Rumpelstiltskin would be her husband still, and have her heart.

Wiping away fresh tears - she had not even felt them fall - Belle took up the kettle and made her way downstairs. The door stood open, Wren seated on the step with her knitting bag beside her. Rumpelstiltskin stood at the low gate, staring off down the road towards the well. Belle crept by without attracting their attention and toured the little room. She wanted to leave no work for Wren, no laundry, no want of food or fuel. But her stained petticoats were now spotless, draped over Wren's bed beside Belle's golden skirts, so it seemed that Rumpelstiltskin had thought of it too. She was grateful.

She left the kettle beside the stove, placing it quietly so that she could hear what was said outside.

"Are you certain?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, with that same gruff attempt to be courteous that he had tried last night. "There's no possibility--"

"Anything's possible," Wren answered him, still just short of impatience. "I've heard of babes born after the likes of this, but I never saw it happen in my lifetime. You look to Belle, now. She needs a husband, not that coward who hides behind his prancing and his power."

"You try my patience," Rumpelstiltskin warned.

"Aye," Wren said, sharply. "That's him that I'm talking about. You give that girl your sorry old heart to look after, because she's more to be trusted with it than you are. Smite me for speaking to you, if you like. I'd call it a mercy. I'll not see you break her, not while I draw breath."

Rumpelstiltskin did not answer that. "It's a coward or a fool who squanders love," Wren said, softening. "Which are you, Rumpelstiltskin? You wed her. You can't take that back."

"I know that!" Belle could almost see the impatient gesture, the darting look. "You'd curse her to this and all that comes with it?"

"Seems to me she's chosen you for herself, so you'd best honour her as a wife deserves, hadn't you?"

Belle could not make out Rumpelstiltskin's reply. She blinked, and more tears fell. Did he want to send her away for her own sake? Had she proven _nothing_ to him, these past months?

"She's chosen me," Rumpelstiltskin said, after a long silence. "But not the path I must walk."

"That's up to her. Many's the wife who waved her man off on a journey she didn't care to take," Wren added, sadly. "I did."

"I expect he was glad to escape from your nagging," Rumpelstiltskin taunted, but it was an empty jibe. "I can find out, you know. What became of him. I owe you for... this. Helping her."

"Aye, there's plenty you can do. There's but one thing I want from you, Rumpelstiltskin. Mercy."

"Mercy," he repeated, blankly.

"When my time is done I want to stop. Stop dead, you might say. No lingering. Just an end to it, no pain. No weeping at my bedside while my heart struggles to a stop. No nursing me with my own bottles and hoping I feel no pain. Mercy is what I'll take in payment from you, sir. A quick and clean death. I expect you know the way of that well enough. It won't be long, now."

Belle put both hands to her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.

"As you wish," Rumpelstiltskin said. He sounded as lost as she felt, and Belle hurried to the doorway, meeting his gaze over the old woman's head. The sight of her tears only added to his distress. "Belle."

"I'd like to go home," she said, proud of how she kept the tears from thickening her voice too badly. "That's all right, isn't it Wren?" She stepped around the old woman and accepted Rumpelstiltskin's hand to steady her on the steps. "To rest at home in my own bed?"

"Aye," Wren said, gently. Did she know that Belle had heard everything? "That's the way, duckling. Rest and red meat and plenty to drink, now. You see that he waits on you hand and foot until the blood slows." She leaned back so that she could pin Rumpelstiltskin with a look. "If you fear for her, send for Martha. Heh!" Wren's shoulders shook, her laughter as silent as her sobs of last night. "Magic her there, I should, and see how she flaps!"

"Wren!" Belle almost laughed herself, picturing poor Martha suddenly at her bedside, snatched from her chores without warning. "I'll be all right," she promised. She placed her hands on Wren's shoulders and bent to kiss her brow. "Thank you so much for helping me. I... I wouldn't have known what to do."

She turned her head at the sound of horse-harness. The coach was there, its shadow-driver up on the box. Rumpelstiltskin placed a timid hand at the small of her back. It was time to go, but Belle was suddenly afraid that she would never see Wren again if she left now.

"I'll visit you," she said, hope and fear at odds in her voice. "Soon?"

"That's right, duckling," Wren said, taking up her knitting and smiling her knowing smile. "I'll see you again before I go."

Reassured, more grateful than she could express and yet so full of sorrow, Belle let Rumpelstiltskin help her into the carriage.

It was time to go home.


	92. Blameless

He couldn't look at her.

A slow carriage ride back to the castle gave Belle plenty of time to notice that Rumpelstiltskin's eyes kept avoiding hers. She even tried to give him a smile, but to no avail; he could not bear to look at her, although he spent the journey poised to attend upon her. It was like travelling with a stranger.

Rumpelstiltskin remained subdued as he helped her down from the carriage. He did not lift her as he usually did, but offered both hands for her to grasp while she climbed down. He released her as soon as she was steady on her feet and stood back, courteous and so distant that Belle ached for a hint of warmth from him. Was he angry, still, and being so careful of her that he dared not show it? Was it grief for the child they would not have? Was it shame?

"I'll go up to my room," Belle said, striving to sound stronger than she felt as she took his arm. The distance from the castle gates to the main door daunted her, on legs that felt as weak as water, and she could try to believe that his supporting arm was as much a gesture of affection as it was practical aid. "I think I need to rest."

"Of course you do," Rumpelstiltskin nodded, schooling his features with care and slowing their pace up the gravel path. "I'll bring you something to eat."

She wasn't hungry and almost leapt to refuse the offer, but Wren had been stern when she mentioned red meat. Besides, Belle had not eaten for a whole day. It was no wonder that she felt so light-headed for attempting a short walk! If she was to be strong again, she would need to eat and drink well.

"Proper food?" she asked, teasing as much as she dared when she could not read Rumpelstiltskin's mood.

"Of course," he answered, soberly, and Belle's heart broke a little more.

Belle looked around her as the castle doors closed gently behind them. The polished table had been returned to the centre of the room. The door to the great hall was mended and stood closed. If she opened it, would everything be as it had been before Rumpelstiltskin vented his rage? The thought made her shiver. Rumpelstiltskin saw her looking at the closed door and cleared his throat, uncomfortably. "Shall I help you upstairs?"

She would have liked to refuse this offer also, to have a moment alone to gather her thoughts, but the careful walk from the carriage had all but exhausted her. Nodding, Belle offered her arm as before. As before, he took it in dutiful silence.

Tired and upset, Belle caught herself imagining a future where her husband remained as courteous and remote as this - afraid of showing her his passion ever again, lest she see the ugliness of his rage. She forced herself to remember the first days after their wedding - the strain, the struggle that she had witnessed as Rumpelstiltskin came to understand that his wife required a husband. A companion and a lover. A friend?

Struggling to manage the stairs and struggling again not to let Rumpelstiltskin know it, Belle blinked and felt two hot tears spill down her face. What she wanted here and now was a friend, and though she loved her husband fiercely, Rumpelstiltskin was not that.

At the foot of the half-flight of stairs that led to her room, Belle paused to rest, her head bowed and her breath short. The ache had come back, deep down and dull, and she could feel that her rags were already sodden. There was nothing that she would have liked better than to strip off the cloak and the overlarge nightdress, and then lie in her bath with hot water up to her ears. But, by the time Rumpelstiltskin released her arm outside her room, Belle was shaking from head to foot and feeling quite sick with weakness.

Rumpelstiltskin did look at her, then; at her tearstained cheeks, at her untidy hair, and lastly into her eyes. Just for a moment, he dared to meet her eyes and Belle saw the rawness in his own. It was almost a comfort to know that he was as frightened as she.

He opened the door for her, then followed her slowly, uncertain of his welcome in her quarters.

Back to that again.

"I'll change and get straight into bed," Belle said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact about things as Martha and Wren did.

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin half turned to go, then turned back, his hands at his sides and wound around two tight handfuls of his dark cloak. "Should I send up your meal, or bring it to you?"

"You could eat with me," she pointed out, trying to speak gently but sounding only feeble. "I'd like that?" If Belle had not eaten since breakfast yesterday then she could be reasonably certain that Rumpelstiltskin had not done so either. "Something light?" she added, remembering that Wren had mentioned red meat, and suddenly imagining her husband roasting a side of beef in his urgency to make amends. "Eggs?"

"Of course." He gave her a jerky little half-bow and hurried out. It sounded to Belle as if he descended the steps at a near run, two at a time.

It took far too long to undress, to wash herself and to make herself comfortable in her creamy silk nightgown. Belle crawled to the middle of the bed, piled up the pillows in a haphazard attempt to make herself comfortable, then delved beneath the bedclothes for the hot water bottle, wrapping it in her sheepskin. Stuffed behind her back, among the pillows, it offered a soothing warmth that quickly eased away her aches to almost nothing.

Belle looked around her, once she was still, and found that it was a bright morning. The big windows filled her room with sunbeams, and the silence of the castle seemed to roar in her ears, drowning out any feeble attempt at thought. It was peaceful, and Belle was empty.

Rumpelstiltskin returned before very long, bearing a very large silver tray. When he set it on the bed beside her, Belle saw boiled eggs waiting in little silver cups, their tops sliced off; there was toasted bread, glistening with melted butter, and the silver teaset with two of its paper-thin, white porcelain cups and saucers. She smiled her thanks and her welcome, trying to catch Rumpelstiltskin's eye, but he left her bedside without a word and fetched a chair for himself from her sitting room.

His unease seemed to be more dread than grief, as he sat beside the bed and, obedient to her request, ate while she did. Afraid to put a foot wrong, Rumpelstiltskin was frozen, hiding himself away behind a new sort of mask, this one as placid as a pond, and as cool. Belle could only guess at what he saw when he chanced a glance at her face. Puffy eyes and a reddened nose, very probably. Could he see her sadness, her shame? Did she wear the bone-deep weariness or was that hidden away inside?

They each ate one egg and one thick slice of toast before Belle conceded defeat and put aside her plate. Rumpelstiltskin tidied the tray and poured her tea, and almost spilled everything when Belle reached out and put her hand over his among the cups. She could bear the distance between them no longer; better his venomous rage again than this tormented nothing!

"Are you still angry with me?" It had not been the question at the forefront of her mind. Belle had meant to ask if he was well, only to find the question to be hollow and pointless.

"No." Startled, disconcerted, Rumpelstiltskin turned his hand over, palm upwards, and let his fingers catch at hers. "Of course not. You were blameless."

He spoke tenderly. Relief filled Belle in a great, overwhelming flood, and brought her back to the verge of tears.

"I lost our child," she said, and then paused to hear herself say the words; to wonder at how steadily she said them.

"Blameless," Rumpelstiltskin repeated, his voice betraying all that hers did not. "I... did no harm, Belle," he said, stammering in his hurry to say the words. At last, at last, he looked her in the eye and did not flinch away again. "When I touched... when you took off your ring. I only... _looked_. I did nothing to cause this, I swear to you."

Some vicious little knot inside her unwound; a suspicion that had lain unformed, yet poison all the same. Belle nodded, her eyes brimming with tears at Rumpelstiltskin's words, at the plea in his eyes. He expected neither belief nor forgiveness. Like her, he had only wanted to hear the words said aloud.

"I know," she managed, her voice strangled to a whisper, nodding as she tried to reassure him. "It hurt before you came home, it hurt for days. I know." He nodded, very gently brushing her hand from the tray so that he could finish with the tea things. "I was afraid that it was because we... because I didn't rest. Wren says that's nonsense."

"It is." Rumpelstiltskin proffered her cup and saucer with steady hands. She wondered what that cost him. "Nonsense."

Belle had not known how thirsty she was until she sipped the hot tea. It was her favourite, the dark leaves that tasted both earthy and sweet, with a drop of milk added. He had made her a gift of it, hadn't he, just before Regina interfered?

She almost inhaled her next sip of tea.

"Gaston!"

Rumpelstiltskin shifted on the chair as though it were suddenly too hard for his backside.

"He's perfectly all right."

"But still in the dungeon?"

"Yes. I can't have him running around killing Regina."

Would Rumpelstiltskin simply release Gaston if she asked it of him? If she asked it today of all days? Possibly, but what then? There was still the question of why Gaston had said Rumpelstiltskin's name when questioned by the Queen's men, wasn't there? And he had unspoken secrets about the clerics and their fairy dust, their meddling - things that Rumpelstiltskin needed to know. Things that _Belle_ wanted to know.

"Promise me that you won't harm him?" she asked, instead. "Please. I think that he's been a proud fool, not... not our enemy." At her husband's snort of scorn, Belle sighed. "I hardly knew him," she confessed. "I didn't bother to know him, I admit it, but he... he had lace made for his baby brother, the one who would see him disowned and disinherited. I think his heart is good."

"Because of lace," Rumpelstiltskin said, his expression pained as he sought not to upset her, yet plainly thinking that her reasoning was quite mad.

"Yes," Belle said, lifting her cup again and tasting the welcome tea. A man who had a gift made for the child that might become his ruin could not have a black heart - she was sure of it. Gaston had not the imagination to despise the world the way Rumpelstiltskin did, nor to make it his toy as Queen Regina did. He was a soldier, first and last, and happiest when left to be so. How he had fallen in with a plot to undermine Rumpelstiltskin, Belle failed to imagine. It was difficult to imagine Gaston ever doing anything remotely _interesting_. "What does the mark on his skin mean?" Truly, she was too tired for this conversation, but Gaston was in the _dungeon_ , and wounded too. She could not simply close her eyes and wait until she felt stronger!

"It... is difficult to explain." Rumpelstiltskin's voice held a warning. A gentle one. "This isn't the time. I'll not harm him unless he forces my hand, I give you my word."

It was only half of the promise that she had sought, but better than none. Better for Gaston. He could probably do little to force Rumpelstiltskin's hand while locked away.

"Need he be in the dungeon?" she pressed, gently. "There are windowless rooms and the doors obey you. Couldn't he have a proper bed, and herbs for his wounds?"

"Is that how your father treats prisoners, my dear?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, lightly. Still that warning tone; he would go only so far to please her in this. Belle wondered if he, himself, knew how far.

"Ones of royal blood." Belle did not think that her father had ever had a prisoner of the blood royal, but she was sure that he would not have locked Duke Hubert's firstborn son in a dungeon like a common criminal, either. "If Gaston's been badly led, he might be glad to help us," she reasoned. "Help _me_. He's so set on rescuing me - let him. See if he'll help to rescue me from what's been happening in my new home, and to my husband."

The speech left her without the energy to debate further, but Rumpelstiltskin thought a while, then nodded.

"All right. A windowless room, and a bed." He rose, slowly, half reluctant to leave her and, Belle knew, half glad to go where he need not face her questions. "Rest," Rumpelstiltskin urged, and she nodded. She doubted very much that she could do anything else.

"And give him some light!" she called after him, with a moment of insight into how her husband's dark humour played itself out, if left unchecked. "Food and drink too!"

Rumpelstiltskin muttered something that she did not catch, on his way down the stairs.

Finishing her tea and pouring another cup, Belle wriggled further down the pillows and shut her eyes. She did not want to sleep all day lest she find herself awake all night; whatever her troubles, they always seemed ten times worse in the dark.

Although she did not particularly want to read, she delved beneath the pillows in search of a book. There was no sign of most of the heavy books of law that Rumpelstiltskin had left for her yesterday, but the one that she had been reading when Regina interrupted her was beneath her pillow now; the book of King Leopold's reformations. Did the castle _know_ which book she was reading? Belle found the thought disconcerting, then charming, and opened the book with one hand while holding a cup of tea in the other. And for the barest moment, for the first time, she forgot about blood and pain.

It lasted but a few moments - a few lines of the heavy printed text. Belle blinked, then, and supposed that this must always be how healing began; with moments of respite from the fretful questions and horrible memories. It made her sad, all the same. She could not simply allow herself to forget Rumpelstiltskin's actions, nor to pretend to herself - to him - that they did not matter. His mistrust ran bitter and deep, though he knew her to be blameless.

Blameless. She stared at the page, unseeing, and tried to believe it herself.

Belle dozed for a while, when the teapot was empty and the pages about property law too tedious even for her avid eyes. Memories of the past day formed her dreams, heavy and hurtful, so that she was glad when she snatched herself awake again, her heart racing from a fright that she could not quite remember.

It was several moments before she realised that Rumpelstiltskin had returned to his chair at her bedside, dressed now in a simple yellow shirt over black breeches and his least fussy boots. The breakfast tray had vanished while she slept, a pile of books now in its place. Belle rubbed her eyes and tried to smile, but she knew that it was a forced effort. Only a part of her was glad to see him there.

"You don't have to nurse me," she assured him, only to realise that she secretly wished that he would; that Rumpelstiltskin would stay near to fuss and dote on her. She did not want to be alone with her confusion, even if he himself was the main cause of it.

"I... I'll go, if you prefer," Rumpelstiltskin said, speaking lightly and carefully. Did he fear that he would find himself hurling hateful words at her again, if he did not measure out every one? "Wren said that you should be cared for." He gripped the arms of the chair, crossing and then uncrossing his legs. "I can fetch the woman, Martha. Your little favourite, the cheese girl?"

"No," Belle protested, as kindly as she could. "I only meant that you shouldn't sit and worry. There's nothing to be done." Uncertain of what he would do, she stretched out her arm and offered him her hand. Rumpelstiltskin took it at once, moving himself from the chair to the edge of the bed to be nearer. Then, becoming hesitant, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed her knuckles with the barest of kisses.

"Worry is the least that I can do," he said, his eyes downcast. "Your dukeling is in his new quarters. Fed and watered."

"Thank you." She gripped his fingers before letting her hand fall to rest on his knee. "Can you undo the magic that keeps him from telling what he knows?"

"Without harming him?" Rumpelstiltskin grimaced when she nodded. "Perhaps. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're well again."

Gallant words, but empty, and all the more hollow for the sense of defeat that enveloped her husband. He spoke them because he did not know what else to do.

"When I'm well again," Belle said, forced to concede that, for the moment, she must allow herself to be an invalid. "What happens then? Don't even think of trying to send me away," she said, before he could reply. "Wren's right, you know. You wed me, now you're stuck with me."

Rumpelstiltskin all but squirmed where he sat, but his hand crept towards hers and then captured it, tenderly, and Belle was certain that he no more wanted to be rid of her than she wanted to go.

"You overheard."

"I eavesdropped," Belle confessed. "Since you were talking about me."

Rumpelstiltskin coloured, leaving Belle to wonder about the part of the conversation that she had _not_ overheard. "You asked Wren if there was any hope for the child," she prompted, softly.

A tight, reluctant nod. He ran his thumb across the back of her knuckles. Frustration began to pick away at Belle's warm concern for him. How could she know his heart if he shied away from sharing the truth with her? _Why_ did he do so? "Did you _want_ there to be?"

"I don't know." It was such a simple answer, and spoken in such a small voice, that Belle truly believed him. "I don't know what to do, Belle. I don't know how to make this right."

"So you wish that I'd go away, instead, and let you go back to being all alone and so sure of everything." Belle meant the words kindly, but they sounded harsh, weighed down with her fatigue and sadness. "I'm in the way of some great plan and you don't know what to do. You wish you could take it all back, don't you? Our wedding. Our love."

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, swallowing convulsively, but even silence could lie. "Well, you can't," Belle told him. "I'm here, I'm your wife, and this happened. It's no good wishing otherwise." Her hand had begun to sweat, clutching at his. She was so afraid that he would flee if she let him go.

To her surprise, a faint smile lifted one corner of Rumpelstiltskin's mouth instead. He almost braved a glance at her face.

"You sound like Wren," he said.

"Compliments," Belle said, fighting a smile. "That's better."

Tentative hope began to ease Rumpelstiltskin's strained expression. He brought her hand to his lips again, and kissed her knuckles.

"Can you forgive me?"

Could she? Yesterday seemed more a nightmare than real to her, but there were moments of unwelcome, vivid recollection. His rage, above all, and the hands that grasped and shook her. She _wanted_ to forgive him, but that wasn't the same, was it?

"I must know why," she decided. "Why you have such anger in you. Why you let it poison your heart when you could be happy. I do love you." Belle had never known that those words could be said in sorrow, and shook her head as if she could shake away the wretchedness of that. "But I don't think I know you at all."

"No," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, defeated again. "I don't think you do."

"I want to." Belle wanted the comfort of his arms, not clumsy and inadequate words. More than that, she wanted to comfort _him_ , because his misery upset her most of all. "Why do you always expect me to turn around and hate you?"

"Well, I'm a difficult man to love." He said it matter-of-factly enough, though not without a trace of his bitter wit. "Don't tell me you think otherwise."

"I suppose not," she said, reluctantly. Difficult to love? It seemed that she could not _help_ loving him. Difficult to like, to admire, to understand, to _live_ with... but to love? "I don't think that love is as sensible as that. Should I run back to my father because my husband is a difficult man to love?"

"You could." He could not look at her, saying that. "Or anywhere you'd rather go."

Belle tilted her head, studying his face. Rumpelstiltskin looked tired. He looked _old_ , and Belle knew again that Wren had been right when she said that Rumpelstiltskin's life had been a heavy one. Hope, for him, was a crushed and feeble thing that did not come easily, as it did for Belle. How easily would such a small hope as his be extinguished?

"I'd rather stay. Just let me _understand_. Please?" There was a quaver in the question. Whatever would she do if he refused her now, and kept his dark secrets, his secret reasons for his doubts? Could she ask him for so much trust when he had known her for scant weeks? Could she ask him simply because he had made her his wife?

Wren thought so, and that gave her courage as she waited in silence, her fingers toying with Rumpelstiltskin's as if that small touch could prove anything.

After far too long, Rumpelstiltskin nodded a jerky nod. Such visible reluctance would have had Belle in tears again had he not dragged her hand back to his lips and kissed, kissed, kissed as though he couldn't bear to go on without kissing her. What he had no words for he had always been able to give to her with kisses.

"Rumple..." Belle opened her arms, pleading, and Rumpelstiltskin came to her. He scrambled across books and bedclothes to be beside her, to gather her into his arms as he knelt there. He held her as if his slightest touch might snap her in two; she slipped her arms around his neck and held on as though she would fall if she ever let go. She couldn't keep back her tears, all mingled misery and relief. Rumpelstiltskin stroked her back, timidly at first and then in slow, soothing sweeps while she sobbed and clung to him.

When she was quiet again and dared to loosen her arms, he settled her back among the pillows and withdrew his hands, sitting back on his heels. He produced the handkerchief that she had sewn for him and watched with anxious eyes while she dabbed her face dry. How he hated to see her cry! Her weeping had left his shirt damp at the shoulder and her own head feeling as though she had stuffed it with straw.

"I haven't the heart to blow my nose in it," she said, giving him back the black handkerchief.

"Here, then." A slight flicker of his fingers and he offered her another, this one her own, cream cotton and fine lace. Belle blew her nose and used the handkerchief to conceal her smile at the way Rumpelstiltskin carefully folded the black one upon his knee before returning it to wherever he kept it, beneath his shirt. He treasured it. He treasured her. He would, she could almost believe, have treasured any child that came to them.

Would he tell her, about Baelfire? Lost and not dead, even after so very long? Belle had worn herself out too much to ask him now. She groped behind her to dislodge the stone bottle, tucking it instead against her hip, and lay amongst the pillows, her hand in her husband's while her eyes grew heavy, and then her mind with them, and she slept, deeply and oblivious to the world.

~+~

It was dark when Rumpelstiltskin woke her, shaking her gently by the shoulder. Belle smelled savoury food at once, and her mouth watered in spite of her before she had even set eyes upon the laden tray.

"Try to eat?"

"Yes." It smelled delicious, whatever he had made for her. For the moment it remained a mystery beneath a silvered dome, and the call of nature was stronger than her appetite. Slipping out of bed on the far side, Belle saw that there were already stars in the sky outside. Disconcerted, gripping the bedpost until she had her feet under her, she looked around. Candles and a roaring fire. "How long was I asleep?"

"Many hours. I thought... I'm sorry to wake you. Wren said that it was important that you eat and drink."

"Yes," Belle agreed, dreamy without remembering a single one of her dreams. She made her way slowly to the bathing room, shuffling past Rumpelstiltskin without looking at him. "Yes, of course." She closed the door behind her and took her time about her business, trying to let her mind become as awake as her body suddenly was.

There was perhaps a little less blood than before. Certainly there was less pain than before, and once she washed her face and cleaned her teeth, Belle felt very much better. Not stronger - she still felt as though she had been wrung out all over, but more herself. Belle again, with a nightmare behind her rather than all about her, smothering.

She let the castle's magic clean her cloths for her, seeing that she would need more before the old ones could be washed and dried again. Magic or no, she took a thick towel back to the bed with her as well, and barely blushed while Rumpelstiltskin watched her spread it in the middle of the mattress. He was used enough by now to her being fastidious in some things, and knew full well that she preferred to prevent a thing rather than have magic mend it later.

"I brought medicine," he said, when Belle had returned to the bed. She sat cross-legged and brought the tray in front of her, lifting the cover and smiling at what she saw. She'd been half afraid that he had made her a feast, but it was only two small chops of lamb beside a pile of boiled potato. "I wasn't sure what you might like," Rumpelstiltskin confessed, when he saw her looking at the food.

"I like everything that you cook for me," she pointed out. It was true. Every dish he had prepared with his own hands had been welcome and enjoyed, and not only because he had thought to do it for her sake. Her husband, whatever else he might be, was a competent cook who took a quiet pleasure in providing for her. And without resorting to magic, too. "Don't you want any?"

"No." Rumpelstiltskin hesitated, seeming poised to go, but then lowered himself into the chair that he'd left beside the bed. "Your cat helped herself to a raw lamb chop."

Belle laughed, a morsel of meat on her fork. "She knows her own mind. I hope you didn't scold her. She takes very good care of her kits."

"I gave her another chop," Rumpelstiltskin said, looking glum, as if he felt that stealing from the mighty Dark One ought to carry more of a punishment. Belle thought that if it did, it would be wasted on a cat. "Their eyes are open. The kits. She's getting hair in my straw."

Smiling, Belle tasted the meat. She had been afraid that she would not manage it, but the tender lamb went down easily enough. Rumpelstiltskin had brought the teaset again, this time with the other cups, decorated with blue and gold. His was chipped.

"Surely you can spin cat hair into gold?"

"I can spin anything into gold," he said, drumming his fingers on the arm rests. "I like straw."

Belle ate all that she could, but was glad to push the plate away and reach instead for a cup of freshly poured tea. Rumpelstiltskin already held his own cup, his fingers steepled around it and his expression soft as he lost himself in idle thought, waiting for her to finish.

"Thank you," she said, by way of attracting his notice. Rumpelstiltskin smiled, faintly, and leaned across to help her move the plate away and the tea things nearer to her. "Perhaps I should leave the kitchen to you? You're a better cook than I'll ever be."

"It pleases you?"

"It's kind of you," Belle said, wondering if he had even noticed it himself. "To indulge me."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, awkwardly, and poured them each another cup of dark tea. Neither of them took theirs back from the tray.

"I want to be kind to you. Be the husband you deserve." His tone was hushed, careful. Belle wondered what had been in his thoughts all day, and if he had struggled with what to say and what to feel, just as she had. "I should never have married you, Belle."

The breath went out of her with the sting of it, but her capacity for hurt seemed diminished by recent events. It struck her and then faded, one more layer of dull disappointment, like gathering dust upon her hopes and dreams.

"Oh," she managed, not having the first idea of what to say. She had known that he felt that way, of course. She'd known it all along.

"But I did," Rumpelstiltskin went on, his voice strained and so quiet that she had to strain, in turn, to hear him. "And the old woman is right, the choice must be yours. I owe you that, and so much more. I couldn't be the husband Milah wanted. I will try to be the husband you deserve."

It was such a promise, each quiet word driving home his sincerity, yet his shoulders were drooped and rounded, his head bowed. He spoke in defeat, in surrender, not with love or joy. He spoke of obligation, and Belle's breath hitched in her throat as she remembered how it felt to face a future made up entirely of that.

"You said that you loved me," she protested, her throat hurting, tightening.

"I do. Oh, sweetheart, I do," Rumpelstiltskin said, lifting his head to look at her, mortified that he had left her in any doubt of it. He moved himself across from the chair to the bed, careless of the tray. Tea spilled into the saucers, then onto the tray itself, while Rumpelstiltskin sought both of Belle's hands and held them in her lap, his expression pleading. Pleading for understanding, or for something else? Belle had to blink away tears. So many tears in so short a time, and she hated to cry. "There are things that I must do. Terrible things. And you make me sorry for it."

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were full of tears, too. Belle didn't doubt him, couldn't disbelieve him. She nodded, her own tears falling onto their joined hands.

"Because of your son. Because of Baelfire."

"Yes." As before, Rumpelstiltskin lifted her hands to his face. Both hands, this time, and the kisses were so light that she barely felt the brush of his lips. "I'm so sorry, Belle. I'll tell you all of it, and..." She felt his staccato breath against her fingers, and freed her left hand to stroke his hair. Moved to soothe him, more than ever, because she could see - could almost _feel_ \- what such honesty cost him. He turned his head, rubbing against her palm and closing his eyes before he sat back, out of her reach, his hands twisting together in his lap. "And then it's your choice. I won't stand in your way. I promise."

Belle nodded. Wasn't that precisely what she'd wanted from him? Not like this, not in grief, but for the choice to be hers. His trust to be hers. His heart in her hands, too?

"Come to bed," she said, patting the mattress to her left. "I'm so tired, Rumple. Please." Here and now, _that_ was all that she wanted from him; his warmth, his presence. His arms, his comfort. He chose now, _now_ to offer her truth and choice? She could have _hit_ him for that, if only she had the strength. "We'll talk about it in the morning."


	93. Overcast

The next day was overcast, with a heavy, black sky matching Belle's mood to perfection. She left Rumpelstiltskin sleeping and went to bathe, sighing in relief as she sank into the steaming hot water. If she could do nothing else to lift her spirits then she could make herself clean.

Her hair had suffered from recent neglect and remained tangled even after she poured on one of Lotte's lotions. Those had always seemed to be half magical, to Belle, but today she could not coax the tangles out with her fingers no matter what she tried. Blowing out her cheeks, giving up on her hair once she was clean, she dried herself quickly and wrapped herself up in towels against the chill.

There was definitely a little less blood coming, today. Belle saw no reason why she should not be up and about, so she dressed herself in her favourite blue outfit with its neat silvered shoes. Beneath the dress she wore a warm blouse of white cotton that fastened at her throat and wrists, and reminded herself that she needed to shorten a warm petticoat for cooler days. Even with warm stockings, there was an unwelcome creep of chill beneath the skirts.

Rumpelstiltskin slept through all of it, face down and half hidden among the scattered pillows. He had tossed and turned for much of the night, Belle knew, trying to oblige her by staying beside her when he did not care to sleep himself. His nearness had been a comfort, all the same, even when she lay awake in the small hours and her thoughts turned dark, revealing all her doubts. Doubts about him, about love, about their marriage. Even then, his hand at the small of her back and his concerned murmur had been a comfort.

Belle sat on her trunk and dried her hair, then did her best to work a comb through the tangles. Each fresh knot frustrated her, until she could have hurled the comb across the room and shouted out loud. She was almost in tears by the time Rumpelstiltskin came to the foot of the bed and, gently, took the comb from her clumsy fingers.

"May I?" She could feel him poised behind her, in the act of reaching for her hair. He would draw it back, let it fall through his hands as it fell heavy against her shoulders, and he would untangle her with all the patience that the task required. A prospect which had once melted her heart now left her feeling lost.

"Please," she said, and thought that she heard the faintest sigh of relief from behind her. Rumpelstiltskin did exactly as she had imagined, letting the weight of her hair drag it through his hands to fall against her back, wet and cold. She shuddered. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"I should thank you," Rumpelstiltskin assured her.

"Bad dreams?"

"Yes. Always." He drew his fingers through a hank of her hair in the wake of the comb, spreading and freeing the strands. "How are you feeling?"

Belle gave a harsh little laugh that startled her as much as her petulance concerning her hair. "I don't know."

She felt brittle and half broken by it all, and too painfully aware that her husband's arms would not be comfort enough in the cold light of day. No amount of his tender care would be balm enough for her wounds, today. She sat and allowed him to tend her hair, anyway. It soothed Rumpelstiltskin to play with her hair and she found that she did not begrudge him that. Besides, she wanted the knots out.

"You're getting up today?" Rumpelstiltskin spoke cautiously, but did not manage to hide his unhappiness.

"I need to be busy. Useful. I can't just lie here." Gesturing to the room, which had yesterday seemed so welcoming and so calming, Belle felt a dreadful resentment now. "I'm not ill," she declared, letting old obstinacy mask her unsavoury mood. "I've bled before. Every month since I was a girl."

"Of course," he agreed, too quickly, and then Belle resented him too. She barely knew herself, any more than during those awful days spent weeping before she knew...

Before she'd suspected that her fragile mood was more than mere foolish self-indulgence. It wasn't as if there had truly been a child, was it? Wren was right about one thing; she might never have suspected, left to herself.

But where did that leave her? Without Rumpelstiltskin's condemnation, without these bruises on her upper arms, and without knowing that her husband had so little faith in her, beneath the surface of his careful, careful love.

It was better to know the truth of him, wasn't it? Better this horrid hurt than ignorance? It was only that, for a while, it had been such _happy_ ignorance, wrapped up in Rumpelstiltskin's passion.

"There," he said, smoothing down her hair with the flat of his hand. It was not quite a caress. "Such beautiful hair."

"Don't," she said, standing up too quickly. He could undo her so easily with words such as those, and she could not let her resolve fade away. He had promised her truths, and she needed them. She prayed that they could lead her to understanding, because without that there would always be doubt.

Regretting her sharp tone, Belle turned to look at Rumpelstiltskin. She had expected his head to be bowed, his expression to be that of a man struck, but he watched her, steadily.

"Whatever else is true," Rumpelstiltskin said, setting aside her comb and reaching for her. "You are beautiful." Belle gave him her hands without thinking. To reach out for him, to bring him closer to her - she had done so from the start. Was it habit now, or was there need? Hers, or his?

Belle felt anything but beautiful, after poor sleep and so many tears. But she was clean again, neatly turned out again, and that was better than before. She nodded, trying to take his flattery as it was meant.

"I'll have breakfast by myself," she said, resisting the urge to pull her hands from his. To run from his sight, and from that bruised and battered hope that she could see in his eyes. Why did he have to have such expressive eyes? "I want to be by myself. For a little while."

"Yes, of course." If Belle was not ready to hear Rumpelstiltskin's tale then perhaps he felt no more ready to tell it. He looked almost relieved, kneeling there in his nightgown. The black one that looked so well on him, and which he'd left folded beneath her pillows for the first time, not a day ago. Belle fussed with the collar for a moment, trying to feel stronger and braver than she was. "I thought that if there was love then everything would be all right," she explained, without knowing quite how her thoughts took that path. A moment ago they had been headed towards a simple breakfast and a pot of tea. "You always knew that it wouldn't be. You tried to warn me."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, without the least trace of a smug 'I told you so'. He looked so concerned for her, and Belle could not find it in herself to comfort or reassure him. He had not placed any faith in her promises before, so why should he now? "Where is Gaston?"

He blinked, releasing her and sitting back on his heels.

"The room beside your cats."

Belle frowned, trying to recall which one that was.

"You locked him up with your gold thread?"

"It has plenty of room," Rumpelstiltskin said, shrugging. "The gold seemed to unnerve him."

"He thinks that your magic is the blackest evil imaginable," Belle said, crossly. "Of course it unnerved him. That's exactly what you wanted."

"I left him where he could be quickly fed and watered," he said, losing his patience. Just barely, but it was enough of a reminder of his cruelty that Belle recoiled, her feet wanting to run. Not in fear, she realised, watching him subside and look ashamed. She wanted to run so that he would not see how he upset her.

"Then I'll give him breakfast," she said, turning away. "And another chance to tell me what he knows."

"He cannot, my sweet," Rumpelstiltskin said. He came to her, silent-footed and still wearing only his nightgown. It was quite hard to be at all frightened of a man in his _nightgown_. He looked so ordinary, so harmless. "I've discovered that he didn't lie about that. His tongue is bound. He might be able to speak, but the words would choke the life from him before he was finished telling all he knows."

"Why must magic be so devious?" she demanded, recalling how Gaston had promised, on his knees before her, to say what he could if she made it her price. "So cruel?"

"Because people shape it," her husband said, simply. Flatly. It was no great revelation to him. Belle nodded, sighing. He was right; magic was neither devious nor cruel. People were. Magic was merely relentless. "Belle," Rumpelstiltskin said, catching at her arm with his fingertips as she turned to leave him. "Before you speak to him..."

She turned back again and watched him, neither patient nor impatient. She did not know what to feel. "You need to know about the mark." Rumpelstiltskin gestured to his hip, the place where Gaston had that small and seemingly inoffensive tattoo. "You need to be on your guard."

"No, I don't," she said, feeling another tiny weight add itself to too many others, crushing her. "It's Gaston. You might be afraid of him, but I'm not."

They stared at one another, utterly at odds, until Belle turned and walked away.

The fragile, empty feeling reminded her of the last days of the siege at home. It was as though she had filled up with so much emotion that she had no room for it to move; it was just a meaningless knot of unpleasant feeling that settled below her ribs and hurt slightly when she drew a breath. There was no fear, no anger - nothing so sharp and obvious as that to guide her. There was sadness and a vague, sick resentment that was neither aimed at Rumpelstiltskin nor at herself. She was both agitated and exhausted, and if she was honest with herself then the last thing she wanted to do - the very last thing - was to speak to Gaston.

Belle braced herself before opening the door to the great room. As she had half expected, everything there had been set to rights. It was as if Rumpelstiltskin's whirlwind of anger had never been, and the sense of resentment in her deepened. It was cheating to sweep away the damage like that - to pretend that no such thing had ever taken place. It had, and he had grabbed her there by the table, and shaken her so hard that he left bruises, and poured the acid of his paranoia over her open heart. She stopped and looked at the spot. On the table, her rose in its pewter vase had dropped three petals and was drooping. He had not been able to mend that.

Her kitchen was not quite as she had left it. The generous chairs at the table now sported cushions, bright things, tied to the chairs. Belle wondered if it was supposed to cheer her up, until she saw the grey cat curled up, nose to tail, in the place where Rumpelstiltskin sat. Smiling without needing to try, Belle leaned over and stroked the soft head, earning a warm, interested sound from the cat as she opened her eyes.

"Where are your little ones?" Belle asked, looking around. She did not think that the mother would have wandered so far from them and gone to sleep. Had she moved them again? But no - the kits were in their nest of straw at the foot of one of the large drifts, lined up and sound asleep. The cat wound around Belle's ankles in the doorway of the storeroom before going back to the kittens and stretching herself out beside them in the straw. Her purr could have shaken the walls it was so deep and so loud.

The kittens had grown, Belle could see, and they pushed forward to find food with more vigour than before, making high-pitched sounds when thwarted by a sibling or their own lack of direction. Beside the door, minced chicken glistened in the golden bowl. "Minced chicken and lamb chops," she said, and the mother cat lifted her head and pricked up her ears when spoken to. "He spoils me too."

Next to the room of straw was a room filled with gold. Almost all of it was thread, wound onto spools with the spinner's meticulous care and then simply discarded as of no further interest to him. Belle had found it startling, herself, and wondered what Gaston must make of it. Locked in there overnight, even he had surely had time to ponder the question. Everyone knew that Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold, and nobody ever asked themselves what he did with it all.

There was a magical barrier at the door. Belle could feel the tingle on her skin when she drew close to it, and it felt strangely hot and cold when she placed her hand against the door. It was no strongroom, for all that it was piled with treasure; it was merely a utilitarian room behind the kitchens. It might once have stored barrels or vegetables, or perhaps housed servants so as to have them near to the kitchen and to the fire that always needed tending.

She was faintly surprised that the door opened when she lifted the latch. Rumpelstiltskin could easily have kept her out, given that she had ignored his warning and his wishes. Belle wasn't sure whether or not to be glad that he allowed her to have her way. Gaston could be... single minded.

Gaston sprang to his feet when she entered the room. Belle had forgotten how impossibly tall he was, and felt her cheeks warm a little as it occurred to her to wonder how a small woman and a large man went about... well. How would she ever have been supposed to kiss him? She could draw Rumpelstiltskin down or meet him by standing on tiptoes. To peck Gaston on the cheek, she would have needed to stand on a stool.

He was staring at her, and glancing past her, expecting Rumpelstiltskin.

"I was afraid that he'd killed you," he said, when it became clear to him that they were alone.

Rumpelstiltskin had given Gaston clothing to replace the bloodied and torn rag in which Belle had last seen him. In a brown linen tunic over undyed trousers he looked unimposing, for all his height and bearing. She was used to seeing him in armour, or in court dress, and proudly bearing a weapon at that.

"He objects to husbands who harm their wives," Belle told him, primly. "How are your wounds?"

"Much better," Gaston answered, warily. "He gave me medicine."

Belle nodded her approval and looked at the other preparations. There was a wooden cot that looked comfortable enough, for all that it was too low and too short for Gaston's long legs. There was a blanket, a pillow and a bucket. At the foot of the bed, an empty tray held the crumbs of what seemed a generous enough meal. She nodded again, satisfied.

"You're safe as long as you don't defy him," she told him. "If I make you breakfast will you try to run away?"

She had chosen the words with care; Gaston was almost incapable of failing to respond to such a challenge to his honour.

"I would not be so discourteous," he said, drawing himself up proudly.

"Come on then," Belle said, turning to go. She did not much mind whether he followed her or not; she only hoped that the magic would allow him to pass, in her company, otherwise she was going to look rather foolish when she wanted to appear composed and confident.

"He took me from the dungeon," Gaston said, hurrying after her. To her relief, he passed into the passage and seemed unaware of any magic. "I was groggy. I woke up here... with all this gold."

"He makes gold," Belle said, leading him back to the kitchen. She felt a quiet pride in her kitchen, her place of warmth and learning, but suspected that Gaston would sneer. "He has to keep it somewhere."

"From... straw," Gaston said, uncertainly. "That's true?"

"Oh, yes." There was a faint and vindictive pleasure in all of this. Belle wondered if she was experiencing a distant echo of how Rumpelstiltskin experienced the world - of his heartless sense of fun. "What you need to remember about my husband is that it's not wise to make a deal with him," she said, relenting a bit when she turned and saw Gaston looking around the kitchen like a man who'd never seen one before. It was possible that he had not. "And having made one, it's insanity to break it."

"Is that why you won't leave with me?" he asked, gruffly, doing a poor job of hiding his discomfort. He always had; she had always unnerved him, just by speaking her mind.

"No," Belle said, taking the kettle to the pump and filling it. "I won't leave because I keep my word. I gave my word to marry him if he spared our people."

"You gave your word to marry me!"

"No, I didn't." She put the kettle on the hotplate, then turned to regard him, steadily. "My father gave you his word. I didn't have the courage to protest."

"But the courage to run off with the beast!" Gaston spread his hands, softening his petulance with a show of naked incomprehension. "I saw how he treats you!"

Oh yes. Gaston _saw_. Belle shooed him aside so that she could go to the larder. "You carry his child and he threatens you! Do you think that I would have done that?"

Belle put her hands on her hips and regarded the shelves of her ever-fresh larder, then the sacks and bins beneath. Porridge, she decided. Porridge with milk and cream, and she would crush a sugar cube over it the way her nurse used to when she was sad. She dipped a bowl into the sack of oats, took the milk jug and went back past the immobile Gaston to put them on the table.

"I'm not carrying his child," she said, flatly. "And he didn't threaten me in the least."

Truth itself could be a liar, it seemed. She felt ashamed of herself, and had to remind herself sternly that she owed Gaston nothing. She would have done what she could for any prisoner of Rumpelstiltskin, simply because she did not believe in his methods, or believe that they were necessary. "Please sit down, Gaston," she said, mixing oats and milk in one of her small pans with a wooden spoon. "You're looming."

Polite, but remaining wary, Gaston seated himself at the head of the table. Belle frowned at that, but it _was_ the nearest chair, and Rumpelstiltskin currently had no use for it.

"He makes you cook?"

"He doesn't make me do anything," Belle answered, stirring her pot over the heat. "I can feed you by magic, if you prefer."

"No," Gaston said, stiffly. "Thank you."

"Well then."

She began to feel more herself at last, as she stood and stirred the porridge. She might not know what her future held or what her husband intended, but Belle knew where she was with Gaston. Whatever his secrets, he was still Gaston - a simple man who thought in clear, straight lines.

"Why did your father disown you, truly?" Gaston was almost thirty years old, and Belle did not believe for a moment that his paternity was the reason for such a decision on the Duke's part. The stated reason, perhaps, but not _the_ reason. She ladled porridge into two bowls and carried them to the table, then went back to fetch spoons and a jug of thick, yellow cream. Gaston had not spoken by the time she returned and took her place. His brow was all furrows, his heavy eyebrows drawn almost together in the middle as he regarded his dish intently. "Would he have done so before, if there had been another son to take your place?"

"Yes," Gaston said, and for a moment his air of dignity was not mere affectation. He took up his spoon, and tasted the porridge with all the caution of a man expecting poison. Belle had barely any more enthusiasm for her own, but ate anyway. "I was not the son he required," Gaston said, after a while. "It's not enough to be a soldier in these complicated times."

 _That_ sounded like the Duchess. Gaston's mother was given to sweeping statements, to dismissals.

"But you _are_ his son?"

"Of course I am." Gaston pushed porridge around his dish, still frowning. "I am your prisoner, then?"

"Not mine," Belle said. "I can't stop you leaving. But Rumpelstiltskin can."

Gaston flinched visibly when she spoke the name. Many people did - it was not that unusual perhaps, but then she remembered his horror in the cell when he suspected her of using magic. Of _having_ magic. The Duke was known for his efforts to purge their kingdom of all magical influence, and King George had needed Hubert's treasure too much to stand in his way. Their kingdom would never again be ruled by magic; Belle had grown up simply knowing it to be the case. So had Gaston. Had he also been raised with a revulsion towards _all_ magic, or was it Rumpelstiltskin in particular whose power offended him? "It's only a name," she said, as kindly as she could. As pompous and prideful as Gaston was, at least she knew him a little. A familiar face, a familiar voice, was very welcome this morning. Even his.

"No," Gaston said, and put his hand to his throat in sudden discomfort. "It's not." He coughed, a dry and uncomfortable cough. Was that the magic? Would he choke on his own words if he tried to betray the secrets he held?

Belle went to lift the kettle from the heat and to make a pot of tea. Gaston might not be wrong about Rumpelstiltskin's name, she thought, spooning leaves into the pot. People called him Spinner, Dark One and even Lord to avoid speaking his true name aloud. Even Regina, dripping contempt for Rumpelstiltskin's person, called him 'Rumple' rather than saying his name. Belle had never allowed herself to be cowed by a mere word. She had spoken the name and Rumpelstiltskin had come to her. She had said his name each time she confronted his reluctance, his misunderstandings. And here they were.

"My husband has been challenged by some outside force," Belle said. Gaston might not be able to speak, but _she_ could. "Mischief at first, here on his lands. Then murder. Then the attempt to take me from him under my father's roof. If nothing else then you know about that part, but I think you know more, Gaston. I think you know why, and who, and I even think that you want to tell me. Children have been murdered, and no man of honour turns a blind eye to that."

"Children?" he asked, the crease in his high brow one of puzzlement, this time. "And not his work?"

"No." Belle had never questioned it. She had seen Rumpelstiltskin upon his return from Odstone, that night when they arrived too late. She had see him sleepless; slipped her arms around him in the night with the comfort that he could not ask for, even from his own wife. He was Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One, and he had no heart. Everyone knew that. And invulnerable to harm; everyone knew that about him, too. "Is there anything that you _can_ tell me?"

Gaston was not a man of words. Belle herself might have been able to outwit the magic that controlled what she could and could not say. Rumpelstiltskin would have danced rings around it. But Gaston...

"I admire your courage," he said, shaming her own thoughts into stillness. "Your sacrifice turned the tide of the war. Prince James says that you should receive a knighthood."

It took Belle several long seconds to realise that Gaston had repeated that information in jest; there was a twinkle in his eye! No doubt there had been one in the eye of Prince James at the time. She laughed.

"Women should be knights," she said, pushing Gaston's teacup towards him. "And squires and surgeons and armourers, and masters of horse. The only thing stopping us is that men are afraid we'd be good at it."

It was exactly the kind of remark that had caused the Duchess to look as if Belle had offered her a lemon to suck on. Gaston only nodded, sagely, to show that he was listening. "Prince James thought that you were afraid of something," she told him, and when Gaston looked mortified, she held up a placating hand over their porridge. "He didn't judge you to be a coward. He was concerned for you, and hoped that I'd speak on your behalf."

"The Prince is kind," Gaston muttered, the redness creeping from his cheeks to his ears. "He saw my father's intentions without being told. He sees much."

"Yes," Belle agreed. "Tell me why you tried to kill Regina?"

If she had hoped to surprise an answer from him then she was disappointed. Gaston glared at her, then quickly looked away. "Assassination is the work of a coward," she said. "Like ambushing a woman with a handful of magic dust. I thought better of you."

Provoking his indignation worked no better than the surprise. Gaston pushed away his half-eaten meal and got up, stalking back towards his cell.

"Sending his wife to do his work is not beneath the Dark One, it seems," he said, without looking back.

Belle listened, wondering if Gaston would search for a way out. He would find the door to the kitchen garden, if he did, but it would not let him pass. Not even if he found the key. Instead, after a short while, she heard the slam of the storeroom door.

Well, what had she expected? Sighing, Belle finished her porridge and drank some tea. Even if Gaston chose to tell what he knew, it would require magic to free his tongue. And if that meant doing him harm, Rumpelstiltskin would not hesitate. Except for Belle's sake.

She put on an apron and washed dishes, grateful for the mindlessness of the chore. She felt lost here, in what had become her own home, and wondered as she worked if she was doing the right thing by staying. She _wanted_ to stay, whether that was through love, duty, stubbornness or pride; she wanted Rumpelstiltskin beside her, even while she could not look at him without remembering his snarling contempt and loathsome words. But was it right to stay?

The Dark Castle was full of gold and bristled with weapons. She could go. Buy a horse. Seek out adventure and see the world just as she had always dreamed. Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't stop her. She could leave him to his dark secrets and simply _go_.

The very thought of it was like a fist closing around her heart. If there was pain in staying then there would be a greater hurt in going, knowing that her love was here.

Belle wept again, over her dishes. Whatever Rumpelstiltskin told her, whatever he planned, she would make certain that she was equal to it but now... here and now in her kitchen, by herself, she felt small and hurt, and frightened of what was to come.


	94. A Woman's Tears

Before she was halfway up the kitchen stairs, Belle heard the faint _creak_ of Rumpelstiltskin's spinning wheel. She paused, her hand against the stone wall as she resisted the urge to turn and retreat to her kitchen again rather than face her husband.

 _Courage,_ she told herself and took a steadying breath, waiting until her pounding heart settled before continuing to the top of the stairs. The door to the great hall stood ajar. Enough for Rumpelstiltskin to have overheard her discussion with Gaston, below? How good _was_ his hearing?

Doing her best to appear composed, even if she felt anything but, Belle pushed the door open and entered.

Rumpelstiltskin stood up slowly, the gleam of golden thread slipping from his hand, forgotten. He wore a tight leather jerkin over yesterday's yellow-gold shirt, pinched at the waist to emphasise his trim figure. Belle had grown so used to her desire for him. It had come to her so easily and stayed with her through all these past weeks. It was a shock, now, to feel nothing of passion when she set eyes on him; to recognise that his clothing flattered the body that she knew so intimately, that he had perhaps dressed to please her eye, and yet to feel... nothing.

She was empty of desire. And of love? That didn't slip away so easily, did it? Belle couldn't find it, all the same, beneath the smothering unhappiness. The weariness.

"Gaston has gone back to his prison," she said, approaching the dais but stopping halfway across the carpet. "I'm sure that he wants to tell me something. He didn't know about the boys in Odstone."

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated, then gave a stiff nod.

"Then I'll have to find a way to let him tell us what he knows," he said, and stepped down from the dais with deliberate slowness. It was as if he sought not to alarm her with his approach. Did he fear that she would bolt?

 _Belle_ feared that she would bolt. But why? Confusion added another brittle and unwelcome layer to her unhappiness. One moment she craved her husband's arms, the next she could hardly bear to face him, as though _she_ were the one who had done this careless harm. If she was at fault then it lay in not seeing to the safety of their child above all else. Did he blame her for that? He had given no sign of it. Why blame her for the loss of a child that he'd rejected out of hand?

They needed understanding and Belle barely knew where to begin. She was so tired.

"What is it that you're going to tell me?" she asked him, watching him as he approached her. He stopped just near enough that she could have stretched out her arm to touch him, or he her. He looked uncertain, nervous. There was a war going on in his eyes and she could see that it had no victor. They needed a truce and there hadn't even been a battle.

Belle would rather have gone back up to her room and locked the door, or climbed up to the library and lost herself among the books.

"About my son," Rumpelstiltskin said. The stark simplicity of it startled her the most. She had expected evasive words, compromises, cleverness. A _deal_. Instead there was a little nod that caused the curls to shift about Rumpelstiltskin's ears, and a look of cautious hope. If Belle's loins didn't ache for her husband then her fingers, at least, itched to touch his soft hair - to tuck a little of it back behind his ears so that she could better see his face. His eyes. "It's all about Baelfire. My sweet boy." His voice became a whisper on those last words. He swallowed hard, suddenly unable to meet her gaze any more. "I lost him. And I have to get him back."

Belle felt almost relieved. She had been so afraid that he would reveal a darkness beyond her comprehension - something beyond her capability to forgive and to love; that it would be a secret so deeply mired in magic that she would not be able to understand. A lost boy and a sorrowing father - she could understand that well enough.

"Why is that such a dreadful secret?" she asked, trying to sound gentle. But her vision began to blur and not, for once, with unshed tears. She swayed on her feet and hurried to the table, to brace her hands against it for support as the room reeled about her, sickening her. "I'm sorry," she managed, feeling Rumpelstiltskin's arm across her back. His warmth. "I will listen, I want to understand, I just..."

Her knees went from under her. Rumpelstiltskin caught her easily and lifted her, tucking her against his chest. Belle wanted to protest, to argue that she could manage and that she wasn't an invalid, but even her tongue would not obey her. She let her head rest on Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder and shut her eyes, letting him carry her. Even so, the anger rose up - first at Rumpelstiltskin for his intervention and then at herself for being so unfair when he was helping her. When it was her own folly to be out of bed and confronting the things that upset her.

The sound that left her throat, as he carried her up the winding stairs, was almost a whimper. Belle buried her face against his collar and put her arms around his neck. Of all the absurd, unfair things it was his arms that made her feel secure, protected. It comforted her to breathe his scent - that musky blend of leather, herbs and woodsmoke that clung to his clothing and lingered in his hair. That wasn't fair, not when she wanted to rail against him for the way he'd hurt her.

Rumpelstiltskin took her to her room and laid her upon the bed, tucking pillows beneath her lower legs to raise them. Then, sitting beside her, he very gently removed her shoes. He was still a blur to her, but she felt better almost as soon as he lifted her legs. He pressed two fingers to her throat, beneath her left ear, and it took Belle far too many moments to realise that he was patiently counting her pulse. When he removed his hand he gave a nod of apparent satisfaction, and spent a moment or two tidying the hair that had tangled itself across her brow. Then he leaned forward to peer down into her eyes. Belle tried a smile.

"Will I live?"

"Without question, but you need to _rest_." Rumpelstiltskin stressed the word as firmly as he dared under the circumstances; it wasn't very stern at all, but she could see the worry in his eyes. "I don't mean to be indelicate, my dear," he said, apologetic, "But the bleeding. Is it worse than yesterday?"

Wren had warned him to look for that, hadn't she? Until she fainted, Belle had given him no cause to suspect that she was not paying adequate attention to it herself. She shook her head, inexplicably ashamed of her frailty. "Less. A little."

"Good." Sitting back, he patted at her hand where it rested on the bedclothes. "There's little that the women can do for you that I cannot," he explained. "But if you prefer their nursing..."

"No," Belle said, quickly. Perhaps _too_ quickly, and she wondered at herself. She could not face Wren, nor Martha. All she could think of was that they would be facing this ordeal with more grace than she was. And more wisdom. "No magic," she said, not wanting Rumpelstiltskin to misunderstand her wishes. "I need to rest more. You're right. Wren was right." Belle turned her head away before he could see her eyes filling with more ridiculous tears. What was the point of them?! She wasn't weeping for the child but for _herself_ , and that was dreadful. "She's always right."

"Yes, and doesn't she know it?" Rumpelstiltskin said, with something of his usual sprightly tone. "She believes that you'll be the making of me."

Belle felt him smooth down her skirts, up there on the pile of pillows that supported her lower legs. He covered her as much as her undignified pose allowed. A thoughtful gesture that touched her, which only fed her growing struggle to level her breathing.

"Will I be?" she asked, all too aware that she feared his answer. "Am I in the way of you finding your son?"

"No." Without looking at him, Belle could not be sure what his light, strained tone meant. She thought that it was only nervousness, not doubt. Probably. The tears began to burn behind her eyelids. "But when you know what I must do... the things I've done. For Baelfire. I can let nothing stand in the way of that. Not now."

"Then why _did_ you want a wife?" Belle demanded, trying to master herself enough to look at him. "Why _did_ you marry me? Was I just a whim?"

"In a way. But so much more than that. You know that." It was almost a question. A plea. He wanted her to know it, believe it. "When I came for you I... I'd failed. Please understand... I truly believed that it would be another mortal lifetime before my plans came to fruition, if they ever did. Everything had gone wrong. I was certain that you'd have no part of it, even if..."

"If I didn't run away?" She finally managed to look at him without the tears spilling. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, bowing his head with an apologetic wince. "All right." At least he had not tried to deny it. "So you found that you had a wife and that your plans couldn't wait another lifetime after all." Belle awaited another nod. "How do you _lose_ a boy, Rumple? You spoke as though Baelfire had died. What did happen to him?"

Was it that Rumpelstiltskin hesitated to tell her, or that he merely hesitated to do so _now_ when his wife lay faint and weak, and probably looking perfectly dreadful? He hesitated, regardless, and a bitter resentment wound a little tighter beneath Belle's rib cage.

"There are... many worlds besides this one," he explained, picking his words with obvious caution. "He fell from this world into another. I let go of his hand and he... fell." Rumpelstiltskin clenched both his fists tightly in his lap. Belle's breath caught on a fresh stab of anguish, recalling how he had wept at her bedside at Wren's cottage, spreading his fingers and staring at his own hand as though it had betrayed him. A lost child. Slipped away.

Belle had to bite her lip and turn her head away again while she fought the tears.

After a while, Rumpelstiltskin slipped his hand into hers where it lay limp on the bedclothes. He squeezed her fingers, softly, and edged himself a little further up the bed towards her. She could feel how intently he watched her, without her eyes on him in turn. What was he waiting for?

"This was hundreds of years ago," she managed to say, her voice tight around the lump in her throat. "But somewhere, Baelfire is alive."

"Yes. Somewhere and some _when_. Always just beyond my reach. Until now." His fingers tightened around hers. For the briefest moment he forgot his strength and her bones seemed to grind together as he clutched her hand. "Fourteen years old," Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice sounding no better than hers had. "No father. No mother. I have to find him, Belle."

"Of course you do." Was he really apologising to her for _that_? Of all the things, for _that?_ "I'll help you." Why would he doubt that? Why did he continually doubt _her?_ The bitterness rose in her and spread like a fever, making her limbs restless and her heart race. "If you'll _let_ me," she qualified, and let sharp reproach darken the words. At once she was sorry for it and wanted her husband in her arms for the comfort that it brought her. Storm-tossed by her own conflict, Belle grabbed for Rumpelstiltskin's arms and pulled him down into an awkward embrace, burying her fingers in his hair. He complied, a soft sound of welcome in his throat, but Belle found no comfort after all - only the rising terror that she would never know it again if Rumpelstiltskin's embrace could not bring it. "I'm so angry," she confessed, a whisper that wanted to be a shout but was muffled by the unborn sob in her throat. "So angry with you!" Hot tears got away from her and slid down her temples to become lost in her hair. She felt that she was beyond sobs - had no strength for that. She was high and dry and not even certain that she wanted to be rescued, and she clutched at Rumpelstiltskin anyway. She didn't know what else to do. "You think so little of me and I love you so much. It's not _fair_."

"Oh... please... please don't cry, treasure," Rumpelstiltskin begged, trying to wipe tears from her cheeks while she continued to clutch at him, hampering him.

For a few heartbeats that did quiet her. Belle stared at him through the watery blur, her lips parted in disbelief and her grief coalescing around a new core that felt as hard as flint. She pushed him away, as hard as she was able, and struggled her way upright as he retreated a hasty step or two from the bed. Pillows scattered and the bed rocked, her skirts riding up about her knees. Had she not been so hindered she might simply have launched herself at him rather than struggle for the words to vent her spleen.

"Don't _cry_? Why _shouldn't_ I cry?!" she demanded, her voice raw with pain and fury. "I've lost a child, _our_ child!" Belle seized a pillow and threw it at Rumpelstiltskin, who caught it, falling back another step and staring at her in shock. She threw another, which struck his face before thudding to the floor at his feet. "You demanded forever, that was your price, and you don't even _want_ it! You wish I was gone! You've wished it from the moment I came here!"

With every word, she spent her ability to find coherent thought until there were only sobs and tears left. Belle threw herself down among the pillows to muffle the sound of the groaning sobs that shook her entire body. It felt as though they would break her in half. Why didn't Rumpelstiltskin _comfort_ her?! "I've tried... so hard..." The words choked her, every one torn from a place far removed from her self-control. "To be... a... good... wife!"

"Oh... Belle..." She barely heard Rumpelstiltskin over the sound of her own heartbreak, but he came to her at last to offer comfort. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat, then he touched her shoulder, tentative. "Belle... sweet Belle..." His voice matched the touch, hesitant and afraid. He so hated to see her cry! Guilt consumed her for a moment, even in the depths of her own misery, but she recoiled from it and her sobs only deepened. Why _shouldn't_ she weep - for her child, for herself? Even for _him_ , the foolish, stubborn man!

Belle didn't know what she would have done if he had once again pleaded with her to stop crying. But Rumpelstiltskin lay down beside her, behind her, and reached for her all at once to hug her close in comfort. Relief unlocked yet another reserve of sorrow too long held, until Belle could barely catch her breath she cried so hard, but her husband tightened his arms and buried his face against the back of her head, and rocked her slightly because he could do nothing else for her.

Not since her mother's death had Belle wept so bitterly, so helplessly. Nor had she so urgently needed, since that day, to feel someone's arms securely about her until the harsh sobs became sniffles and gulps and she could slow them. Stop them.

As she quieted, Belle thought of her mother - the kindly, drawn face that she could never fully recall. The anguish of her death had faded with time and so would this. She had to remember that, Belle told herself. She had to remember that Rumpelstiltskin did love her, even if it was true that he wished he did not. Neither one of them knew where love would lead them. The difference between them was that Belle looked to her hopes, her dreams, while Rumpelstiltskin looked first to his fears. To his past.

He lay still now, curled up behind her. Belle could feel the breath through her hair, against her neck; too fast and too shallow in his helplessness. Perhaps he feared that he had done the wrong thing in coming to give her his arms? He feared so much that he need not.

Tempted to succumb to a wretched, damp sleep where she lay, Belle instead eased free from the circle of his arms and lay on her back beside him. Her chest ached where she'd racked herself with sobs. Her throat felt tight and raw and her head _pounded_. Yet Rumpelstiltskin lay there beside her, leaning over her slightly, anxious for a sign from her. Belle ought to count herself lucky, she thought, to have a husband who could gaze past swollen eyes and blotchy skin to look at her as if she were beautiful to him.

 _How?_ How did that naked love of his turn to the poison of suspicion? Hers could not! She _loved_ Rumpelstiltskin. Even now, seeing his big eyes full of fear and fretfulness, Belle could not help but lift her shaking hand to his cheek and offer him comfort of her own.

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her open palm, a struggle for composure written all over his features. For a moment, Belle thought that he was going to weep himself.

"I think I've cried as much as anyone _can_ cry, now," Belle said, more feebly than she'd meant to. The smile that accompanied the words was watery at best. "I'll probably stop."

Her attempt to lift the mood only made Rumpelstiltskin look shamefaced, bowing his head over her so that his expression was hidden by his hair. He was afraid to speak, to say the wrong thing and launch her into another fit of howling. Who would believe it if she tried to tell them? The Dark One, stilled and silenced by a woman's tears. That and a few words that might have been better left unspoken, anyway. Had she said anything awful? No... no... painful recollection told her that she had only said things that were true. Said them in the wrong way and at the wrong time, perhaps, but they had seemed driven out of her by the force of her grief. She felt empty of them, now, and quite still inside.

"Why do you stay?" he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "I don't want you to go, I truly don't, but I don't understand. Why you stay. I hope you'll stay. When you know everything."

She couldn't promise, could she? Not blindly, not without knowing his dreadful secrets. What would it take to undermine her sense of duty, her love for him and the stubborn resolve that had kept her by his side thus far?

"It can't be terrible," she said, trying to convince herself with the words. Her hand, while she spoke, slid through Rumpelstiltskin's hair. She loved the sensation; couldn't imagine never knowing it again, never watching the daylight change the colours in his hair from mouse to earth to golden sunrise and wispy white cloud. More than that, Belle loved that it was hers to do. Hers alone. She loved Rumpelstiltskin and she was in love with loving him. How could it not be enough? "Not if it's for your son. I wouldn't stand in your way. Of course we must help him, that poor boy, and I'm not his mother but I'd love him as if he were my own."

"My son is easy to love." Rumpelstiltskin turned his head, allowing the daylight to reveal his face to her. He was almost smiling, but it was so sad. "It's his father I worry for. No-one chooses me, Belle. No-one can ever love _me_."

"I do." Irritated that he would deny it, Belle sat up and wiped at her cheeks. "I'm sure that your son must too. How many others have tried? It's hard to _give_ love to a man who refuses to accept it, have you thought about that?" Her irritation was a balm for her pain, but her argument might have been more persuasive without salt-tracks down her cheeks and a runny nose. She made her unsteady way to her bathing room, leaving Rumpelstiltskin sitting upon the bed, staring after her.

Wetting a cloth with cold water, Belle held it to her face for a long time. She could not allow herself to _be_ this way. If Rumpelstiltskin believed that what he meant to tell her would drive her away then she needed to prepare herself for the possibility that it might _be_ something that terrible. She had to be strong, courageous. Perhaps it would prove to be a fortunate thing that she had emptied out all her tears like this?

Belle sighed as she lowered the cloth. Her face felt less swollen and her vision clearer, but her head continued to throb in time with her heartbeat. Her hair was a bushy tangle again and damp with her sweat and her tears. The skirts of her blue dress had fared no better and were hopelessly wrinkled. One of her stockings had slipped its garter and crumpled about her shin. Lifting her skirts, Belle did what she could to make herself presentable.

There seemed a little less blood than before when she changed her cloth. She stared blankly at the one in her hand as the castle's magic sent the stains away at a whisper. The blood of their child, Wren had called it.

Hesitating at the door, Belle once again had to steel herself to face her own husband. That couldn't continue. Setting her jaw and straightening her back, Belle opened the door.

Rumpelstiltskin sprang to his feet at once, worried for her. Then, seeing that she was calm and more steady on her feet, his expression became one of uncertainty as Belle stood and gazed at him. In her mind, she tried to paint him as the monster of the nursery tales - dancing over bloodshed, shrouded in darkness, the pitiless demon of nightmares, come to deceive.

But his love was so sincere. All that Belle imagined, when she tried to make him seem a monster, was that disquieting, childish laugh of his.

"Tell me what you're so sure I cannot love," she said. No, Belle realised - she _commanded_ it of him. "I won't betray your secrets. You have my word." Yes, her word. A deal, a contract. He trusted those, even if he could not trust in love or in his little wife.

He nodded, his hands fluttering nervously by his sides. "I hardly know where to begin," he explained, and Belle believed it. "It's been centuries. I've lost count of the years. Can you imagine that, Belle?" Rumpelstiltskin looked as if he hoped that she might, for all that she had barely twenty years to her name.

Shaking her head, Belle doubted that anyone could imagine that. She went to him and offered her hands, taking hold of his to still them.

"Start at the beginning," she suggested. Rumpelstiltskin smiled. Not the flashing grin that promised mischief, but the softest of smiles that dug in the crow's feet around his eyes and made the corner of his lips twitch upwards, ever so slightly.

Yes, he loved her. Belle could have no doubt of that when he looked at her as though she were everything in the world to him. Everything in _this_ world, she remembered, the sadness swallowing her again. His son was lost in a different world.

"Does it begin with Baelfire?" she prompted, tilting her head while she regarded him. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, but uncertainly.

"I suppose it does. It's taken me this long to find a way back to him. Everything has been for him. Even this." Freeing his right hand, Rumpelstiltskin held it up between them to show her his flesh. "I did it for him. There's..." He lowered his hand abruptly, turning half away from her before rallying and turning back again. "There's a part of it that you asked me not to tell you... But if you're to know everything..."

Belle had to swallow her sudden fright. She _had_ asked him - no, she had _begged_ him not to tell her the secret to stealing his dark power. To know such a secret had seemed terrible to her, then. Now it seemed plain to her that if she chose a life by Rumpelstiltskin's side then she would need to shoulder the burden of his secrets. If she did not then he would always doubt her and fear the day when she learned more than she could stand.

"I asked you for that as well," she said, evenly. "Everything."

"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin folded his hands behind his back, only to begin fidgeting with his feet instead. "My power within this world is unmatched," he began, without a trace of crowing. "But it has limits. I cannot simply... force open a doorway and step through. If I could, I would have done it long ago." His hands escaped from behind his back, painting elaborate gestures in the air when he hesitated over his words. "I'd all but given up on the work of half a century when I met you," he went on, more confidence in his words as he noticed that she not only desired answers but was interested in his tale as well. "Since we married there have been... developments." He cleared his throat. "Paths that I thought closed to me have opened anew."

"Since we married?" Belle shook her head, not certain that she understood him. All she had seen during their short time together were obstacles in Rumpelstiltskin's path.

"Since Regina had Leopold murdered," he clarified, humourless when the topic had always appeared to amuse him before. "I'd given her up, but she surprised me. Her sheer hatred of Snow White - I hadn't counted on that. I can _use_ that." He clenched his fists as he said it, determined, as though to convince himself that he was right this time. _Use_ a thing like that? Murder, betrayal, a throne usurped... Belle could not begin to see how any of it furthered Rumpelstiltskin's search for his son.

"All right," she said, returning to sit on the edge of the bed before her strength failed her again. "But what does _Regina_ have to do with your son?"

Coming to her side and standing over her, Rumpelstiltskin rested a cautious hand on her shoulder.

"Must you know it all _now_ , treasure?" he pleaded, and crouched before her rather than force Belle to lift her head to see him. "You're not strong."

"I can listen," she said, stubbornly. "Look, I'll lie down." Belle heaved her weight back and drew up her legs, wriggling her way to the pillows and pulling them into a heap behind her. "See? I'm resting."

Her obstinate determination won a fresh smile from Rumpelstiltskin, who rose and helped her to make herself comfortable by retrieving the pillows she had thrown at him. Belle grimaced at the memory of it, but he did not tease her.

It _was_ better, once she was settled. She might not care to admit it to herself but she was not ready to be up and busy. Another day? Two? She should have asked Wren how long it might be before she felt herself again. Or would the answer have been that she would never feel quite herself again? Belle crossed her legs at the ankles and sighed, forgetting Rumpelstiltskin's acute hearing. He grew concerned again and sat on the side of the mattress, looking for signs that she was ailing.

"What does Regina have to do with it?" she asked again, before Rumpelstiltskin could worry himself into some new excuse to delay. "How does Leopold's death serve you?"

"In itself? Not at all," Rumpelstiltskin admitted. "Though the instability along his borders should provide fresh opportunities. But I require that Regina reach a certain... state of mind. Her hatred of the princess has always been the key, but she did nothing with it!" He sounded so genuinely affronted about that. "Moped about in that palace for years, playing at sorcery because it amused her to hold power over the inconsequential people, when I'd tried to teach her..." He realised, then, that Belle was staring at him and was not being swept along by his relish for the topic. "I offered her great power," he concluded, frowning as he caught himself making a game of it. It was no time for games. "I offered the same to her mother. In a way." Frown deepening, Rumpelstiltskin picked at the leather below his knee. "What I need done I _cannot_ do myself," he said, very quietly. "Another must serve."

"But they need to have magic," Belle decided, "or you would have asked me for my help."

Rumpelstiltskin looked horrified. She had never seen such an expression on his face before. No, that was untrue, she _had_ seen such an expression once before - the other night at Wren's when she told him so callously that their child was no more.

"You can have no part in it," he breathed. "It will be all that I can do to protect you as it is. I _will_ protect you," he vowed, his voice hardening. "Whatever it takes. And one day you'll be Bae's mother, we'll be safe, and I can end _all_ of this."

There were _tears_ in his eyes as he gestured about him - to the castle, to his greenish flesh; there was such a _longing_ in his eyes, as well. He could not know the future, but he knew what it was that he longed for, and Belle was beside him in that imaginary future. She nodded, knowing that she would have shed tears of her own to see him so moved, had she not drained the well dry already.

"That's what you want?"

"Oh, yes." Rumpelstiltskin leaned towards her, nodding fervently. "Yes, I do."

Belle could not doubt him - not with the tears shining in his eyes, that broken smile fluttering about his lips. He had such hopes, this man who was afraid to let himself hope at all, and he did not seek to subjugate the world with his power. He _could_ , Belle knew. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin wanted hearth, home and _family_ \- he wanted love.

"And... children of our own?" Belle despised herself for asking that of him _now_ , but she had to know, didn't she? She had to _know_ if he saw children in their future, that he would love any children that came to them. How could she lie with him again - ever again - if she could not be certain of that? "Do you want that too?"

Her voice betrayed her depth of turmoil, shaking and cracking over those few words, but she did not cry.

Rumpelstiltskin softened from that passionate, urgent eagerness; his expression became one of wretched regret, of apology. He came to kneel beside her, taking her by the hand.

"When Bae is safe," he said, his left hand over his heart, "I can let this curse break and we'll have as many children as you want. Or as few. Or none." He almost laughed, as if in relief at spilling words too long contained, but it was a weak and watery laugh that faltered and died too soon. "If I'd known that..." Rumpelstiltskin gestured with their joined hands to her midriff, and bowed his head, taking a breath to compose himself. "I would not have endangered you knowingly. I thought it impossible for you to conceive in our bed while the curse still holds. Please, believe me?"

Belle did believe him, for he he had never given her any reason to doubt his certainty. But he _had_ been wrong and, yes, she supposed, he _had_ endangered her if he had planted a seed that could never grow into a healthy child.

"I believe you," she said. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, controlling his features with a visible effort. Grateful. Belle offered her arms, almost afraid to ask again for his comfort, but Rumpelstiltskin came to her side in a heartbeat. He nestled beside her on the mound of pillows and, his forehead pressed to her right temple, played shyly with the lacing of her bodice. When his fingers tired of that, he reached up and drew down a hank of her hair from the mass about her shoulders and played with that instead, twirling it about his deft fingers at her breast. "Tell me more?"

"I... there's something that I must show you," Rumpelstiltskin said, not quite apologetic. His hand had gone still, a bunch of her hair pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "When you're rested, I'll take you there. Then you'll know all my secrets," he added, his voice lightened with the saddest kind of whimsy. Belle stroked his hair, nodding. She was tired and she liked this restful embrace. She would wait a while longer for more of the truth. "And then," Rumpelstiltskin said, opening his hand so that the captured hair twirled loose and slipped away, "You'll be the most powerful woman in the world."


	95. The Most Powerful Woman in the World

Belle wasn't certain that she wanted to be the most powerful woman in the world, but she did want to hear more of Rumpelstiltskin's past. She wanted to _know_. Whether willing, contrite or merely resigned to the necessity of telling her things, Rumple settled himself beside her, on his back against her heap of soft feather pillows, and spoke.

"I had the best intentions when I took the Dark One's power," he told her. "Save my son. Save _all_ the children who'd been sent to the front lines because their families couldn't afford the bribe. It seemed so easy." Interlacing his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin rested his hands against his belly and drew up a knee. "I did bring the children home. And stop the fighting."

Able to see him now that he had slid down the pillows to put his head at the level of her ribs, Belle watched his face carefully. He seemed lost in thought more than he seemed mired in bad memories, but she felt moved to soothe him - to touch his hair. Rumpelstiltskin tipped his head back enough to give her a wan smile, then closed his eyes and went on. "Magic is seductive. It changes whoever wields it. Bae saw that. He begged me to give up the power, but there was no way to do that. Only my death. The more I tried to better our lives the more unhappy he became. More fearful."

"Why? What did you do?"

Grimacing, Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted at her side. Belle watched him search inside himself for the right words - for the truth that she had demanded. He denied himself the distraction of toying with his cuff almost the moment that his fingers found it, impatient with himself in a way that Belle had never seen before.

"I... protected us," he said, carefully. Grimly. "If that meant a demonstration of my power... a death..." More fidgeting. This time it took Rumpelstiltskin longer to catch himself, still himself again. Belle nodded, returning her hand to his hair. It had spread out behind him as he moved lower down the soft slope, his shoulders sagging in uncharacteristic defeat even as she stroked and soothed. She would hear him. Whatever he told her, however nightmarish, she would listen. She _had_ to. "Death is seductive too," Rumpelstiltskin confided, frowning hard. "And so easy. Solves all your problems, killing a man." He held out his right hand in front of him and made a slow squeezing motion until he had a clenched fist. "All gone. I stabbed the Dark One through the heart and took his power. It was so _easy_. And after the first time..."

Rumpelstiltskin's left hand drifted to her knee and then gripped her there, a shade harder than was comfortable. "Bae saw. I didn't..." He paused, catching his voice about to crack, and steeled himself before going on. "I never harmed him, never, but he saw death. I'd wanted to spare him that, the battlefield, but I only showed him slaughter of a different kind. It seemed..." He sighed. Belle's own mind completed the thought for him. _It seemed easy._

The fingers of Rumpelstiltskin's right hand rubbed against his thumb, restless, in want of a ribbon to occupy his fingers. In want of his spinning wheel, Belle realised, and her heart gave a lurch of sympathy for his disquiet. His expression had grown bleak. Even the _memory_ of his child's unhappiness hurt him.

"He must have been frightened," Belle ventured. She'd known fear of her own, seeing her husband turn dark and cruel. She'd dreaded harm to others rather than living in fear of any harm to herself. Had Baelfire felt as safe? And, though she felt a child herself at times, she was not one. She could challenge Rumpelstiltskin, argue with him, _demand_ that he not act harshly on her behalf. How could a child demand that of his father when his father was his _world_?

"He was," Rumpelstiltskin agreed, softly. "He wanted me to be as I was. Before. A pathetic cripple, a coward, poor as dirt. He wanted that back." He spoke with disgust of the man that he had once been, but Belle thought that he must know better. He must _know_ , if only deep down, what it was that Baelfire had truly wanted.

"His _father_ ," she said, gently but firmly. Reluctantly, Rumpelstiltskin nodded.

"Yes." He noticed his fingers worrying at each other and scowled, tucking the restless hand into his belt. "So I promised to do as he wished if a way could be found. I made a deal. It was easy! There _was_ no way to be found, I was sure of it. But Bae..." He laughed, a soft and gusty laugh that could not be further removed from his nervy, twittering giggle. There was an unnatural calm about him once more. "Bae had the purest of hearts, and he was clever. Oh, _clever_. He thought. He _listened_." Belle smiled to hear a father's pride emerge, just as she had each time she had glimpsed it before. It was a side of her husband that she had seen so rarely - any tenderness that was not directed towards Belle herself. It reassured her in a way that his unusual and enforced stillness did not. "He found the Blue Fairy. _The_ power among them, as old as the Dark One. As old as the world, some would say. He asked for her help." Warm when he had spoken of Baelfire, his words hardened again at the mention of fairies.

"They say she grants wishes," Belle said, frowning. She had not, until this moment, been sure that the Blue Fairy was anything other than a character in fireside stories. Then she scolded herself. She had not been sure that Rumpelstiltskin existed, either, and a day later he was her husband! "But your son wanted you to be as you were. She couldn't grant that, could she?"

"No. She gave him the means to fulfil his own wish. A magic bean." He held up his right hand again, this time with his thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart. "The means to open a doorway into a world where magic doesn't exist. I'd be just a man there. Powerless, mortal." With a dismissive snort, Rumpelstiltskin slashed the hand through the air. "Bae had no idea that he'd been used or why. He wanted me to change back, that's all. And the fairies would rid our world of the Dark One at a stroke. A mortal lifetime in this new land and then the power, the curse, would die with me. All very neat."

"It doesn't sound so terrible," Belle protested, gently. "A world with no magic in it. It would be such an adventure. What would it be like, a place like that?"

Expecting him to scoff or to become angry, she was surprised to see him smile to himself.

"That's what Bae said." The smile took a long while to fade. Belle hoped that there were fond memories amongst the dark ones. But fade it did, and Rumpelstiltskin's expression became one of agony. "When the time came I... I was too afraid. Not Bae. I tried to keep us both from being dragged through the portal. I..." Drawing a slow, shaking breath, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. It was a while before he managed to speak again. "I didn't mean to let go of his hand. It was just that moment, that one moment, and... he was gone."

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Rumpelstiltskin sat up, rubbed at his face with both hands and then stared at his knees. Belle put her hand against his back until her arm grew tired, wishing that she could mend everything for him. That poor child! Baelfire must have felt twice abandoned. It was too much for a boy to shoulder, yet he had no choice. Wherever he was now - and Belle did not understand how he could be alive _anywhere_ after several centuries - the boy must believe that both his parents chose to leave him.

"Come here," Belle said, sitting up long enough to catch Rumpelstiltskin by the shoulder and draw him towards her. He came to her at once, as if he'd been waiting for the sign that he was welcome to seek her comfort. He lay beside her, his cheek pillowed on her shoulder, and reached across her with his right arm to catch her closer to him.

_His comfort and his strength._

Well, she knew how to comfort him. Kind words, an embrace, their passionate loving. A cup of tea. But where was strength? How much would she need to lend him if his Baelfire did not welcome him with open arms? Children spent a lifetime angry with their father for far less, after all. And Rumpelstiltskin believed that the things he had done were so terrible that his new wife would turn her back. What about his son? Did he imagine that, fear that, too? And what would he do if Baelfire did just that?

"I'll go with you," Belle told him. "To a land without magic. If the Blue Fairy knows a way, why--"

"Her!" He spat the word, scornful, but did not surrender her embrace. "If _she_ knows a way then she's kept it from _me_. But there is one, and I found it on my own."

Belle wondered if rage and bitterness tasted as much like poison to Rumpelstiltskin as they did to her.

"You can't use another..." what had he said? "Another magic bean?"

"If there were any." Rumpelstiltskin huffed in annoyance. "I've looked, believe me. They were plentiful enough at one time, there are even tools with which to navigate the portals the beans create, but... No."

And whatever he was planning to do instead was the darkest of magic, and depended upon Regina's loathing for her step-daughter, Snow. Belle closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind and to make room for what her husband told her. She was coming to _know_ more but hardly felt that she understood better than she had before. And when would she feel that she knew _enough?_ Would she ever?

Calming himself, Rumpelstiltskin snuggled closer against her side. Belle squeezed him there with her arm, as much to reassure herself as to comfort him. If they were to face the future together it had to begin here. It _had_ to. "There are ways to move between the magical realms," he said, wistfully. "I've met travellers. Travelled myself. Sought information, artefacts, magic from other worlds. I tried and failed so many times. Lost myself in darkness such as you cannot imagine." Belle felt him tighten, almost a shiver. "Now I have the way. _Almost._ A way that won't leave me powerless to protect what I love."

Staring at the blur that was the top of his head, Belle thought about that with her innards knotting in dread.

"Your son wants you to be as you were," she said, warily. "Doesn't he?"

"I..." Rumpelstiltskin gave another frustrated sigh. "What's the use if I can't protect him? You? My family!"

"There can't be anything in a world free of magic that you need magic to face," she said, imagining the face of the boy she didn't even know; the joy of a reunion and then the disappointment of discovering that nothing had changed. This world or another, it made no difference. Cursed, the Dark One, Rumpelstiltskin could not honour the deal he had made with Baelfire. Didn't he see that?

Seductive, he'd called it. Magic. Power. And he'd told her when he was ill that the magic, the curse of the Dark One, protected itself. Could it turn his mind as well? Poison his reasoning? If a curse could have the will to survive then it would not wish to be carried to a world where it would be made impotent, only to fade away when Rumple died a mortal man. Could it _stop_ him from doing such a thing?

If it could then Rumpelstiltskin would not be able to tell her so, for he did not know it. It did not stop him being a gentle lover or a kindly husband. It could not take away _love_ from his heart, but love could be corrupted and soured, just as theirs had been by hurt and distrust. But where love was there was goodness and hope. There had to be. And no curse, no entity, was stronger than that. True love's kiss could drive it away - he had told her so. But he had also told her that he could not allow that to happen until he found his son. Would he allow it then?

"You don't know what it is to be powerless, Belle," he said, very quietly. "To starve. To see your _child_ hungry, to fill his belly with hot water and have to tell him that there's no food today, but maybe tomorrow if the gods are kind. They never are." Rumpelstiltskin tensed while he spoke, fists clenching. His whole body clenching tight against the memory of it. "I won't be that again. I won't fail my boy like that again."

"No," Belle said, because she didn't know what else she could say. Rumpelstiltskin was right - she had never been so powerless as that. She had never known hunger or suffering of any sort, even with her home besieged by ogres. Someone powerful had always seen to her protection.

 _No child goes to bed hungry in Odstone_ , she thought, and it reassured her. Rumpelstiltskin was the Dark One, but the Dark One was Rumpelstiltskin now. He had not been entirely lost. Baelfire's father was alive - that man who had starved and suffered and been abandoned by his wife, and who had loved his son so much that he could not let him go to war. "You have so much gold," she said. "You'll never be hungry again and neither will your son."

"Ha." It wasn't a laugh but nor was it mockery. Rumpelstiltskin lifted his head from her arm and looked down at her. "Well, it's true that I've never yet found a world where gold is unwelcome," he admitted, almost brightly.

"Then we'll take lots of gold with us," she said, shrugging. "And it won't matter if you leave magic behind."

Her husband was looking at her in much the same way as one might watch a child who was doing something artlessly endearing. Belle began to blush. Yes, she needed to know more before she could counsel him on how to proceed, but she knew that she was right about Baelfire. Rumpelstiltskin _must_ go to him willing to be his father again. He must hold himself to the letter of their deal and lay down the power.

She could not blame him for being afraid to do so.

"Baelfire will think you're marvellous," Rumpelstiltskin said, warmly. Belle tried to smile at that, but she was uneasy with the thought and found herself turning her face away and fidgeting with discomfort. Baelfire had never met her. He might not like her at all. He might not welcome a stepmother. Rumple was imagining things as he hoped they could be. She could hardly blame him for that, either, but he left himself open to disappointment.

"If he's still a fourteen year old boy, he might mistake me for a _sister_ ," she pointed out, as tactfully as she was able.

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her, round-eyed. Belle could see that the notion had never entered his head before. She didn't know whether to be flattered that he overlooked her youth so easily. She had, after all, been offended when he called her 'child' in the days following their marriage. She had soon put a stop to that!

"Then he should love you all the better," Rumpelstiltskin decided, but his voice was weak. She could see that he was giving the possibility some uncomfortable thought. "You'll understand one another."

Belle shook her head, reaching up and stroking his hair. She had never minded the thought of an older husband, nor a younger one come to that, but sometimes he did look old, this strange husband of hers. He looked older even than his hundreds of years and was unfathomable to her. Then he would giggle like a naughty child, twirling and clapping his hands in unrestrained glee. What had he been like before he stole the beggar's power? His life had been harsh, but what had the man been? A spinner, a father, a husband. Lame and poor. That was all she knew of him. But she knew what he looked like, at least. She need not be afraid that Rumpelstiltskin would cast off his magic and be unrecognisable to her - a stranger. His eyes were that nice honeyed brown and his features weathered and somehow timeless, but the shape of his features remained the same beneath changed skin.

"Does he look like you?" she asked, feeling that she ought to know more of the boy at the heart of such a quest. "Baelfire?"

Opening his mouth and forgetting to close it again when he found no words, Rumpelstiltskin frowned. His eyes lost focus and Belle thought, too late, of her struggle to remember her own mother's face. It had been little more than ten years since Mama died and she could not remember clearly. Suppose that Rumpelstiltskin could not...

"More like his mother," Rumpelstiltskin said, nodding slightly. "Yes. Like his mother." His look of faint puzzlement broke Belle's heart, for she had seen it in her looking glass when she tried to compare her own looks to the fading memory of her mother. Then he shook it off and came back to her from whatever distant memory had been haunting him. "Your colour is better," he said, fingering her cheek. "Much better."

Belle nodded. She felt better for being still a while. Better for lying in his arms, as well, if not for his words. His words, his story... they frightened her. Not knowing what he intended to do frightened her as well. Already she feared that it was the wrong thing - good intentions turned bad.

"Is it very far?" she asked, warily. "This thing you want to show me?"

"Not far. Here inside the castle."

Relieved, Belle nodded again and sat up, determined. "Well then. Let me see it. And then you can tuck me into bed and I'll rest the way I'm supposed to," she added quickly, before the concern on Rumpelstiltskin's face was joined by his outright protest. "And cook me something for supper, and share it with me too."

Where she had meant to sound brisk and cheerful, Belle heard herself sound bossy and nervous. Rumpelstiltskin nodded, regardless, and got to his feet. He retrieved her shoes from the foot of the bed and placed them on the ground, then went down on one knee without a word and slid them onto her dangling feet, fastening the little buckles before he rose again. He enchanted her - he truly did. That was the heartbreak of it, Belle thought; that they could be so very happy together if they never left this room.

"I've still barely explored your castle," she said, allowing Rumpelstiltskin to grasp her hands and help her to stand. Even though he had told her that the other wings were empty, the thought of not seeing for herself gave her an itch at the back of her mind.

"Stones and mortar," he mumbled, dismissively. "Come."

Belle shook out her skirts, delaying a moment and waiting to see if she became dizzy from standing up. Although her body felt heavy and her mind sluggish, she was steady enough on her feet and nodded to Rumpelstiltskin. He offered his arm for her to hold, nevertheless, before leading her slowly down the stairs.

When they reached the final, short flight above the marble entrance hall, Belle wondered if he was taking her down to the dungeons. She had not needed to venture very far into them to find Gaston, but had been left with the feeling that Rumpelstiltskin's dungeons were very deep and very dark indeed. He could surely hide _anything_ down there!

There were two main staircases in the central building. They began as marble, rising from the grand entrance hall, and became worn stone from thence onwards. Belle's own room, Rumpelstiltskin's room, his turret, Baelfire's room and the library were all off to the left of the marble hall. Other than to sweep and dust shortly after she arrived at the castle, Belle had found no need to climb the opposite flight. It led up to uninhabited rooms, shuttered windows, shabby and decaying wood-panelled walls, and a distressing smell of damp.

Rumpelstiltskin gestured to the right-hand set of stairs, and Belle looked at him askance.

"It's quite a climb," he said, uncertainly. "But you should see this." Belle stood between the two marble flights, looking upwards. She would manage, if there were answers to be had up there in the mouldering gloom. She nodded firmly and Rumpelstiltskin replied with a tight smile. Had he been hoping that she would change her mind?

"I came up here to dust and sweep," Belle said, keeping a firm hold on her husband's arm as they climbed the first flight. "Most of the doors wouldn't open, but it seemed more to do with the damp than with magic."

"Yes." Where wide marble stairs gave way to the narrower stone, Rumpelstiltskin fell a step behind her. He shadowed her closely as she climbed, no doubt ready to steady her if she faltered. Belle wrinkled her nose as she neared the first landing. She could already smell the neglect and decay. "Do you feel the spells at work here?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, and Belle paused to glance over her shoulder at him, curious. For the first time since her tears, Belle saw the spark of restless energy that usually animated her husband. He gave a mock shiver of dread, grinning briefly before remembering himself and returning his features to that sober expression. His voice retained the sense of relish as he spoke, his eyes betraying a lingering twinkle. "Doom, gloom and oppression. An abandoned place, barren of treasures?"

"I... suppose I do," she admitted, cautiously, looking for the trick. She looked up at the corridor a few steps above her, recalling vividly how she had shivered and wrinkled her nose as she swept here. She had come because it needed dusting and, the dust dealt with, had thought no more about it. His tone suggested that, whatever her senses told her, things here might be otherwise. It was not the sensation of magic, though. As he said, it was an oppressive awareness that this place was not worth the time and effort of climbing the stairs.

And she never had, other than to search for rooms in need of her broom. It had never even crossed her mind to take the right-hand stairs when she left the entrance hall.

Pleased, Rumpelstiltskin placed a hand at the small of her back as they reached the first landing.

"It's quite difficult to deceive a wife. Magically speaking," he explained, seeing her impatience with his smirk. "We're one, in the magical sense. Bound in ways that magic cannot violate. It's a good spell if it worked even on you."

Belle shook her head. "It kept me out?"

"It kept you from giving the place a second thought, yes? Useless. Less than nothing. Yes?"

"Yes," she conceded, not certain that she liked him taking such satisfaction in having deceived her, no matter how clever the magic. "It keeps people out?"

Mildly crestfallen at having his revelation anticipated, Rumpelstiltskin nodded.

"There are traps as well, beyond the locked doors. Ways to alert me should I be away or unaware of an intruder. But the secret has always been that nobody would think to look here first. And by the time they'd looked everywhere else, I would have dealt with them."

"Look for what?" Belle asked. She did not enjoy the mystery that was her husband, today. Her head still ached, her heart was confused, and she wanted truth. Simple truth.

"The means to control me," he told her, all hint of showmanship fled. "To destroy me. To take my power." With gentle hands at her waist, Rumpelstiltskin turned her to face him. "You preferred not to know but it's no secret. Legend, I suppose, and rumour. But people sometimes pay attention to those and come looking."

Belle gave him a nod, looking along the dark and dank passageway. There were many rooms, some locked and some not. She had hurried around with her broom, this floor and the one above it. The way to the topmost floor, and the stairs to a turret room from the second floor, were blocked by heavy oak doors. It made her shiver to think of the magic at work as she swept here, tricking her mind into thoughts of being somewhere else.

"Has anyone ever come this far?" she asked, on their way up to the second floor.

"No." Rumpelstiltskin sounded disappointed about that. He steadied her with his arm across her back when she faltered near to the second landing. "You're tired."

"Yes," Belle agreed. She forced her legs to take her the final few steps. To her right, another unlit and mouldering passageway lined with doors. Ahead on the stairs, the studded wooden door that looked as if it had not been opened in a hundred years. But at Rumpelstiltskin's slightest touch, it vanished. No, Belle realised, stretching out her own hand as her breath caught in surprise. It had never been there at all; it was her eyes, her mind that had changed. It made the headache throb and her stomach uneasy when she tried to recall the exact moment that it had happened.

Frowning, she turned to look along the corridor. The disrepair remained, but there seemed to be a little more light. The doorways looked somehow less forbidding. The disrepair of the walls and rafters did not look impossible to overcome. The same and yet so different. That was the trick, here; that what Rumpelstiltskin wanted people to see was only a shade away from the truth itself.

Rumpelstiltskin giggled, uneasily.

"Illusion is best done in the mind," he said, ushering her upwards. "But a few cobwebs help things along. I hope you didn't dust them all away."

Instead of another narrow corridor broken by doors, there was a long gallery that looked as if it comprised the entire upper floor along this wing. The rafters were of dark oak, the floor of polished nut-brown wood and the walls hung with rich red tapestries and all manner of well-kept weaponry. Belle had expected more dust, more darkness, and stared at the torches, the colours - the _richness_ of it.

Halfway along and near to the only unshuttered window stood a large loom, a sparkling cloth half made upon its frame. At the very far end of the huge space was a hearth to match the scale of the room, and a roaring fire that looked almost out of control it leapt so high and burned so bright.

It was by far the largest roofed space that Belle had ever seen and she found herself staring all about her, her lips parted and her breath held in wonder and surprise. It was magnificent, in a severe way, and instinct told her that any room as large as this one ought to require pillars to hold up the roof. There were none at all.

"I... I can see the world from this window," Rumpelstiltskin said, rather shyly gesturing for her to accompany him towards the loom. "All of it that's mine, at any rate."

He was barely exaggerating. Belle leaned on the stone window frame and stared out at white-topped mountains and the patchwork of spring pastures. She could see the road and the valley below them, and was that shining thread down there the river? It was a gorgeous sight, and Belle would have stayed to enjoy it had she not remembered why they had come.

The loom caught her eye when she turned away from the window. Impossibly fine threads which she had taken to be silver looked, in the full light of the window, to be barely there at all. The sparkle was the play of bright sunlight upon the cloth. Take that away and there would be almost nothing to see. She stared at it.

"My spiders," Rumpelstiltskin explained, humbly. "It's all that I can do to make the damned stuff visible to work with."

Belle reached out to touch the warp threads, then stopped herself just short. Cobwebs were strong, but they also snagged and snapped at a touch, and she did not want to destroy such a thing of beauty.

"You made this?" Tearing her gaze away to look at Rumpelstiltskin, Belle saw how her wonderment pleased him. "A spinner and a weaver?"

"Yes." Coming to stand behind her and a little to her right, Rumpelstiltskin guided her hand to the cloth, brushing her fingers against it. She could feel it, solid and real, lighter than silk and not at all sticky like cobwebs would be. It felt more like a very thin strand of silken thread. Why couldn't all his mysteries be as perfect and as innocent as this one? Belle would have loved to sit and watch him at the loom, all skill and absorption. "Your robe is lined with it," he explained, his voice as tender as the moment. "For warmth. It is the most precious cloth in the world. All the worlds, I expect." He hesitated, drawing her around to face him and lifting the captured hand to his lips. Watching her over their hands. "I wove it for you."

Belle swallowed. His kindness was too much to bear when she had seen its limits.

"Is this what you brought me here to see?" she asked, knowing that it wasn't. He did not need to bring her all this way to show her another proof of his generosity towards her.

"No. I work here for the light, that's all." Belle felt his sigh, warm against the back of her knuckles. "Come." Plainly reluctant to surrender the moment of understanding, Rumpelstiltskin gestured further into the room and walked slowly ahead of her while she tried to take in everything at once.

There were more weapons and pieces of beautifully crafted armour upon the walls than Belle had seen in her father's entire armoury. Once she began to get her bearings in the vast space, she could see the passage of time in the objects on display; the evolution of the steel-smith's craft, of the bow and arrow. The tapestries, although lush, depicted gruesome scenes of battle and slaughter, execution and torture. Each one a work of art, they were nevertheless a disturbing collection.

Rumpelstiltskin brought her near to the enormous fireplace, its arched stonework taller than either of them and the chimney breast so wide that the fire could lend heat to the entire vast room. Belle could not go within several feet of it without the flames beginning to scorch her - she resisted Rumpelstiltskin's gentle urging to follow him the rest of the way.

Seemingly untroubled by the heat, Rumpelstiltskin squatted on the hearthstone and - Belle cried out, trying to run forward only to be forced back by the flames - thrust his arm up to the elbow in amongst the blazing logs. He had already withdrawn his hand before she realised that he showed no sign of pain; that his sleeve did not catch alight or even scorch. Surely the fire must be another illusion? If so then it was a startlingly good one, since Belle could smell her skirts beginning to singe! Then Rumpelstiltskin rose with something red-hot gripped in his hand. That was no illusion, but he was not burned.

It cooled rapidly in the moments that it took him to return to her side and to draw her a little further from the fire. Belle could see that it was a dagger, and that where the blade ought to have been blackened with burning there was a gleam of silver. When Rumpelstiltskin opened his palm to show her the whole weapon, she recognised the peculiar shape of the dagger-mark that they'd seen inked beneath Gaston's flesh. The tattoo was the crudest of representations, while this... Belle could not take her eyes from the knife as it lay in her husband's open palm.

The blade was wavy, engraved from hilt to point, and made to slip easily into the flesh rather than to deflect another blade in defence. The hilt was black, carved and bejewelled, and the blade seemed more the milky sheen of white gold than the dull silver of steel. She would have thought it a ceremonial weapon, a trinket, had the sight of it cooling on her husband's bare flesh not filled her with an irrational sense of terror. It was only a... a _thing_. Wasn't it?

Rumpelstiltskin took the hilt in his right hand and turned the blade to show her the reverse. His name was engraved along the length of it, and every heavy, blackened character spoke somehow of _magic_ rather than idiosyncratic engraving.

It was all that Belle could do not to take a step backwards from it, and from the unbearable heat of the fire. Instead, she dragged her gaze from the knife and met Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. He was waiting to see what she would do. Say.

Belle had the feeling that he expected her to know the significance of the dagger. Other than the fact that Gaston bore its crude likeness she knew nothing. Not even from the legends and rumours mentioned by Rumpelstiltskin. She shook her head, half apologetic, and raised her arm to shield her face from the scorching heat.

"This is what you're hiding here?"

"Yes." He spoke in hushed tones, the way some men spoke of their gods and demons. "The one thing that can destroy me. The means to control me and all my power. This." Rumpelstiltskin stroked his fingertips along the blade, reminding Belle obscenely of their most private caresses. Then he offered it to her in a swift, determined motion, the dagger lying across his open palms.

Belle didn't want to touch it, the same way she would hesitate to touch a rotting carcass or some filth - some unthinking part of her simply recoiled from the idea of letting the thing touch her flesh. She had never recoiled from _him_ , the Dark One, but this symbol of his power was hideous to her. "It won't harm you," Rumpelstiltskin promised, soberly. "Unless you slay me with it, and then you're in for a _world_ of harm, my love. Probably best if you didn't."

Shaking her head, Belle refused to take the thing from him. "I don't want power over you," she said, hoarsely. "You've shown me. Trusted me. That's enough." It took all of her courage to hold her ground in the face of that terrible object and what it symbolised. All of the darkness that had taken root in her Rumple came from _that_. It could hurt him, _end_ him, and she wanted - needed - no part of it. "Please." Blood roared in her ears with the frightened pounding of her heart; sweat prickled across her skin, hot and cold at once from both the fire and the fear.

Rumpelstiltskin lowered his hands, the dagger grasped loosely in his right. It seemed at home there - almost a part of him, almost as _she_ was a part of him when they loved. And to think that she had been jealous of _Regina_! This evil thing was her rival for Rumple's heart, not any other woman!

He watched her with wary puzzlement while she struggled for self-mastery. He had expected something else from her. But what? That she would take the dagger and command him? He at least knew her better than to think that she would want such ugly power for her own. Didn't he?

"It's evil," she blurted, with childish certainty.

"It's metal and bone," Rumpelstiltskin answered, watching her intently. "But steeped in so much evil, so much blood. You can't begin to know. I killed the Dark One with this and his power became mine. My _curse_ ," he added, with bitter amusement. "If I leave this land to find my son I leave the power as well. There'll be no way back without magic."

Too hot, too afraid, Belle thought that she might faint if she did not put some distance between herself and the fire. She took two, three, four steps backwards, unable to tear her eyes from Rumpelstiltskin's. Then her trembling legs failed her and she plopped to her knees in a puddle of creased blue linen, the breath jolted out of her.

"The fire..." she managed, and Rumpelstiltskin quelled it with a sharp gesture as he came to kneel before her. The knife clattered to the floor beside them and he reached out to steady her with his hands beneath her elbows. Belle grasped his forearms gratefully, her breath coming back to her now that the flames had subsided. Until that moment she had not been aware of how they roared. The contrasting silence was such a relief. Without the onslaught of heat and noise, her fear did not seem so dreadful either.

"This is too much for you," Rumple said, attempting to reach around her, to lift her. Belle placed her palms against his chest and pushed him back, shaking her head. Now that her sweat was cooling she could think again. "I've done everything wrong," he cursed, sitting back on his heels. Belle mopped at her face with her sleeve and then straightened herself, mirroring his pose. "From the moment I saw you," Rumpelstiltskin said, spreading his arms wide to include every moment since then, and this uneasy present, "I've done everything wrong. Even this! I try, Belle, I do, but everything I touch turns to ashes. Whatever I do... it's never enough! Everything I love is gone and you'll go too." Hysteria crept into his voice as he spoke, and the fear in his eyes was all too real to him.

"No." Belle tried another deep breath, then another, clearing her head. She could not leave Rumple floundering like this. Her confusion need not be _his_ confusion. He'd done as she asked him and she would not have him fear that he had done wrong. "Rumple, no." The pet name caught his attention, dragging him back to the present. To her. "I'm here."

Unladylike and not caring, she mopped the sweat from her brow and nose with the back of her sleeve, blowing out her cheeks to cool herself further. It made the straggling hair tickle her face; made her pause and wonder what she looked like at this moment, after tears and a toasting, sitting in a heap upon the floor. Ridiculous, probably, but Rumpelstiltskin saw none of that.

There was open love in the way he watched her; the deepest love and an equally deep fear of loss. That was her husband. That was Rumpelstiltskin - more afraid of abandonment than he was afraid that she would take up that awful knife and enslave his power. "I _will_ help you to find your son," she said, steadily, leaning towards him and placing her hands on his knees. It was as solemn a promise as she had made when he came to propose his deal. He must know by now that she held such a promise as binding. "I give you my word. I will be by your side when you find Baelfire."

After a few heartbeats, his stricken expression collapsing to leave him looking shaken and unsure, Rumpelstiltskin nodded. Once again, his eyes were full of tears. He pressed his lips together in his battle for self-control. Belle couldn't decide whether he would smile or sob if that self-control failed him.

"Thank you," he whispered, nodding again, and Belle had never been more certain of anything about him than she was of his gratitude, in that moment.

Nodding, trying her best not to let the moment overcome her and force more tears, Belle looked about her and - her fingers even now attempting to curl away of their own volition - grasped the hilt of the dagger. She would not live in fear of any inanimate _thing_ , she decided, and held it in front of her while she studied the blade.

She heard Rumple swallow noisily, then give a breathy, frightened little laugh.

"You could do anything," he said. "Command anything."

Belle nodded, trying to let familiarity with the knife dilute her fear of it. It was heavier than it looked, and it looked no less terrible to her the more she gazed at it.

"Do you want me to?" she asked, suddenly tearing her eyes from the thing and meeting Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. _Did_ he? Could he lie to her while she held the knife? Could he lie to _himself _if she commanded him not to?__

__Slowly, transfixed, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. He didn't look afraid, Belle noticed, as the moment stretched out between them. She could command him to do anything - _anything_ \- and he wasn't afraid that she would. _That_ was enough._ _

__Quietly, she put the knife down beside them and stopped being the most powerful woman in the world._ _


	96. Symbols

Moving stiffly, Belle began to climb to her feet. Rumpelstiltskin was up at once, offering both his hands to help her. The dagger lay at their feet, ignored for the moment.

"You're shaking," Rumpelstiltskin fretted. Nodding, Belle slipped her hands behind his back and drew him near to her. Nothing else would stop the trembling, she suspected. He wrapped his arms about her and squeezed. "I won't lie to you," he said, his voice light and so quiet that she had to strain to hear him over the crackling from the fireplace. "It's a dark life that I've lived. A dark path that I must walk."

Belle gave him no answer. That he'd lived a dark life she could accept. But what he meant to do next - that was another matter. She hugged him as tightly as she could before letting go. Her legs were still unsteady beneath her. She would prefer to return to her room with some dignity rather than have him carry her again when her legs would not support her.

"Let's go back?"

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin bent to retrieve the dagger from the floor. The blade caught the light in peculiar ways as he straightened, reflecting it in fractured patterns that made Belle's mind hurt. Her husband looked at it, and his expression was grim.

"Perhaps the sight of this will loosen your Gaston's tongue," he mused, twisting his hand to study the blade from different angles.

"He's not _my_ Gaston," Belle said, with less patience than she would have liked. "I'm sure we don't need a knife to make him understand his position."

But Rumpelstiltskin wanted to do it, she could see. He would enjoy showing Gaston the blade and putting him in fear. Magical or otherwise, the knife would easily cut through flesh. A part of Rumple _craved_ that moment for its own sake - for the sport of it. There was a glint in his eye as he spoke of it - anticipation and pleasure.

"I'll discover why he went after Regina," Rumpelstiltskin said, too lightly. "I must."

"Yes, and we'll ask him when you find a safe way to 'loosen his tongue'," Belle said, tiredly. She laid her hand upon his wrist, urging him to lower the dagger. Rumpelstiltskin resisted the gentle pressure for just a moment before he complied, pursing his lips in obvious reluctance. "Please, hide it away and take me back."

"Very well." Rumpelstiltskin returned to the hearth and squatted there upon the slab. Now that the fire was a mere flicker around the logs, Belle could see that he placed the dagger deep among the burning wood. It would be difficult for any mortal person to come within a body's length of the fire because of the intense heat. Having done so, they would need to retrieve the dagger from the very heart of the blaze. Even using a stick or tongs, that person would be badly burned before they had their prize.

But no-one would come that far, would they? Even supposing that they made it to this room, the walls were simply covered with weapons. Even knowing exactly what Rumpelstiltskin's cursed blade looked like, one would have to scan the collection on the walls before deciding to look elsewhere. Then there were the many tapestries with their gory scenes; was there a hidden alcove behind those? Perhaps a secret passage? And what of the floorboards - that vast expanse of polished wood? Any one of those boards might be loose, concealing a hiding place.

And the Dark One would have the intruder long before they steeled themselves to approach the fire. They would never leave again to pass on what they had learned of this place.

When Rumpelstiltskin sprang to his feet, brushing soot from his hand, the flames leapt higher again too. For a moment as he came towards her he was a stark, stalking silhouette against the yellow-white glare. How terrifying, she thought weakly, if that was the last thing you ever saw.

Swallowing her alarm, Belle stuck out her hand and waited for Rumpelstiltskin to take it. Had she angered him with her insistence? No, she decided, catching his eye before she led him back along the room. He was not so set on tormenting Gaston as all that; he possessed great reserves of patience alongside that streak of spite. But he would enjoy reminding her of this if she proved to be wrong, wouldn't he? If Gaston refused to speak to them once he was able...

"Why is Regina so important?" Belle asked, pausing again by Rumpelstiltskin's loom to admire the shimmer of the near-invisible spider-cloth. "What is it that she must do?"

His hand twitched in hers. By the time Belle turned to look at his face again, there was nothing to be seen but a look of mild strain. It was a look that he had worn often since their wedding day.

"Cast a spell," he said, shrugging. "What else?"

Belle narrowed her eyes, shrewd enough to know that what he told her was far from the entirety of the matter. But her muddled head let her down and she could not begin to guess at the nature of his omission. She would have to think about it later, when she _could_ think again.

"And she doesn't know about this?"

"I hope not." Rumpelstiltskin allowed her to lead him on towards the door. "I told you, I need her to achieve a--"

"Certain state of mind," Belle repeated, nodding. "Yes. I remember." She doubted that it would be possible to persuade Queen Regina to do _anything_ that she did not wish to do for her own sake, but Rumpelstiltskin knew her a great deal better than Belle did. Did Regina owe him favours? Payment for a deal? Or could Rumple simply use magic to have the woman do as he wanted?

Something of her heavy sadness, her daunted feeling, must have been visible. Rumpelstiltskin leaned close to her side as they left the room, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand.

"Enough for today," he said, without quite having the nerve to make it a command. Neither was it a question. Belle nodded, forced to agree in spite of herself. Whatever was to come, it was clear that she was going to need to _think_ when it did. What she wanted to do now was curl up with her hot water bottle and think of nothing at all. She would be of no use to anyone if she made herself unwell.

"Yes," she said, stopping at the top of the first flight of stairs to be sure of her footing. "I'll rest. I should write to my father."

Rumpelstiltskin grunted acknowledgment of that, going ahead of her down the stairs and keeping a watchful eye on her over his shoulder. Belle hated that her limbs felt so weak and tired when she had done almost nothing to exert herself. She'd never known, she realised, of the trial of losing a child this soon. Women spoke in hushed voices of stillbirth and of barrenness, but not of this. Yet Wren and Martha seemed to think it nothing unusual at all - a sad thing, but not a shocking one.

Belle was shocked and shaken, all the same, and sad too. And if she allowed herself to be honest about it then the reason that she did not wish to keep still and rest, alone, was that she did not want to dwell on what had happened to the child.

Did Rumple? When she became short of breath on the last stairs before the ground floor and the entrance hall, he put his arm across her back and gripped her waist, supporting her in case she should fall. Was a part of the reason that he was so ready to fawn and fuss over her that he did not want to think about their child, either? To understand what had been lost they would have to think about what might have been. In Rumpelstiltskin's mind the future held but one thing - his quest to be reunited with Baelfire. It was not that he had no room in his heart for another child, here and now, Belle decided; it was that he saw no place in his _life_ for one until Baelfire was found. There had not been space in it for a wife who wanted his love, either.

She had no room in her mind for anything but the climb, after that. It was hard, hard to keep going, and Belle found herself wondering if she might feel this way forever. Neither Wren nor Martha suggested that she had come to any lasting harm, but Rumpelstiltskin behaved exactly as though he feared that she had. _Had_ she? Hers had not been just any child but the child of the Dark One. What if he was right and the horror of that curse had corrupted their child, or scarred her womb?

Unused to black thoughts, Belle tried her best to shoo them away. It didn't work. When at last she sank down to sit on the edge of her bed, the questions and the fears had worked themselves into a tight knot inside her, wrapped up in shame.

"Let me help you," Rumple murmured, going to his knee as he had before and taking off her shoes, left then right. "There. Some proper rest now." He was almost speaking to himself, his eyes darting worriedly about Belle, then the bed and the bedroom, as if he feared he had neglected to provide her with some necessary thing. He seemed so _different_ from the man who had stood in that echoing hall of wood and tapestries, tickled by the thought of frightening Gaston. Torturing him, even.

"Does it control you?" she asked, catching at Rumpelstiltskin's hand when he stood up again. He looked down at her, surprised out of his own thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"That dagger. Does it make you do those evil things?"

His jaw worked in silence for a few moments. Belle wondered whether he was taken aback by her plain speech or if he had never given the question any thought before.

"No," he said, unsettled nerves making his voice slightly breathless. "Only the one who wields it can do that. It's not alive, treasure. Magic doesn't _think_ , I've told you that."

"You told me that the curse that's in you protects itself. While you were ill, you said it would keep you alive for its own sake."

"Well... yes." Rumple looked apologetic. Pained. "It's complicated. Words don't really..." He gestured with his free hand, seeking words and not finding them. "Symbols have power. Talismans. Icons. Shrines. Even books and the markings on their pages. They have a hundred uses in magic, but they're still only _things_."

Belle shivered, her hand clenching around his fingers when she thought of the milky silver blade and its black inscription.

"The knife seems like something else."

"The curse isn't in there, love," Rumple said, touching her beneath the chin. Then he touched his own breast, fingertips over his heart. "It's in here."

She nodded, slowly. She felt foolish for reacting so badly to the symbol of Rumpelstiltskin's power when she had faced the man himself with courage. And had her courage on her wedding day - her wedding _night_ \- not been rewarded?

"Then when you do an evil thing," she said, testing her understanding, "it's because you choose to. You have free will?"

"Of course I do!" Agitated more than angered, Rumpelstiltskin dropped her hand and paced towards the door. For a moment, Belle thought that he would leave. "Isn't that what I've tried to tell you all along?" he asked, spinning on his heel to face her once more with his arms thrown wide. "I know what I am! You deserve better, I know!"

Rumple had not really raised his voice. Instead, the pitch of his voice had risen, his movements grown restless. He rocked his weight from foot to foot, poised as a dancer while he stared at her, wide-eyed.

"I chose you," Belle answered, shrugging her shoulders. "All of you, whether I knew it or not. I could choose to go just as I choose to stay. And you could choose to fill the world with light instead of enjoying the darkness, but you don't. You hide your light away here, and show it only to me." She spoke without accusation; her words were more by way of private revelation.

Growing sulky, remaining restless, Rumpelstiltskin posed with each of his toes pointed before him in turn.

"I've seen where trying to do _good_ by magic leads," he said, sullenly. "If you think that I'm too driven by power then take a look at the Blue Fairy. There are always consequences to the granting of a _wish_." He spoke the word as one might speak of poison or the blackest curse. "At least I don't pretend to be selfless and virtuous. I seek out people's despair and their folly, not their dearest hopes and dreams."

Belle nodded, sadly. What would have become of her people had they wished for a fairy godmother rather than writing their letter to Rumpelstiltskin? Fairies, it seemed to Belle from the stories, were drawn to people with a destiny. People who mattered to the future. They granted wishes only to the virtuous and the pure of heart. Rumpelstiltskin required none of that before offering his magic. Perhaps it was enough merely to catch his eye? His interest? It had been enough for Belle. How dreadful to think that he might have been attracted to her despair for her people rather than to any of her qualities, or even to her looks!

Her looks left a lot to be desired today, and her finer qualities seemed to be in full retreat. Unable to find the energy to press him any further, Belle gave Rumpelstiltskin her best attempt at a smile. At least he was telling her things - difficult things. He would tell her more when she was rested and ready.

Rumpelstiltskin looked relieved when he realised that she had no more questions for the moment. He swallowed, a hesitant smile not quite managing to lift his mouth.

"You have no idea how hard it is to see you suffering and do nothing," he said, so quickly that the words almost ran into one another; as if he suspected that he would lose the courage to say them if he did not hurry. "I can wave my hand and make you well. It's hard, Belle." Rumpelstiltskin met her eyes, fleetingly, as if he feared that this much honesty was too much.

Almost at once, nodding quickly to her, he turned and hurried away. Belle listened until his footfalls were out of earshot, far down the stairs, then forced herself back to her feet and went to her bath room. Her cloth was soaked through, and still with more blood than she had shed in all her years of womanhood, but it _was_ less than yesterday. She took two clean cloths and folded them together, hoping to stay comfortable for a little longer this time.

Rumpelstiltskin's words did not leave her while she washed her face and hands. He could wave away her discomfort in a heartbeat; stop the bleeding, heal her. She wondered if he could lift her spirits as well. Quite likely he could. He could do so much that she wouldn't be Belle any more, couldn't he?

Not for the first time, Belle wondered how different everything could have been had she accepted his offer of magic on their wedding night. Once tempted with the ease of it, would she have the strength to let it go? She wanted Rumpelstiltskin to do just that, but could _she_? If she had taken up that dagger in her own good cause - to save her people, her loved ones - would _she_ have the courage to lay it down again when the good work was done?

Would anyone?

Her hands shook and became damp again as she undressed. She had to sit on the bed in order to manage and was trembling all over by the time she got into bed. There was no question of asking Rumple to heal her with magic but perhaps she ought to ask him to bring Martha to visit her. At first it had all been too much of a shock - too hard to think of the future, or of anything. She had only wanted to be home and to hide herself away.

Sighing, Belle pulled a pillow to her chest and wriggled until her back was against the hot water bottle. She felt hot and cold all over again and as weak as she had while standing before the huge fire, but better for snuggling down and closing her eyes. Magic or no, Rumple would not allow her to come to any harm, would he? Finding a little peace in that, a salve for her failing courage, Belle closed her eyes and tried to rest.

Rest quickly became a deep sleep. When she opened her eyes again it was to a soft and golden twilight and a blessed feeling of inner stillness. There was pain, the low and dull cramping that had come and gone for days now, and a stabbing behind the eyes, but those things seemed unimportant while she lay cradled among her pillows. Without knowing how, Belle knew that Rumpelstiltskin was nearby.

"Rumple?"

He responded at once, his weight moving the mattress behind her. Belle smiled, sleepily. Torn between escaping her upsetting questions and doing his duty by her, Rumple had returned to be beside her. He scooped hair away from her cheek until, leaning over her shoulder, he could see her face.

Although he was a blur to her, Belle could tell that he was smiling a greeting.

"How long were you there?" she asked, making a half-hearted effort to prop herself up on one elbow. She soon gave in. The pillows were too welcoming.

"It's evening," Rumple said. "You were so tired, I didn't want to wake you. But there's a meal, if you're hungry?"

Belle wasn't, but she could not heal if she did not eat well. She nodded, redoubling her effort and sitting up in bed. She had not tossed and turned at all, it seemed. The bedclothes and the pillows were all where she had placed them earlier.

Rumpelstiltskin left her for a moment, returning from her sitting room with a silver tray. It looked horribly over-laden. Belle's heart sank until she noticed that much of the tray was taken up by the silver tea service. Her meal, very much to her relief, was a bowl of ox-tail soup accompanied by a thick slice of buttered bread.

"Did you cook this?" she asked, carefully accepting the bowl and resting it on her outstretched legs.

"I did." Rumpelstiltskin offered her a gallant little bow. "Wren's book of recipes claims that there's nothing finer for an invalid than a soup of ox bones."

"My nurse insisted on chicken," Belle smiled, remembering how, at the first chill of every winter, the woman would insist on feeding her extra meals of nourishing broth. "Thank you," she said, when Rumpelstiltskin sat on the edge of the bed beside her. "It's kind of you to cook for me. To indulge me."

"Same as brewing a potion, really," he said, a sheepish smile creeping in to soften his nervous expression. "Chopping and simmering."

"I suppose it is." Belle's hand trembled when she tried to lift the spoon. She was going to end up with it all down her nightdress if she wasn't careful. And Rumpelstiltskin noticed. Of course he noticed. For a moment she was afraid that he would offer to feed her like a child. Instead, passing his hand across her lap, he transformed her spoon and shallow bowl into a tall clay mug with a handle, catching it before it could tip. "Thank you," Belle said, her fingers brushing his as she wrapped her hands around the cup. "I thought I'd be getting better by now. Stupid of me."

"Oh, no," he protested, gripping her knee next to where she clasped the mug. "Oh, love, if you _want_ me to heal you--"

"I don't." As tempting as it seemed while her hands trembled and she felt so weak... no. "I want to know why this happened. To make sure that it doesn't happen again."

"...Yes." Rumpelstiltskin bowed his head. "Of course you do." He sounded resigned - sad. Belle sipped her broth and watched him over the cup. "My predecessors were men of unrestrained appetites," he told her, staring at his hand as it rested there upon her knee. "Particularly those enslaved by the power of the dagger. Their masters tended to appease them with... gifts." He swallowed. Swallowed again, his face twisting as if he tasted something unpleasant. "No child ever came of their lust. _Ever._ "

"No child came of ours," Belle said, flatly. She had only meant to sound matter of fact - to make certain that she did not sound upset - but she might as well have struck him. Rumpelstiltskin flinched, lowering his head still further to hide his face from her completely. She lowered the cup back to her thighs, sighing. "I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "For the way I broke the news to you the other night." She bit her lip a moment, listening to them both breathe. "I... suppose I thought that you'd already know."

"And that I didn't care."

"Yes." Belle looked down at her broth. "That too. Anyway, I'm sorry."

"I hurt you. You were angry." Small-voiced, Rumpelstiltskin stole a hesitant glance at her.

"That doesn't make it right. Being angry. That doesn't make it right. I'm not trying to wound you. When I speak of it, I mean." She bit her lip again, aware that her words were in the process of tying her up in a knot. "I _need_ to speak of it. I _need_ to know why this happened at all."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. He began to rub at her knee, too briskly to be comforting, but reassuring because it was an intimacy that she would share with no-one else.

"How far..." He faltered and took a moment or two to compose himself. Belle realised that he was trying to emulate _her_ composure, her dignity, and almost lost hold of both in the moment of realisation. Careful not to spill her broth, she let go of the cup with her left hand and placed it over Rumpelstiltskin's hand instead. "You said that you'd marked down your days," he said. "May I see?"

Belle blinked. When he had accused her she had challenged him to go and look at the paper that she'd tucked away inside _Of Hearth and Stove_. Without ever quite thinking the thought, she had assumed that when Rumpelstiltskin realised his mistake and came to her at Wren's, it was because he had looked at her only proof.

"You didn't look?" she croaked, and realised that she would start crying again if she did not watch herself. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, watching her with worried eyes - not sure how he had upset her this time. "I... of course you can see," she said, unsteadily but without her voice actually giving way to a croak. "The book is on the shelf." She nodded to her left, to her sitting room, and used Rumpelstiltskin's brief absence to pull herself together.

When he came back, the book in his hand, she was determinedly swallowing down the soup.

"Wren said that I should count," she explained, awkwardly. "I kept losing track, and I felt so strange."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, flipping the pages of the book until he found her folded sheet of paper. He sat beside her again, crossing his legs and spreading the paper against his knee, intent on her notes. Belle managed to finish the soup in another couple of gulps, but self-consciousness drove her to explain herself further. "I bled when I should," she said, fumbling as she placed the mug on the tray beside her. "But only a little. Wren didn't seem to think that mattered."

Another absent-minded nod told Belle that her husband, while listening to her words, required no explanation of her. She flushed, feeling childish. It was only that she associated these secretive tallies of days and blood with Leorna - with her frantic wish to conceive as soon as possible after her wedding. And Belle did not want Rumpelstiltskin to think that she shared that anxious ambition. She had only wanted to make sure that, the next time she bled, it did not come as a shock! But Rumple hadn't minded that either, had he? She had found in him only concern and a tender understanding when her carelessness found her bleeding and unprepared.

His expression now was one of sober concentration. When he turned his head to look at her, Belle offered an apologetic smile.

"Less than a moon," he said, his voice strained. Belle nodded. She had assumed as much, since she had bled in the normal way shortly after coming to the castle, then returned from the journey to visit her father feeling... changed. She had guessed that they had made the child there, or soon before they journeyed there. "You ought not have been so unwell."

"It was... very small, then." This time her attempt to sound matter-of-fact ended with a waver in her voice that sounded too much like the threat of tears. Belle cleared her throat. "Wren said that I might never have known about it had she not put the thought in my head."

Rumpelstiltskin looked back down at the paper. "Here," he said, planting his index finger over a date and its corresponding cross. "When I was injured?" Incredulity overcame any sense of certainty before he had even finished speaking. "That's absurd."

"Regina seemed very sure that I would conceive soon. That was when I met her. She said that I'd been as 'ripe as a little peach'," Belle added in disgust. "That was when you weren't well."

"Ripe or barren, treasure, this should not have happened!" Rumpelstiltskin cast book and paper aside, springing to his feet and hesitating before choosing a direction in which to pace. "I may have been weakened but I remained _cursed_!" He waved a hand in vivid dismissal. "No!" He stood with his back to her, breathing so hard that he was almost panting. Belle thought that he looked more frightened than he did angry.

"What's the use of saying that it couldn't have happened when it _did?"_ she asked, hotly. "Or saying that it shouldn't have happened because it never happened before? That's no answer, that's just stupid!"

Spinning on his tiptoes to face her, Rumpelstiltskin glared. It was a feeble sort of outrage, though, and faded as soon as he met her eyes. He could try lying to himself, but there was no use him trying to convince her that it made him _right_. "There is no child," Belle said, too weary to be quarrelsome for the sake of it. Too sad. "Perhaps the curse doesn't stop one from trying to start." Resting her hand against her belly, she bowed her head. They couldn't know that, either. She had travelled, been subjected to magic gone wrong, been cured of it. Gods, but she'd half killed _herself_ when she drank Rumple's pleasure potion - could a spark of life have survived the fever, the ice baths? Any and all of it could have contributed to her eventually miscarrying, even before she took Rumpelstiltskin's curse into account. There _was_ no way to know what had taken their child. But they _did_ know that one had started.

"You needn't be afraid," Rumpelstiltskin said, approaching with hesitant steps. He spoke as if to quiet a frightened animal, his voice high and soft. "I'll leave you alone."

Belle stared at him, lost for how to respond. Guilt, anger, dismay and dread vied for her attention, and all that she could think of was how _lonely_ she would be if Rumpelstiltskin forsook her bed!

The first words to arrive at her lips were full of bitterness and spite. Belle kept them there, unspoken, while she watched her husband grow more and more anxious.

"That's not an answer," she managed, eventually, her voice tight with the strain of keeping back the unkind things she wanted to say.

"I don't have an answer for you!" he protested, throwing his arms wide again in his frustration. "I don't! Might I have been wrong? Might any child we conceive perish this way? Yes! Yes!" His worried look became wild, almost, until he saw that she did not mean to argue with him in equally heated tones. Nor had he upset her, made her cry. Belle suspected that that was his greater fear. On the contrary, his bluntness came as a relief to her. His admission that he might simply have been _wrong_ soothed a deep wound and all the festering resentment that surrounded it.

Patting the bed beside her, Belle waited for him to come to her. She longed to stroke his cheek and send away that wild and fearful look. To her surprise, her _pleasant_ surprise, Rumpelstiltskin reached his arms around her instead and drew her against him. It was an awkward hug with him perched on the edge of the mattress, but it was such a welcome one. Belle squeezed him for as long as she could, until her arms trembled with the effort and she had to let him go.

She pulled pillows behind her to allow her to rest upright, and smiled when Rumpelstiltskin leaned across her legs to pour their tea. He had brought two cups for that, even if he had only brought food for Belle.

"Did you give some food to Gaston?" she asked him, watching the way his hair slid and fell against his shoulder as he moved.

"He won't go hungry," he said, reluctantly. "I draw the line at _cooking_ for him. The castle will keep him fed and watered."

"Just like my cat," Belle said, with a treacherous little laugh that she was too slow to stifle entirely.

"The cat is my guest," Rumple said, mock-aloof. "Sir Gaston is my prisoner."

 _Her_ Gaston, he'd said. Belle touched his shoulder while he added sugar lumps to his teacup. Rumpelstiltskin straightened, his expression questioning.

"You do know that Gaston's no rival for my heart?" she asked, gently.

Rumpelstiltskin tried to smile, but managed only a twitch of the lips.

"You might have wed and grown to love him out of the same sense of duty that brought you to me," he said, and it was so reasonable an answer that Belle was startled by it. She felt her own face contort with the difficulty of settling upon an appropriate expression.

"I think," she said, cautiously, "that Gaston wouldn't have turned out to be as _interesting_ as you did." She nodded, more certain the more she thought about it. And Rumpelstiltskin laughed his soft and private little laugh, passing her a cup of tea.

"Interesting, am I?"

"Yes." She had pleased him, amused him, perhaps flattered him, and she enjoyed the moment with its shy smiles over the teacups. "From the moment I met you, you were _interesting_."

"I think I can at least promise never to be dull, my love," Rumple answered, turning his cup around and around on the saucer, fingertips delicate at the chipped rim. "Yes." He raised his cup in a teasing toast and Belle, giggling, raised her cup to clink against his. She managed to avoid spilling _most_ of her tea in the process. "Yes," Rumple nodded, after they had each taken a sip. "At least I can promise you that."


	97. Evil Spirits

Belle found that she could do little else but sleep the clock around.

Rumpelstiltskin was an attentive nurse, his eagerness to wait upon her almost embarrassing Belle, but she had little need of anything he could give her. Once or twice during the day she half-roused herself to see her husband sitting in the chair beside her bed, ankle upon his knee, reading a book. He had loosened his collars and cuffs to be comfortable, giving the impression that he intended to stay beside her for just as long as her condition required it.

Belle wasn't sure that she required such close attention even now. But she appreciated it, and perhaps slept a little more soundly because he was there watching over her. She was grateful for his care and all the more so when she stirred in the dark, much later on, and heard him undressing for bed. And he did undress, not simply use magic to exchange his day clothes for his nightgown. Belle lay perfectly still and listened to him, to the rustles of cloth and the soft flapping sounds of his leathers.

He had taken to leaving his folded nightgown beneath the pillows on the window side of the bed. Belle had said nothing, not wanting to call attention to the choice lest she cause him to question it. She had insisted all along that he was welcome beside her but it was another thing entirely for Rumpelstiltskin to take her at her word. In all of this heartbreak they had discovered a new trust, a new willingness to try, and Belle was glad of it.

Getting into bed beside her, Rumpelstiltskin moved gingerly and held his breath in his care not to disturb her. It made her smile, the bad things and terrible unknowns forgotten for a moment in the face of his sweetness. When he remained at the far side of the bed, Belle rolled over and reached out to greet him with a touch to the hip.

"I tried not to wake you," he said, sheepishly. He followed her hopeful little tug and came to meet her at the middle of the great bed, stretching out his right arm so that she could pillow her head there and fit herself to his side.

"It's all right," she assured him, rubbing at his chest with her palm. "Thank you for coming to bed."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. "I wasn't sure I... I mean I wasn't sure that you'd want me to," he said, his fingertips trailing against the back of her hand. "I don't always know what you want me to do," he explained, very softly. "I don't want to do the wrong thing. To make matters worse."

"You were married before," Belle protested, mildly. "I haven't been. Why do you think that I know what to do for the best?" She draped a leg over his and worked her right foot between his feet for the warmth. Rumpelstiltskin curled his arm around her, clasping her gently.

"If I upset Milah I slept on the floor," he said, attempting a lightness of tone that became, instead, a reedy, nervous laugh. "I suppose I expected a similar banishment for treating you as I did. For the things I've told you."

"What good is that?" Belle asked, frowning. "Then I'd have cold feet and you'd be all alone, making up reasons why I can't possibly love you. Don't deny it," she added, when he drew breath to reply. Rumpelstiltskin snorted a laugh instead, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't dare to contradict you, my dear."

"I'm glad that you've told me," she said, trying to sound firm through her drowsiness. "I don't want you to be afraid of telling me _anything_." Her head was full of words that didn't quite join up - about her strength, her devotion, her determination to make theirs a true marriage come what may. She was too sleepy to make sense of them for herself, let alone sense enough to speak them to him. She gripped the front of his nightgown instead, burying her face against his shoulder and pressing as near as she could while she tried to clear her mind. "Love is stronger than that," she decided, after what felt like great mental effort. "Stronger than a few hard truths."

"You mean that _you_ are stronger." Rumpelstiltskin's voice was low and tender, yet there was a cautionary note there. "One choice was enough to end my happiness before. _One,_ Belle. One day I might discover the limits of even _your_ forgiveness."

Belle considered that, her fingertips exploring the embroidered trim at the throat of his gown. Rumpelstiltskin did behave as though the very next choice he made would be the end of them. He always had, even before he touched her on their wedding night. Was it any wonder if it had happened that way before? But nothing happened that way, did it? No choice was made in isolation; each choice followed from another and another in an unbroken line. Other choices had surely followed Rumple's decision to escape the battlefield. Other choices had led him to that moment - to do a thing that his wife could not forgive. It was too simple to blame one misstep for all the misfortune that followed.

If Belle had not reached out and then reached out again, almost from the moment they met, would Rumpelstiltskin ever have _tried_ to be a true husband to her? If she did not keep reassuring him, would he keep coming to her bed in the hope of being welcome? She sighed. It was the wrong time for such thoughts - she was too caught up in herself, in her own regrets and fears. Not to mention in trying to understand her husband. Her strange, skittish, sad and all-powerful husband who held her so gently in the dark and feared that she would turn him away for displeasing her. And he would go if she did turn him away. He could tear the room down about her ears, punish her cruelly with a thought, but he would simply go with a sore heart.

"There's more than I've told you," he said, haltingly. "Far more."

"And you're afraid that I'll change my mind when I know it," she sighed. "I know." Belle reached to rub at a twinge in the small of her back, sighing. She had spent most of the day too drowsy to notice her aches and pains but they were making themselves known now. It was no worse than the grasping cramps that visited her each month but it had not ended within a day or so as those did. It seemed a punishment - a constant reminder.

She fidgeted for a while in an attempt to make herself comfortable. Rumpelstiltskin kept still, patient with her wriggling, but Belle grew sheepish when she could not find a place to settle herself. "I'll be the one keeping you awake," she apologised, her back to him and his wrist tucked beneath her neck. She had tried spooning herself back against his body, his knees behind hers, but it had only made her feel hot and bothered, and restless to the point of irritation.

"There's medicine," Rumpelstiltskin offered, touching her hip timidly. When the touch was not rejected he laid his palm there, his skin hot through the thin silk. "For pain. For sleep. No magic, I promise. Herbs, bark and roots."

Belle almost refused without considering the offer, out of sheer stubborn habit, but a well-timed stab of pain sent the cramping into her back and backside, encouraging her to reconsider. At her tight-lipped nod, Rumpelstiltskin sat up. She could hear the relief in his sigh.

She expected him to conjure a bottle and spoon as he had in the past. Instead he pushed back the bedclothes and went to the sitting room, one candle flickering to life to light his way. He returned with his red velvet lined basket of medicinal bottles. They tinkled pleasantly as he carried them. Belle smiled to see her green ribbons coiled up amongst the medicine bottles, a nest for several little golden spoons of varying capacities.

"There's the pain still," she said, feeling as though she were admitting to some great fault by requiring medicine at all. "Is there something that will let me sleep so that I don't keep you awake?"

"Yes." Light fingered, Rumpelstiltskin plucked a small blue glass bottle from the basket and then took the largest of the spoons. "Here." With steady hands an intent expression he administered two spoonfuls. Belle braced herself for eye-watering vapours and a danger of coughing, but the stuff merely tasted bitter and of something slightly rotten. "This will give you a gentle sleep and ease your pain," Rumple said, watching her with an almost-smile. He bent to set the basket on the floor beside the bed. "You'll soon get your strength back."

Oh, she hoped that he was right about that! What with one thing and another she had spent much of the past several weeks in less than her usual perfect health. Her new husband had barely had the chance to _know_ her while she was in her usual health! Belle missed her tireless self, always busy, cheerful and capable. When she was well again she would make an effort to organise her affairs better, she decided. For how much longer could she use the newness of marriage, the strangeness of her situation, to excuse her failings?

Rumpelstiltskin returned to her side, facing her with his head propped on his hand, and he left the candle burning. He was studying her face for any further trace of discomfort, Belle realised. She touched his arm, grateful that the medicine was already making her drowsy. If she slept then perhaps he would too? He looked as if he needed it. When Rumple looked weary, he looked tired to the very bone.

"Good night," she said. The moment seemed awkward without a kiss. Did she want a kiss? Belle honestly did not know. Her lips almost seemed to tingle with anticipation. She had grown used to going to sleep with the taste of him lingering upon her lips.

"Good night," Rumpelstiltskin responded as the candle went out, over by the window. He pushed one arm beneath the pillows and settled himself, close by her side but not touching. Belle felt him watching her in the dark until sleep claimed him, his limbs going slack and his head sinking into the pillow.

Belle lay for a long time, half awake and listening to the tiny sounds of an empty castle at night. Steady throughout the other sounds was Rumpelstiltskin's breathing beside her. She found that she longed to touch him then. Disturbing him was out of the question but her fingers seemed to itch for the solid reassurance of his body - the warmth of his skin or the soft tickle of his hair against her fingers.

Suppose he was unwilling to kiss her now? Just the thought of it made her hurt beneath the ribs. Their easy affection had grown to mean too much to her - perhaps more than was natural or reasonable. But kisses led to other things. Kisses were temptation.

Rumpelstiltskin meant it for the best - offering to leave her alone so that there would be no chance of another child. Belle understood that he _meant_ it for the best, for her safety and for his peace of mind, but the suggestion hurt her. That it was his _first_ suggestion had hurt her, when what she had asked him for was knowledge.

She would need to speak to Wren about herbs, wouldn't she? But... no. Wren had come to the end of her days - near enough to the end to demand the mercy of a clean death from Rumpelstiltskin. Wren wouldn't be able to help her and soon Wren would be gone. That hurt as well and Belle had little room left inside her for more hurt. She overflowed with it already. She took a deep breath and tried to banish a little of it in the long, slow exhalation. To reassure herself.

There was Martha. There was magic. Rumpelstiltskin himself must know which herbs would prevent another child from starting. They need not be apart for that reason. How could he think she would accept that when he had seen her lost to their loving - seen how she craved his touch? He had made a wanton of his virgin bride and Belle had no intention of being abandoned now. Her desire would return; her hope would return. Perhaps one day she would even want him to give her a child. One day.

The medicine he'd given her was not as strong as that which Wren had given her that terrible night. It dulled the pain a little and loosened her limbs but did not push her quickly towards sleep. It made her thoughts run together in a blur, though, and left her eyelids heavy. More than the medicine she was soothed by the sound of Rumpelstiltskin's breathing as it slowed and grew steady. After a while he turned face down, as was his habit, and pushed his forearms up beneath the pillow that cradled his head. After that he breathed quietly, muffled by the feathers. Belle hoped that his dreams were kind.

Belle drifted on the half-dreams, comfortable and content enough at first. Her mind replayed recent days in vivid flashes, showing her blood and anger and tears, but she watched herself as if from the outside, almost unfeeling. Only the memory of that dreadful dagger in her hand felt anything like real; it felt heavy, impossibly so for its size, and as though it might try to command her hand to raise the blade and strike.

She gasped herself fully awake with that thought, sitting up sweaty and clutching at a knot of bedclothes. Rumple had turned his head to one side, facing the window. Her sudden movement had not awakened him. Belle watched him while her heart pounded in fear of the nightmare; she laid her hand against her husband's back and, with slow care and feeling foolish, moved herself near to his side to be comforted. The familiar scent of his skin, the softness of silk and the tickle that the ends of his hair gave to her fingertips - they did comfort her, even while Rumpelstiltskin slept on, oblivious to her careful touch. He made a soft, contented sort of sound into the pillow when she caused the mattress to dip with her weight at his side. Smiling, shy enough for a blush in the darkness, Belle made herself comfortable and slept deeply until morning.

~+~

She awoke alone, the sight of Rumpelstiltskin's black nightgown folded beneath the pillow making her smile when she might otherwise have been stung by his absence.

Belle had the energy to wash her hair properly while she bathed, combing her fingers through it with one of Lotte's lotions to ease the tangles and bring back some of the shine. There was less of an ache and much less blood flowing, leaving her determined to spend the day out of bed even if she did need to spend it resting in a chair instead. In deference to her condition she did not dress herself properly but put on a clean nightdress with her spider-silk robe over it, the matching slippers upon her feet. She plaited her damp hair and filled a basket with things to help her pass the day, then made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

At the top of the kitchen stairs she smelled food cooking. By the time she reached the bottom she could hear the sizzle and the clank of a pan on the stove top.

She found Rumpelstiltskin busy with a pan of eggs and sausages, just cooked to a turn. He did not scold her for being out of bed even though a silver tray sat ready for him to carry up the food. Instead he gave her hand a squeeze by way of a greeting. When Belle turned back to go to the table, she saw that her fireside chair had suddenly become a large rocking chair of dark, polished wood. A large footstool sat before it and there were more bright cushions than a rocking chair rightly called for. Her red travelling rug was draped invitingly over the smooth wooden arm.

Flustered, flushing, Belle took her place at the table.

"I thought you'd be a bit more comfortable," Rumpelstiltskin muttered, bending to place a plate before her. Belle gave him a brave attempt at a smile. After a moment's hesitation he stooped to kiss the top of her head. Oh, why was it so awkward?! After all that they had shared in the past days - pain, anger truths and tears - why was _breakfast_ uncomfortable? "You seem a little stronger."

"The sleep did me good," she declared, waiting while he moved the cutlery and the tea things from the tray. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." Her breakfast arranged, Rumpelstiltskin drew out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. He was about to speak, possibly to preempt her question about why he wasn't eating, when the grey cat landed in his lap with a throaty chirp of greeting. Belle laughed, delighted to see her - and even more delighted to see the way Rumpelstiltskin stared at the creature in naked astonishment. Oblivious to his surprise and to the lack of a welcome, the cat butted her head firmly against the buttons of his waistcoat while kneading his thighs. She purred.

"There is your mistress," Rumpelstiltskin said, pointing at Belle in some exasperation. "Go to her."

The cat jumped down and walked off in the direction of the storerooms and her kittens, tail held high.

" _I_ don't provide her with golden dishes, finest meat and cushions," Belle pointed out, smiling helplessly. "Cats know where their best interests lie."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her.

"The cushions are for you," he protested, seeming quite offended that she would suggest otherwise. "To make your kitchen more comfortable for you."

"Thank you," Belle said, almost sure that she believed him. Sure, at the very least, that Rumpelstiltskin himself believed it to be true.

He shared a pot of tea with her while she ate, but Belle could see a familiar restlessness poorly concealed beneath his gentle courtesies. He had spent days attending to her since their quarrel - days during which his plans remained under threat from forces unknown. Now that she was on the mend, Rumpelstiltskin was anxious to be about his work. "I'll rest here by the fire today," she said. "You don't need to neglect your work any longer. I'm much better today."

And she _was_ feeling better, that was the truth. She felt stronger inside - no longer afraid that the least new demand placed upon her would cause her to crumble and cry. She did not need her husband to wait on her today. More to the point, she did not want him to. Some time to herself to think, to write to her father... yes. That was what she wanted today.

Rumpelstiltskin waited until Belle had cleared her plate before he rose.

"You've only to call my name," he said, escorting her to the fireside with one hand at the small of her back. He crouched beside the rocking chair while she made herself comfortable there, gazing up at her with naked anxiety. "If you should need me."

"Yes," Belle said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. His worry about her was almost worse than of the pain and weakness that she had endured. "I'll be all right. Come and keep me company later. For tea?"

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, tearing his gaze away with an effort before hurrying out of the kitchen. Belle wondered if he was as guiltily relieved about being freed from his duty in caring for her as she was to be left alone for a little while.

To her surprise and her annoyance, Belle fell asleep almost as soon as she sat down. The rocking chair was too soothing, the blanket and cushions too warm; where she had meant to sit and think, to sew a little and to write letters, to organise her mind, she dozed instead until mid-morning, lulled by the crackle of the flames.

It was the sound of pounding on a door that brought her fully awake, blinking in confusion at her surroundings. She followed the sound to the door of the storeroom where Gaston was imprisoned. The grey cat came to wind about her ankles, purring.

"Gaston, what is it?" Belle called over the sound of his fist on the wooden door.

"Release me!"

"We've talked about this," she said, wearily. "Here I can speak for you, try to keep you safe. If you run--"

"Evil spirits can walk through the door!" Gaston shouted. Only then did Belle notice the pitch of his voice - too high and well on the way to hysteria. He was frightened. "A cat... through the door!"

Belle looked down at her feet. Her cat sat, paws neatly side by side, gazing up at her with interest.

"There are no evil spirits in this castle, Gaston," she said. "It's only a cat. She can go where she likes. She has kittens in the room beside yours. She was only curious."

"I will not be subjected to his evil magic," Gaston cried, not listening to her. "I will _not_!"

Sighing, Belle bent down to stroke the cat's ears. It purred and rubbed a cheek approvingly against her hand. Listening to others once he had made up his mind was not a strength that Gaston possessed. He had decided that Rumpelstiltskin's castle would be a place of evil spirits and curses. With that in mind, Belle supposed that it _would_ be quite alarming to have a cat saunter through a solid oak door as though it weren't there.

"You can come out for a little while if you want to," she said, doubtfully. "For some tea?"

"Softening me up for him, Belle?" It was an unusually cutting remark for Gaston. He was angry at her for the questions the other day; she had quite forgotten that, thanks to everything else that had happened. She opened the door and stood back as it swung outward. The cat resumed her sensuous twining about Belle's ankles, apparently engrossed by her embroidered silk slippers. Gaston stared at the animal with hostility and not a little fear.

Belle planted her hands on her hips.

"I took her from a barn at a farm down in the valley," Belle said. Patient repetition of the facts was the only way that she knew of to plant a new idea in Gaston's mind. It was not that he was slow-witted. Far from it, she knew. It was that Gaston had been so rigidly schooled in courtly manners, in forms of address, in his mother's ideas of righteousness and his father's notions of honour that, applying all of that as he went about his daily life, Gaston had none of his mind left empty for having new thoughts with. "She'd had kittens in a woodpile. Four. She's only a cat, Gaston. It's the doors that are enchanted." Belle reached out to knock hard on the oak.

Gaston gave the woodwork a suspicious look. Only then did Belle realise how incredibly frightened he must be. Of the wrong things, it was true - of silly superstitions, of strangely behaved cats and of evil spirits - but ultimately of Rumpelstiltskin, and of the death that Gaston was expecting to face very soon. And of her? He already thought that she was manipulating him for Rumpelstiltskin's ends. Why should he believe for a moment that she meant to protect him if she could?

"You can come out. I don't know how it works," she said, quickly. "The doors open for me. For the cat it's as if they're not there at all. Come and have some tea with me." As before, Belle went ahead without Gaston and left him to follow if he chose to do so. "Rumpelstiltskin is looking for a way to undo whatever magic keeps you from telling what you know," she said over her shoulder, hearing his footsteps behind her. "A way that doesn't harm you." The cat meowed loudly, following them, and Belle paused to look in on the kittens. They had spread out in the straw and were wobbling about on untried legs, one of them crying piteously for its mother.

Gaston watched the grey cat go to her young and lick the back of the crying one's neck. Even he would be hard pressed to convince himself that he was witnessing a demon in disguise now, surely? Belle moved on. After a long pause, Gaston followed.

"And when I am of no further use to him?" Gaston stood just inside the kitchen, watching Belle move the kettle onto the stove. It was still quite warm.

"Then I will ask him to let you go," Belle said. It was the truth, absurd as it must sound to Gaston. "Remember that you're only here because you survived trying to assassinate a Queen," she said, sharply, to cover her sudden disquiet. She did not want to consider what might happen if Rumpelstiltskin refused to release Gaston. If Rumpelstiltskin _killed_ Gaston. "Remember that when you compare your honour to mine."

"You are unwell," Gaston said curtly. "I will not debate with you."

Belle glanced down at herself in sudden, horrible self-consciousness as she remembered her state of half-dress. The blue robe covered her nightgown, modest and flattering but she had to confess that it was rather... shapeless... for day wear. Not to mention that she wore nothing beneath but her drawers. She blushed, spooning tea leaves into the teapot with her back to Gaston.

"I'm all right," she said, flustered and quite unwilling to explain the situation to him. "Are you hungry?"

"There's bread and water in my cell," he said, quietly. Coldly. "It seems that I'm not to starve."

"You're not." Belle gestured to the table while she cleared a space on the work block. "I'll make you something hot." Her blush subsiding, Belle turned to face Gaston. He looked miserable - anger and fear mingled together with doubt and shame and the indefinable look of alarm that he had so often worn when in Belle's company. He never knew what to say to her and Belle knew that her efforts to put him at his ease had been less generous than they might have been.

"It's not right," he mumbled, looking down at his feet. "You serving me."

"I don't like eating food conjured by magic," she said, managing a convincingly cheerful tone. "The food he sends won't harm you," she added, hastily, remembering his alarm about the cat. "It's real food. But I think the kitchen is here for a good reason. Please, sit." She had never been very comfortable with Gaston looming over her. He was one of the tallest people she had ever known.

It was only as she went into the cool of the larder that Belle remembered her promise to spend the day resting. Biting her lip, she looked around for ingredients for a dish that could not possibly tax her. Gaston would probably laugh if she offered him porridge again but it was quick and nourishing, and Belle had become good at making it just as she preferred it. Let him mock. Food was food. She dipped the wooden scoop into the oat sack for a generous measure and took down the milk jug.

Gaston had done as she asked and taken a seat at the table. He had not taken the head place this time, she was relieved to see. Instead he had drawn out the chair at the other end, seating himself nearest the fire.

"Do you have enough blankets?" she asked, with a sudden and shrewd understanding that Gaston would rather die of cold than ask for some.

"Another would be... welcome," he allowed, stiffly.

That was Gaston. Stiff. Formal. Forever on his guard against impropriety and dishonour. Another man in his place might well feel that he had nothing to lose by seizing one of the dozen sharp kitchen knives and holding it to Belle's throat in the hopes of negotiating an escape. Gaston never would, which made it all the less comprehensible to her that he had attempted to kill Regina in her bed. What could have compelled him to _do_ such a thing?

"Do you believe that all magic is evil?" she asked, stirring oats and milk together in her smallest copper pan and carrying it to the stove. She heard him fidget on the chair.

"You know the stories. Magic once held sway in our kingdom. The terrible battles, the destruction. Even the Dark One once corrupted our people."

Belle turned her head sharply, in time to see Gaston's thin smile. He'd guessed that she had not known that. She had given him something to feel superior about. "One of my ancestors held the Dark One in thrall and used his evil power to bring the land to the brink of utter chaos," he said. "I say 'ancestor' but there is no direct line. When the Dark One broke free he saw to that."

Her heart seemed to skip beats as she stirred the porridge, refusing to let Gaston see her alarm. She had hoped against hope that he might not know the significance of that tattoo. It was not his attempt on Regina's life that Rumpelstiltskin would punish; it was that knowledge.

"How could he be held in thrall?" she asked, the weak attempt at deception making her voice reedy. "No-one is more powerful than the Dark One."

"He killed many to protect that secret," Gaston told her gravely. "No-one knows how many."

"You didn't answer my question," Belle reminded him, soft voiced. It was an agony inside to think of Rumpelstiltskin slaughtering so many. Laughing as he did so, that cruel blade in his hand. "Do you believe that _all_ magic is evil?"

"So I was taught," he said, his certainty faltering. "Your father summoned darkness into our midst and it stole you away. None can doubt that Sir Maurice's aim was a noble one but we have yet to see the true cost of it, I think. Or did you plan it? The suggestion to call upon magic for aid was yours. Did you conspire with the demon?"

"Those aren't your words, Gaston," Belle accused, hotly. She turned, wooden spoon in hand and thickly coated with porridge. "You're parroting stupid words just as you always do. Someone else's words. Why don't you _think_?"

His eyes hardened. His jaw as well. She had struck a nerve and perhaps harder than she had meant to. Her own nerves were still frayed and she was not being... herself.

This man might have been her _husband_. It might have been _Gaston_ between her legs that first night. It could be Gaston mourning a lost child with her. And her heart? When she would have given him everything else could she ever have given him _that_ , proud fool that he was?

"Magic makes us evil, then," she said, snatching a stoneware dish and slopping thick porridge into it, careless in her haste. "Your allies used magic too. Magic that humiliated me. Did you stop and think about that?" Striding over to the table in a flurry of mismatched skirts, Belle set the dish down in front of him with an ungracious _smack_. "Fairy magic," she said, enjoying how he flinched from her anger. "Is that evil? Am I evil because it touched me? Because Rumpelstiltskin has touched me, or is it only his magic? Am I evil because magic keeps my milk jug full and feeds my cat?"

"I don't know," Gaston said, rising and glaring at her across the empty chair. "Are you? His magic is at your beck and call."

"I--" Belle did not know what her argument might have been.

"His _everything_ is at her beck and call," Rumpelstiltskin said from the doorway, his voice a mild and pleasant sing-song. Gaston turned, reaching to his waist for a sword that wasn't there. "So I should keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to her, unless you'd like me to tear it out."

Well aware that it was she who had made the conversation quarrelsome, Belle went quickly to her husband's side. It took Rumpelstiltskin some moments to tear his unblinking gaze from Gaston and look at her. It was the haughty and remote stare that Belle remembered from before his unbending; it was the chilly disregard that Rumpelstiltskin held for the rest of the world and set aside for Belle. As ever, it was gone in a blink.

"He was only speaking his mind as I asked him to," she said, touching Rumpelstiltskin's arm. He wore red silk today beneath a waistcoat of black cord and leather that had been intricately embroidered with gold. It made him look the part of the mysterious sorcerer. Warning colours. Blood colours. "I lost my temper."

"That takes some doing," Rumpelstiltskin observed, taking her by the hand. "Why did you free him from his cell, sweet?"

Belle drew breath to answer, only to realise how she would shame Gaston if she spoke the truth - that he had been afraid of a _cat_.

"Because I trust him not to run away," she said instead. A different truth. "And to give him a hot meal. He can't live on bread and water."

"Why not?" Rumpelstiltskin looked at Gaston again, eyes narrowing with malice. "Many people live on far less."

"Not under _my_ roof."

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a blank look that lasted far, far too long for Belle's comfort. She met it, unblinking but not unafraid. With Gaston standing there she had reason to be afraid - afraid that her husband would turn around and commit murder on a whim.

"Very well," Rumpelstiltskin said, curtly. His fingers twitched, tightening around hers. "But I don't want to see you cooking his meals for him again," he added, raising the other hand and pointing a finger towards her face. He waggled it at her, the frill of his cuff bouncing in time with the motion. "You're not a servant." He meant to be terribly stern, Belle could see, but already they were both doing their best not to smirk at each other and then to laugh. And Gaston was _staring_ at them, all caution and courtesy forgotten thanks to his outright astonishment at the exchange he had just witnessed. Glancing at him, Belle saw the confusion in his eyes just before he blinked and averted his gaze.

"Back you go," Rumpelstiltskin said, directing Gaston to pick up his bowl. "Back to your cell, Sir Knight. Tomorrow I shall have a potion for you and we'll find out how badly you want to live."

Slowly, unwilling to turn his back on Rumpelstiltskin, Gaston took his porridge and went back towards his storeroom. "You trust him, eh?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, his thumb caressing the back of Belle's hand. "Why?"

"I suppose that I trust everyone," Belle said, doubtfully. "Until they give me a reason not to." Before he could remind her of Gaston's past deeds, Belle held up her free hand. "I only said that I trust him not to run away. He understands that I can only speak for him if he stays here and I'm sure he wants to tell me what's going on. Magic frightens him."

Rumpelstiltskin took her by the elbows and drew her to face him.

"And if I find it necessary to kill him?" he asked quietly as the storeroom door banged closed, out in the passageway. The ease with which he asked the question chilled Belle's blood.

"I won't stand idly by and allow that." The answer came breathlessly, the realisation frightening her more than she would have thought possible. She _would_ oppose him if it meant a man's life - if it meant keeping Rumple's hands free of further bloodshed. Not all the love in the world could sway her from that. Belle wasn't afraid.

The look in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes became bleak. He nodded, touching his knuckles to her cheek with absolute tenderness.

"Of course you won't." And he _admired_ that, she realised, daunted. 

Belle bit her lip, not wanting to let him dwell on what he might see as her disloyalty. It was anything but that. When she was herself again she could help him to understand.

"Did you come down because I said your name?" she asked.

Rumpelstiltskin shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and back again, avoiding her eyes.

"I was watching him," he said, almost managing not to look embarrassed. "I know when he's out of his cage. Can't have prisoners running about willy-nilly, can I?"

"Ah," Belle nodded, fighting down another smirk. Had he been watching her as well? Watching _them?_ and wondering what he might witness? Did he still harbour that niggling little seed of jealousy regarding Gaston? Well, there was no need to leave _that_ particular doubt feeding Rumpelstiltskin's desire to murder the man, was there? "He tried to kiss me once," she confided. "I didn't like it." Rumpelstiltskin nodded, visibly uneasy with the subject. "The first time _you_ kissed me," Belle told him, leaning a little nearer and pausing for a breath to allow him to recall the circumstances of that kiss, "my insides shivered."

She heard him gulp.

"So did mine," Rumple managed, barely above a whisper.

Belle took him by the hand once more and led him towards the table. There was plenty of porridge - perhaps she might coax him to stay for a bite with her, or to keep her company while she ate some herself. Rumple watched her with eyes full of love.

At the very least, she thought as she ladled out porridge, she had driven all thought of _Gaston_ out of his mind for a little while.


	98. Smoke

Far from being impatient to return to his work, Rumpelstiltskin sank into his accustomed chair at the kitchen table with a long sigh, stretching out his legs before him. He looked as if he meant to stay.

Belle fetched a dish of porridge and silver spoons for each of them, warmed by her husband's tiny twitch of a smile when she set his before him. Encouraged, she brought the honey jar down from the shelf for him. Another warm-eyed little smile was her reward.

"Thank you," he murmured, taking up his spoon.

Almost always until now, Belle had felt that Rumpelstiltskin ate with her to indulge her; it had always seemed a heavy concession on his part. For once, however, he seemed to have a true appetite for the food as well as for Belle's company. After trickling honey into an intricate cobweb pattern across the surface of his porridge, Rumple ate every morsel and scraped the dish clean.

Unable to match his appetite, Belle did her best with her own portion. When she eventually admitted defeat and put down her spoon, Rumpelstiltskin was staring into the distance - beyond the kitchen door and into nothingness. He still showed not the slightest inclination to move from where he sat. Perhaps the past few days had not left him tired of her company after all?

"You said that you would have a potion for Gaston," she said, half apologetic - feeling somehow that she ought not interrupt his thoughts. But Rumpelstiltskin blinked and turned to look at her, his expression amiable.

"Yes."

"He'll be able to speak freely? Without coming to any harm?" For all that she loved him, Belle knew better than to leave such a question unasked. Rumpelstiltskin was the master of the tricky bargain, after all. He always kept to his deal, to his word, but it was best to be certain that one had understood him correctly. Best to be _very_ certain.

"Perhaps. Without dying of it at least. Without _lasting_ harm," he stressed, seeing her suspicion. He flashed her a nervy, disarming smile. "If I break him, I'll mend him."

"Good," Belle said, firmly and without a trace of humour.

Rumpelstiltskin drummed the fingernails of his right hand upon the table top and stared into nothingness again.

"The spell that binds the knight's words is unlike that which silenced Flora. Pity. Her memory of events is likely to be unreliable. False."

"Do you think she knows how she's been used?" The idea of it made Belle feel wretched. Randall was a caring husband even if he was a fool, but could a happy future ever grow from a grounding of lies and deceitful magic? It had almost cost Flora her life and the cost to Odstone could not be measured. Hardly fertile ground. Then Belle scolded herself, cross with herself for judging. Her own hasty marriage had not looked very promising either. Her own husband was no-one else's idea of a prize catch. "Poor Flora," she sighed, only to wonder how many people had sighed, 'Poor Belle'.

"She spoke a little before I left her," Rumple mused. He opened his left hand and his clay pipe appeared there, the bowl smoking slightly. The air began to fill with the sickly-sweet scent even before he put the pipe to his lips and drew the smoke. Belle wasn't certain that he had noticed what he was doing - it had been such an idle and absentminded gesture that conjured the pipe into existence. "Of beatings and cruelty. Lies, but she knew it not." With a slow sigh, Rumpelstiltskin exhaled his first cloud of white smoke. "All that your father feared I'd done to you has been done to Flora. Real enough to her now, I suppose."

"That's terrible." If someone found it necessary to leave Flora with her head filled with lies, why not make them _kind_ lies?

Shaking her head, Belle gathered up their dishes and spoons and carried them to the pump. She left them in the sink to be washed later with the pan in which she'd cooked the porridge, but suspected that if she forgot about them for a little while then she would return to find everything sparkling clean and ready for her to use again. She found the answer to her own question along the way, once she gave herself the time to have the thought. Whoever had filled Flora's head with cruel lies had done so because they wanted her to be afraid.

It _was_ terrible. Rumpelstiltskin, however, seemed unmoved. He viewed Flora's plight as a curiosity, a puzzle. As magic that challenged his mastery. "Can you help her?" Belle asked, wondering if it had even occurred to him to try. Not to retrieve what memories had been concealed in Flora, not to understand the magic that had been done to her, but simply to _help_ the woman.

"Hmm?" Taking the pipe from between his lips, Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head back to look at Belle. She must have been unable to hide her disapproval because he lifted an eyebrow at her, challenging. "Suppose the truth turns out to be worse than the lie? You might mean to help her," he chided, gesturing with the stem of the pipe. "And end up doing more harm than good. Be careful what you wish for, treasure. Always, but most especially if you wish for magic."

"...I suppose you're right," she admitted. Every fibre of her being told her that it was always right to try and help someone but... but perhaps the _manner_ of that help was something to be considered with more care. She wished Flora no more harm. Rumpelstiltskin's magic could bring her a great _deal_ more harm, no matter how well-intentioned. Rumpelstiltskin was still watching her and she did not know what to say. She felt obliged to say _something_. "Shall we have some tea?"

Rumple's smile returned with his little nod of assent. Without their tension being registered, they both relaxed again. "I'd like that." He went back to staring into space and puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

That was odd. She had occasionally interrupted him while he enjoyed a pipe but had he ever smoked one in her company before? He only seemed to do so when he wished to sit and think, alone.

Her kitchen was as good a place as any to sit and think his thoughts, Belle supposed, and why should he want to be alone now that he had accepted her as his true wife? The time they spent together could not always be spent in conversation, could it? How long would it be before they ran out of things to say to one another? Rumple might smoke his pipe just as Belle might take up her sewing or read a book, to pass the time in quiet companionship.

Reassured by the thought that it was only something _ordinary_ , this strange new thing, Belle served them both tea and then sat at the table. She had brought down paper and ink, her glass pen and her letter box along with her most recent letter from Papa. Even on his travels and caught up in the business of becoming betrothed, he would look for her reply and worry if there was none.

Her pen faltered after the introductory lines and she bit her lip. It was Rumpelstiltskin who voiced her uncertainty, leaning forward and giving her his full attention. He spoke gently, kindly.

"Will you tell him about the child?"

The rational, sensible and stubborn part of Belle's mind insisted that there had _been_ no child, only a malaise followed by blood and rags. A child drew breath, a child cried its dismay at being delivered into the cold, bright world. A child grew for months safe and warm inside its mother and was anticipated. Yearned for. Loved. Yet Belle grieved, she hurt inside at the thought of it, and if the pain was not grief for their lost child then what was it?

"No," she decided, unable to look at her husband. "Perhaps when I see him again." She gestured weakly to the paper with its sparse markings. "Not like this." Not ink on paper, clumsy and brief.

Besides, her father would need to be thinking of his own children now. He had reason enough to worry for his new wife without Belle adding another reminder of the dangers. "No," she whispered, her throat tightening around the word. She tried to swallow the lump.

"For the best," Rumpelstiltskin said. Without warning, he reached across the corner of the table and seized her left hand. She could see - feel - that he wanted to say more, but neither of them had the words. Perhaps there were no words to fit the peculiar sorrow of their loss. Belle tried to smile bravely and could not. She felt anything but brave about what had befallen her.

"They're all expecting it you know," she said, her voice small and her hand gripping his tightly. "Papa. Odstone. They're waiting to hear that there's a baby coming." A bitter little laugh slipped out of her, alien to her. "Even Regina thinks I'm your brood mare. She can't fathom why else you'd want me if it's not to give you sons."

"No," he agreed, softly. His thumb tickled the back of her hand, stroking. "She can't." Belle knew that if she looked him in the eye now - if she dared - she would see the deepest devotion, the fondness, the wonder that he could never hide once his guard was down. She could not bring herself to look - to feel her stomach do that backflip of painful joy that was invariably her response to her husband's unguarded delight in her. It was too cruel a contrast with her sorrow and shame.

"I expect it's common knowledge in town." Blinking, Belle was startled by the two tears that plopped onto her writing and made the ink lift and pool. _Not more weeping,_ she thought, desperately and dragged her sleeve across her face. "They were all waiting to hear that I was with child. Martha promised not to tell what she saw, but... Her sisters are clever girls and I'm sure they know about these things. They'll guess."

"Yes," he agreed, tightening his grip on her hand.

No more tears followed those first two, much to Belle's relief. A swallow, a sniff and she was in command of herself once more and staring regretfully at the blotted letter. She could not help but smile when Rumpelstiltskin released her hand, stretched it out over the paper with a faint glow of pinkish light, and the smudged letters pulled themselves back into shape before her very eyes.

"Thank you," she laughed, her relief having little to do with the saving of the letter. The reminder that Rumpelstiltskin's magic _could_ be used for innocent ends was one she needed at that moment. The reminder that he thought no less of her for weeping was one to treasure.

"If Sir Maurice saw your tearstains on the page he would send an army to wrest you from my clutches," Rumpelstiltskin said, not entirely in jest although he made the words sound playful. Releasing her hand he sat back in his chair and took a long pull on his pipe, closing his eyes as he exhaled the smoke.

Watching him, Belle wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had wept. She had witnessed his tears that awful night at Wren's cottage. She'd seen them before and since, shining upon his cheeks or bright in his eyes, but had he _wept_ as she had wept? Rumpelstiltskin had comforted her in her misery and kept the sobs from tearing her apart. Had he wept for their child alone?

She wanted to ask him. She couldn't bear to ask him.

Belle wrote her letter, self-conscious at first about trying to compose the words while anyone watched her. It was not that she would have objected to him reading the finished letter but it was strangely disquieting to be watched as she wrote. But Rumpelstiltskin's mood was suited to quiet companionship and his attention soon wandered from her pen, back to whatever private thoughts had been preoccupying him. He did not complain when the grey cat came to investigate his presence and took to rubbing her cheek against his boots, her loud purr a rival for the crackle of the flames in the hearth.

"Have you a name for this creature?" he asked when the cat jumped lightly onto his knees and attempted to tread herself a nest. His attempt at conveying disdain made Belle smile.

"I thought I should know her better before I named her," she said, signing her name to the letter. It was a page of nothings, of trivialities and pleasantries and well-wishes. It would make her father smile and if she had omitted too much then at least she had told no lies. "I'm told that names matter."

"Indeed they do."

"Perhaps you should be the one to give her her name," Belle said as the cat curled herself up neatly on Rumpelstiltskin's thighs, oblivious to his suspicious stare. "She seems to have chosen you."

They both regarded the cat. Her ears twitched back, alert to the scrutiny, but she did not open her eyes or uncurl herself.

"Like her mistress she has questionable taste." Rumpelstiltskin puffed his pipe and then placed it carefully on the table beside his teacup.

"Because we both like to sit on your lap?"

Belle meant the remark innocently - she truly did. All the same, Rumpelstiltskin grinned his stained grin and Belle went pink and hot about the ears. "Well you can't name her Belle," she said, refilling her cup in a clumsy attempt to cover her blushes. "What do we know of her? She's grey. Small and pretty. A mother. We found her in a woodpile." None of that suggested a suitable name to Belle's mind. Rumpelstiltskin touched the cat's head with a fingertip, causing her to raise her head with an inquisitive sound in her throat. He met her stare, unblinking, and not until the cat looked away did he caress her fur - ears to tail so that she stood up on his legs and arched her back in pleasure.

"Smoke," he declared, briefly holding the very end of her tail until she tugged it free and gave him a reproachful look. "She's more the colour of blue smoke than of ash, I think." Rumpelstiltskin quirked an eyebrow at Belle, seeking her opinion, while Belle's mind raced to understand how he had arrived at the name. More than her colour, which was indeed like the peculiar blue-grey smoke that sometimes arose from the burning stubble in the fields or from a thatched roof fire; she had been found amidst the Apiary's firewood as well.

"Yes," Belle smiled, leaning over to stroke the cat's ears. "Smoke." Apparently satisfied with her new name, Smoke stepped up onto the kitchen table, stretched herself easily while giving a great yawn, then jumped down to the flagstones and trotted off in the direction of her nest. "Could you keep her from going into Gaston's room?"

"It's not easy to keep a cat from doing anything," Rumpelstiltskin grumbled, taking up his pipe again. "Especially in an enchanted castle. You wanted her, my dear. No complaints when you find her leavings in your slippers or her kittens in your sewing basket now."

It sounded like rather a contented sort of a grumble, to Belle. Perhaps Smoke would avoid Gaston of her own accord, having found neither welcome nor food behind that door.

Belle sipped at her tea only to grimace at the taste. It was stewed and had grown very cold.

"What is it?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, immediately alert for any sign that she was ailing.

"It's nothing," she assured him hastily. "The tea is stewed. The castle always seems to keep it fresh and hot."

"Yes." He shifted in his seat, hands coming together on the table and his pipe vanishing before his palms touched. "I've tried to spare you from magic wherever I can. Food and drink at least."

Belle tilted her head to one side, watching him while she thought about that. He would not look so pained about the minor inconvenience of a spoiled pot of tea, would he?

"You changed your clothes without magic last night." She thought a little more. "And you slept. You were hungry today." Leaving him the opening, Belle waited a few moments to see what he would say. Rumpelstiltskin said nothing. "It's not only for my sake, is it?"

The subject was excruciating for him - she could see it in the way his hands knotted together, retreating from the table into his lap. His brow was a knot of puzzlement and worry too, his head bowed like a little boy receiving a scolding. "It's what Baelfire asks of you," she said, attempting to make a certainty sound like a suggestion. "To turn from magic. You have to start somewhere."

"It's not easy," he muttered, the admission heavy with shame.

"No," Belle said. When magic came as naturally and as effortlessly to Rumple as _breathing_ came to Belle and to Baelfire, neither of them could pretend to know what they asked of him. Had he even noticed when he reached for his pipe by magic, before, when he might have walked and fetched it instead? She thought that he had not. It was far more than a habit for him to use magic in those small and wasteful ways. Just as it was far more than habit for Belle to breathe in and out. Her heart went out to him for his struggle but the sudden fullness of her heart accommodated far more than a tender compassion. "I'm very proud to be your wife, Rumple" she said, the words finding her before she could grope and find them. Her eyes filled up with tears again but they were not tears of grief this time. "Very proud." She tried to smile but it became twisted with the effort of not sobbing or letting out some other half-hysterical sound that would spoil the moment. Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, astonished. "I'll... make us some more tea," she blurted, embarrassed at herself.

"Let me." Rising before Belle could, Rumpelstiltskin placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back into her seat. "Rest," he reminded her, and for the first time she wondered if he had stayed to make certain that she did just that. Guilty, because she had promised herself that she would spend the day in idle pursuits if she got out of bed, Belle returned to her new rocking chair while Rumpelstiltskin busied himself with kettle and stove.

The motion of the rocking chair made her think of Wren. Belle shut her eyes at the little stab of pain and dread that followed. She should be at the old woman's side, seeing to it that her last days were spent in comfort and good cheer. Instead she was... she was _resting!_ It was wrong. Not that Wren would do anything other than worry if she visited while still weak and pallid. And not that being angry with herself would help her to heal any sooner. It would only give her another headache.

Rumpelstiltskin brought her a cup and saucer, steadying it until Belle had it in both hands and then watching her lower it to her lap. Her hands barely shook at all, but enough. She could not hide it from him and he would worry, just as she would worry about him in his efforts to put aside some of his magic.

Expecting him to leave her, or perhaps to pull up one of the chairs and sit beside her, Belle was surprised out of her glum musings when Rumpelstiltskin came and crouched before her instead. He did it so effortlessly, balancing on his toes without so much as a wobble, leather boots creaking under the strain. He looked up at her, expression unreadable.

"There's no need to watch over me," she assured him, wondering why the unblinking gaze made her feel nervous and apologetic. Sometimes it was as if Rumpelstiltskin could look straight into her thoughts. "I'll be good."

"Leave the prisoner where he is," Rumpelstiltskin said. It was not a request. Gently spoken, but not a request. "He spoke the truth about his family. His ancestors. I slaughtered them. Not only me but my predecessor. Before they won the dagger and enslaved him. I don't trust him with your safety. Not if he knows that story."

"You..." Belle stopped. Cleared her throat. Took very great care that her cup did not rattle upon its saucer because her hands were trying to tremble. "You killed them." She had heard him plainly enough but he spoke of it so _calmly_. Her statement was for her own benefit; an attempt to push the facts past her own urge to disbelieve him.

"Yes." Rising quickly, Rumpelstiltskin put his back to her. He faced the flames, hands flexing at his sides. He breathed too quickly, his voice losing the calm that so appalled her and becoming a growl of disgust. "I began with the lieutenant who came for Baelfire and I didn't stop until..." For a moment he spread out his arms, then let them fall, his shoulders slumping.

 _How absurd,_ Belle thought, her frightened breathing slowly subsiding towards something nearly normal. _He brought me tea in a bone china cup and now he's telling me about a slaughter the way he might ask me if I'd like some sugar._

"Wh... Why did you stop?" she asked, and if her mind was numb to the confession then her body was not. Her voice shook, hoarse and small in her horror.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed - a bitter little exhalation and utterly without mirth.

"Bae became ill. A fever brought back to our village by the returning soldiers, by the children I'd saved in his name. I saved them all from the fever as well, every child from every village lived, but I'd become a stranger to them. Even my son."

"Don't you understand why?" she asked, terribly afraid that he did not. He sounded so resentful of their ingratitude. So _wounded_. "Why they no longer knew you? _Why_ they were too frightened to treat you as they did before?"

"I was the village coward _before,_ " said Rumpelstiltskin, turning back to face her with his eyes narrowed. "Cripple, coward, cuckold. They didn't mourn for the old me, Belle. They only feared what I became."

"Baelfire mourned," she reminded him, not certain whether she felt pity or something darker at his words. "He loved his father, remember? If you remember that it will be all right, Rumple." Her persuasion sounded more like pleading to her own ears - so naïve as to be childish. She had learned for herself that well-intentioned love could not set the world to rights. Baelfire had learned it. Rumpelstiltskin seemed to have the knowledge built into his very bones. Sometimes, Belle felt so small beside him. Her brief lifetime would fit so many times over into Rumpelstiltskin's neverending one that he dwarfed her with his age, his understanding of the world. How was it that there were some things that he seemed unable to understand at all?

"He did," Rumpelstiltskin said, nodding. "Yes, he did love me. But to be the father he wants back..." Pushing his hands through his hair, Rumpelstiltskin sighed a shaken sigh. "Magic is all I know now. I asked you to help me remember who I was, before." He pointed to his chest with both hands, shaking his head urgently and then turning away as his expression crumpled with doubt and fear and not a little revulsion. "I'm not sure he's _in_ here, Belle. I'm not!"

Very carefully, Belle put her cup and saucer on the little table beside her chair and stood up. His darkness might daunt her but his need did not. She could slip her arms around his waist and lay her cheek between his shoulders and give him... herself. Hugging her arms against his ribs, Rumpelstiltskin began to calm himself and take steady breaths again. That he trusted her with such raw words was a gift. A man might be afraid and face his fears, that was courage, but how much courage did it require to show his wife how frightened he was? Or his son?

"You've made sure to be a good husband to me," she said, her words slightly squashed where she had pressed her cheek to the back of his waistcoat. "You can be the father that Baelfire needs, too. I _know_ you can."

"The father he wants and the father he needs might not be the same man. The father he loves isn't the father who kept him safe and they were both _so_ long ago."

Belle didn't have to see his face to know the look of pain that he wore as his voice broke. She closed her eyes, squeezing him as tightly as she could.

"When you speak of Baelfire you _shine_ with love for him," she said, the old protective fierceness coming back to her as if her strength had never faltered. If she squeezed him any harder, Rumpelstiltskin might have difficulty breathing. "It's wonderful. It's _beautiful_. You can _be_ his father, Rumple. Not as you were then but as you are _now_. Just as you've been a husband to me."

Loosening his grip on her forearms, Rumple caressed them instead. He stirred the silk of her sleeves, finding the lace cuffs beneath and toying with those. Belle could hear his heart thundering but the terror was draining out of him, loosening his frame. In turn, Belle loosened the circle of her arms and rested there against his back instead, content to hug him and breathe the scent of the soft lamb's leather that made up the back of his waistcoat.

"My wife could see beauty in a cesspit," Rumple said, placing his hands over the backs of hers. Warm. "Even in a cowardly fool. Don't you fear anything?"

"Of course I do." The past few days came back to her in an unwelcome rush that threatened to steal her breath away with a rising panic. "I expect everyone is afraid." She thought of Gaston, cowering from Smoke's friendly advances because he did not understand; creating monsters in his mind and fearing them, though they did not exist in reality. Rumple did that all the time. His monsters were doubt and mistrust. Neither man was a coward. "What is it that you're afraid of?"

Belle felt and heard his exhalation - a shaken release. He turned in her arms and pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms about her and tucking her head beneath his chin.

"That you're wrong," he said, roughly. "Wrong to trust me. Wrong to forgive me. Wrong to expect that I can be better than I am." Another ragged breath, his arms tightening. "Bae was."

"Oh..." If only she could will him to _believe_. Perhaps words were of less use than this clinging embrace. Rumple trusted in _this_. She would have made love to him just a handful of days ago - banished his pain and her sadness with kisses and pleasure given and received. There was no passion in her now. Not of that kind, though Belle held him with passion of a different sort - the way she might hold a child she'd snatched from danger or a precious thing lost and then found at last.

This was how two people could come to mean the world to one another, Belle thought when he let her go at long last. These moments. Rumpelstiltskin took her by the hands, his touch as delicate as when he held his fine-spun thread, and steadied her while she seated herself once more in the rocking chair. He looked wrung out and puzzled - as though there were words on the tip of his tongue but he could not quite find them. Belle knew the feeling well enough by now.

"Your tea will be cold again," he said, with such an effort to sound his usual self that the falseness echoed, hollow. "Magic's better _and_ easier."

"Cold tea is quite nice." Belle prodded his shin with her toe. "Shall I forbid magic in my kitchen. Would that help?"

"Your fire would go out," he pointed out. "Your stove. All the food would spoil. You'd have to climb to light the candles." He pointed up at the heavy iron chandelier above them. "I have magic so that I need no servants to do such things. I won't have my wife doing them."

Briefly, Belle wondered how he would stop her.

"We have enough gold for as many servants as we need," she said, reasonably.

"I don't _want_ servants!" In his frustration, Belle was glad to see his usual animation return. The glimmer of amusement came back to his eyes. "I've not recovered from snotty Lotte yet!" Rumpelstiltskin gave an exaggerated shudder, waggling his hands in front of him as if to ward off all maids. Belle laughed. She always felt wicked, laughing when her husband hurt so, but she couldn't help it. No-one else had ever been able to make her laugh so freely, so helplessly, or so much in spite of herself.

"I shouldn't think that Lotte has recovered from you either," she said, still chuckling. She gave him another prod with her toe. "You know that I had to explain to her when she walked in on us that morning."

"Explain?" Rumple looked blank.

"That the _sounds_ she'd heard me making weren't you being a nasty brute but evidence of your prowess as a husband." Belle prodded him again for emphasis, watching his expression as light dawned.

Rumpelstiltskin _blushed_. He had no hope of concealing it in this light; it turned his grey-green cheeks a peculiar shade of mauve. _Well,_ she thought. _Serve him right. Lotte and I blushed enough for ten girls that day while he laughed at his own mischief._

He rallied soon enough, nodding haughtily, but the blush took longer to fade.

"Prowess." He repeated the word as though tasting it. "Hmm." Another nod and, with it, a tiny smile. He shifted his feet, made as if to leave, then hesitated as if there was something he wished to add. "Well then," he said, and strode towards the kitchen stairs.

Was that all it took to send him away with his spirits lifted? A little praise and a hint of flirtation? Belle twisted in her chair to watch Rumpelstiltskin go, her smile unguarded once his back was turned. His step did appear more sprightly than before. Whether because he had unburdened himself of those unspoken fears or because his wife had teased him... did it matter? Belle had brought that black despair to a halt then sent it fleeing back into the shadows where it belonged.

_His comfort and his strength._

It suddenly seemed possible that she could manage to be just that.


	99. One Less Thing

The following day was... better. Belle was strong enough for a long bath and to wash her hair properly as well, and she was standing by the wardrobe in her underclothes and attempting to choose which dress to wear when Rumpelstiltskin surfaced from a long and deep sleep. Belle smiled over her shoulder at him as he sat up, befuddled where he would usually be quite wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. He blinked at her as though it were an effort to focus bleary eyes.

"You slept like a log," Belle said. She took her grey woollen dress and turned to lay it out at the foot of the bed. "So did I."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. He watched her in silence as she stepped into her skirt, tied it, then began to wriggle into the bodice that was slightly too tight for her. She had the feeling that he watched her because she was the only thing moving in the room rather than because her state of undress captivated him. It was... comfortable.

"Shall I cook breakfast?" Belle sat down on the edge of the bed to straighten her stocking and put on her slippers.

"No," said Rumple, slightly too fast. Perhaps he was afraid that she would resort to porridge again. He _was_ the better cook, so Belle took no offence. "No, no, we have a deal. Breakfast every day to keep my wife from wasting away." Rumpelstiltskin swung his legs out of bed and sat there a while, watching her. "Are you well, my dear?"

"Yes. I feel much better." More than that, Belle felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders; it no longer seemed impossible that she would be light of heart again. Capable again. "Would you take me to visit with Wren? She shouldn't be alone." The rest she left unspoken - that she was not certain that she was well enough to attempt the journey by herself, even if she took the carriage. Rumpelstiltskin gave her a strange, sideways look that lasted a moment too long. Then he nodded curtly and stood up, passing her on his way to fetch his clothing from the top of her trunk.

"As you wish."

Belle could not blame him for his disapproval. Perhaps it was too soon to be wanting to travel even a short distance. But Wren was dying and Belle knew that she would never forgive herself if the old woman passed alone or spent her final days without kind companionship. And if Rumpelstiltskin came with her, perhaps he might spend a little time with Wren. There was time yet to mend the rift between them. For both their sakes, Belle hoped that they could.

Patient enough while undressing for bed, Rumpelstiltskin had less patience when it came to the effort of putting his clothing back _on_ without the aid of magic. He cursed under his breath while tugging on his tall boots and made irritable sounds while tucking his shirt into his breeches. Belle pretended not to notice, finding something to be busy about in her sitting room while the cursing and exasperated sighs went on in the bedroom.

They went down to breakfast together, Belle taking her husband by the hand as they passed through the great room. They shared a fluffy omelette that took him but moments to prepare at the stove, Rumpelstiltskin lost in the same preoccupied silence as before while he ate with an air of grim determination. He did not seem unhappy; it was not the brooding petulance that she had witnessed in the past when she had annoyed him.

"When will your potion be ready for Gaston?"

"It is ready. He'll keep for a few more hours." Rumpelstiltskin put down his fork and then pushed away his plate with a grimace, a few bites of egg still remaining. "Wren has been kind to you. We should not neglect her."

"She is fond of you, you know. In her way." He nodded, pushing himself up and gathering the breakfast things in silence. Belle sighed to herself, realising that Rumple would not be drawn on either topic. Perhaps he preferred to brood. "I'll just go and see if Gaston is well."

"Do not invite him to leave the room," Rumple said, quickly, and Belle nodded. She had not forgotten what he told her yesterday. While she did not think for one moment that Gaston would harm her, she could guess at what Rumpelstiltskin would do to Gaston if she appeared to be in the least danger from him. He would not wait to be certain. But her nod did not satisfy him and he held her gaze, stern. "Do not cross the threshold yourself."

"As you wish," Belle said, perhaps a little too tartly, and hurried out before he could see her irritation.

In the months since her marriage, Belle had grown used to being her own mistress. Was it possible that she had grown far too used to having Rumpelstiltskin give her her way in all things, as well? That wasn't a very pleasant thought! No law anywhere said that he could not command her obedience. That was Rumpelstiltskin's own peculiar contract of marriage, to make her his queen rather than to make himself her lord, but how quickly she had grown used to having it so!

Gaston would probably be horrified to learn that he had had such a narrow escape.

Belle hesitated at the door to the storeroom, catching herself about to knock. He _was_ a prisoner, even if Rumpelstiltskin had bowed to her wishes and spared him the dungeons. Steeling herself, she pulled open the door and stood back.

"Gaston?"

His appearance gave her pause as he approached the door, alert and wary. Simple clothes, bare feet and his jaw darkened by a beard - he looked so very different from the Gaston to whom she had been betrothed. She had never before seen defiance in him that was not accompanied by a clumsy and boyish sullenness, but his eyes were hard with cold dignity now. He looked every inch the man. Belle tried to sound friendly. "Have you enough to eat?"

"Eggs and a casserole of game," he said, indicating a small table that had appeared among the clutter of chests and boxes. Gold still gleamed everywhere, warming the candlelight. "Another blanket, even a pillow. It seems the Dark One does your bidding." His nod was curt and courteous. When Gaston had nothing else to his name he would still have his manners.

"That would make me the most powerful woman in the world, wouldn't it?" she said, unable to help herself. She had always played these conversational games with Gaston, always knowing that she would be the winner and that Gaston, straightforward Gaston, would not understand how and why he lost. Belle looked away, looked at the bed with its warmer covers and plump feather pillow. She had been obedient when it came to the matter of her betrothal, but she had not been gracious or kind. She would have made a poor wife for Sir Gaston and it would not have been his fault. It was a humbling thought. "Is my cat leaving you alone? Her name is Smoke," she added.

"It has not returned," Gaston said, drawing himself up taller as if he could obscure her recollection of yesterday.

"Good." Belle sought for something to say. There had never really been anything to say. That had been the trouble. "The potion is ready. You'll be able to tell us what you know."

"Will I have any choice in the matter?"

"I..." Just as it occurred to Belle that she had not asked Rumpelstiltskin about that particular detail, he made her jump by arriving behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. Gaston didn't move; he didn't flinch, though he narrowed his eyes in unconcealed hostility when he saw the Dark One.

"There's always a choice, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said over the top of Belle's head. "Making the right one, that's the trick." He spoke with that sickly relish that could be so terrifying. Belle could feel his magic, tangible where it was usually just the ghost of a whisper in the air. "We'd best be going, sweet," he said. "Sir Knight can think hard about what he's going to tell us."

Taking a step backwards, Rumpelstiltskin drew Belle with him. He gestured, a wave of his hand, and the door slammed closed in Gaston's glowering face.

Belle spun to face Rumpelstiltskin, cross that he had not trusted her enough to obey him, but the gloating mask had fallen away. He spoke softly, averting his eyes and extending an arm to guide her back along the passage. "Come. The dukeling should be given time to make the right choice."

"And what is the right choice?" Belle asked, thoroughly disconcerted by the change in his behaviour. She had known that it was all a pantomime - the showy gestures, the impish voices, the deadly wordplay - but she had never witnessed such a swift and deliberate transformation. It had been entirely for Gaston's benefit that Rumpelstiltskin donned that mask today.

"To live."

"If he doesn't tell us his secrets you'll kill him?"

"If he doesn't tell me why he wants Regina dead I'll kill him."

Breaking into a scampering run, Belle put herself in his way just before the kitchen doorway. Rumpelstiltskin stopped, watching her with an unhappy frown.

"Regina? It's truly about that? You don't even _like_ the woman and she has nothing but contempt for you. She'll never help you to find your son. Why do you protect her?"

"She has her part to play." Rumpelstiltskin tried to take a step past her but Belle held out her arm to prevent him. He waited, watching her without any trace of annoyance. His reluctance, on the other hand, was almost palpable.

"But not a willing part, is that it?"

"On the contrary." He looked genuinely surprised. "Her willingness is the very lynchpin of my plans."

They stared at one another, heated but not hostile. Belle was the first to look away. Protecting Gaston - that was the thing today. Heavens help her if she later found it necessary to protect Queen Regina from Rumpelstiltskin as well!

Realisation struck her hard, suddenly, born from the uneasy stillness that followed the debate.

"You think that Gaston _meant_ to undo your plans!"

Rumple's eyes widened briefly, just long enough to betray his surprise that she had deduced it, but he did not try to deny it.

"I can't allow that," he warned her, but tenderly. He no longer numbered her among his opponents, even if he still feared her contempt. He no longer sought to frighten her away from things too dangerous for her. "Know that. Hope for the dukeling's sake that he's ignorant of Regina's importance to me. And of my son."

He sounded almost sad. Better than hearing him speak of killing with eager relish, Belle supposed, but no less fatal for poor Gaston if that was his 'honourable' mission - to prevent Rumpelstiltskin from carrying out his plans.

She let Rumpelstiltskin go past her and turned back to visit the straw room. Such moments with her husband left her mind racing ahead of itself and her heart hammering away in fruitless fright; she wanted to compose herself for a few moments before she faced him again.

Smoke had made a new nest among the straw piles, back towards the far wall and concealed from the doorway. Belle found it by following the sounds of noisy suckling and crouched down beside Smoke and her litter, offering a hand for Smoke to nudge with her cheek. Each kitten was round-bellied and well grown, though one seemed smaller than the rest and had fallen asleep at the teat while its siblings nursed enthusiastically.

"They're very pretty," she told Smoke, envying Rumpelstiltskin's unabashed way of speaking both to and about the cat. Belle felt quite silly whenever she spoke to her. "Won't you make your nest in the kitchen where it's nice and warm? I'm sure I can find you something soft to lie on near the fire.

Purring, the cat writhed in her bed of straw and dislodged two of the kittens. Belle lifted one, the largest of the litter, which squealed a protest and wriggled in her hand, catching at her with miniature claws. "I suppose you'll all need names," she said, then returned the warm bundle to its mother before it could learn to be afraid of her touch. "I'd better get to know all of you." She stroked Smoke's head, earning herself a louder purr. "Please leave Sir Gaston alone. He has a lot to think about."

She would have liked to give one or two of the kittens to Wren, she thought sadly. As clean as it was and as skilled with the herbs as Wren was, Belle had heard mice in the thatch as she lay in bed that night at the cottage. A friendly mouser could have kept her company of an evening as well. She could picture it so easily - Wren beside the fire in her rocking chair with a grey cat curled up on her lap.

Rumpelstiltskin was waiting for Belle in the great room, leaning against the end of the long table with his arms folded. She went to him and held his elbows lightly, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. He had given her all that she had asked for - trust and hard truths. She would not give him cause to regret it, no matter how it galled her to witness his malice or his casual disregard for everyone but his tiny family.

Yes, she had read him correctly; at her gesture, Rumpelstiltskin straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, relaxing a great deal. Had he been awaiting a confrontation?

"How is your cat?"

"Smoke is well. Her kittens are fat." Belle took his hands and watched his eyes until she saw the poorly-concealed bewilderment there. She wondered, with rather less charity than she might have done, for what crimes Milah would have banished their husband to the floor for the night. What would the woman have done if he had confessed murder to her? "I do see how hard this is for you," she said, squeezing his hands. "I see now why a wife who loves you is such a hard thing. I do."

Her husband smiled. It was a careworn and creased thing, his true smile, and full of love.

"But what a wife you are." Rumple nudged her beneath the chin with a crooked finger. "Fearless."

Belle made a wry face. "No. Not fearless. I'm even afraid to see Wren."

"She's chosen her end," he said, touching her hair. Belle had combed it out and left it to dry all about her shoulders. She could almost _see_ how his fingers itched to toy with it now that it was dry, smooth and glossy. "I'll see that it's a painless one."

"How?" She held his hand again on the way to the marble hall, their steps unhurried and soothingly in time with one another. "I know that she asked you for mercy. What will you... I mean how will you see to it?"

"It's done." Rumple plainly did not want to speak of it at length - his voice became a grim monotone. "When the time comes, Wren will... stop." He opened his free hand before them as though releasing something held in his grasp. He let the hand fall again to his side. "Can you forgive me for that, little wife?"

"It's what Wren wants," Belle said, slipping her arm through his and clutching at it with both hands. They stood and faced one another as the double doors swung open to admit a chilly breeze and a wretched drizzle. "I don't want her to die in torment when she can go easily. Not if she chooses this way instead."

Nodding, Rumple bent and kissed the top of her head.

"You'll be too cold without your cloak," he muttered as he drew away. A brush of magic that made her shiver and her woollen cloak was about her shoulders, fastened at her throat.

She might have been too cold, he was quite right, but Belle suspected that it was the magical protection he'd woven into the cloak that Rumple wanted her to wear. Little harm could befall her between the castle gates and the doorway of Wren's cottage, she felt sure, but Belle said nothing. Next time she left the castle she would be sure to fetch the cloak herself.

Rumpelstiltskin did not appear to notice the cold, nor the rain that soon covered his thin sleeves and his curls in sparkling droplets. Belle wondered when she would grow used to the ever-changing weather of her new home. She came from a land of gentler, slower seasons that stood separate and distinct from one another. Here it troubled no-one when late spring reverted to the chill of late winter, or an uncommonly hot day arrived to melt the last of the snow.

Lifting her by the waist, Rumpelstiltskin set her carefully on the step of the carriage and steadied her while she climbed inside. Just as well that he did because Belle was overcome with dizziness just as she sat down. It passed in a moment, so quickly that she was sure that Rumpelstiltskin had not time to notice it before he took his own seat opposite her. She would need to take care not to overexert herself in Odstone.

Once they were moving, Rumpelstiltskin sat and drummed the fingers of his right hand upon one knee, staring out of the small window. Did he think of Wren? Of defending his wife against unknown assailants? Of what he would learn from Gaston? The thoughts gave him no pleasure, whatever they were. His lips became a narrow line, his eyes hard.

"Why did you save Wren's life as a baby?" Belle leaned across to put her hands on his knees, making sure that she could catch his gaze and hold it. "That doesn't sound like something that the Dark One would do."

"I like to keep people on their toes," he quipped, only to look sheepish about it when she gave him a stern look. "I've no quarrel with innocents. She was fresh born. Why let her life go to waste when I could find a woman here to nurse her?"

Belle thought of what Wren had told her - that Rumpelstiltskin watched the children play.

"You gave her a name. You didn't think of raising her as your own?"

"No," Rumple said, but too quickly. Just a shade too quickly for Belle to believe it.

What _would_ it be like to see another's life from start to end? To cradle a babe and to lay the ancient bones to rest a lifetime later? Wren was wise enough to know that to care for her at all would cost Rumpelstiltskin dearly, yet she thought it a good thing that Rumple had found himself a young and perfectly _mortal_ wife. If the old woman's last days made Rumple glum and thoughtful, what would Belle's end be to him? Far off as she hoped it might be, that end _would_ come. He was right, in his wrongheaded way. She _would_ leave him one day if he remained as he was. And that would be the real curse, wouldn't it? Power, and every reason in the world to look upon people as brief, insignificant things that were best not valued at all.

He couldn't possibly _want_ to remain as he was, could he? Not like that, not when he loved so utterly. She could think of no greater curse for a man who loved so deeply than to be _alone_.

The carriage took them past the crossroads and almost to the door of Wren's cottage. Rumpelstiltskin helped Belle down a short way beyond the tavern, attracting curious and hastily averted stares from the handful of people who had come to the doorway to see the carriage go by.

Belle immediately regretted that she had not thought to change her shoes. The satin slippers that belonged with her wedding dress were already ruined with stains but they had grown comfortable with use; she wore them often at home when they would be concealed by the hem of a long dress. They would not serve her for very much longer if she wore them outside the castle! They were wet through before Belle had skirted the carriage to approach Wren's gate.

"I'll wait here," Rumpelstiltskin said, stopping just short of the gate himself and gesturing with both hands to the halted carriage. His face held a nervous sort of pleading behind a sickly smile. "You have... feminine matters to discuss. Yes?"

"Yes," Belle said, reluctantly, and mounted the short steps up to Wren's door, wondering at a husband who flinched not at all at those 'feminine matters' but was so easily cowed by a little old lady.

A quiet dread overcame her as she went to knock upon the door. How weak, how ill would Wren be? How near to the end had she come? Neither duty nor affection would allow Belle to turn her back on the old woman, but she was frightened of what she would find here. She had to force herself to knock and to lift the latch, ducking inside and peering into the warm gloom.

"Wren?"

"Here, duckling." Wren's voice was croaky but not weak. She was in her rocking chair beside a low fire. "Come on in out of the rain."

Belle did so, glancing back to the road as she turned to close the door. Rumpelstiltskin stood with his back to the cottage, hidden from curious eyes in the shadow of the carriage. She could not tell whether he was guarding the cottage or hiding.

"I'm sorry that I haven't come sooner," she said, hurrying over to the fireside and bending over to kiss Wren's cheeks. The old woman's gnarled hands pressed hers in greeting.

"If you've not been resting and mending, girl, I'll have strong words for you. And for him if he's not been doing his duty by you." With that, Wren gestured to the door. She would have heard the carriage arrive, of course, but she had known before now when Rumpelstiltskin was outside her cottage, hadn't she?

"I've been resting," Belle promised, hoping that her face did not betray the half-truth of that. "He's fed me red meat and medicine for the pain, and sat by my side while I was asleep." She arranged her cloak and skirts and sat down in the hard chair opposite Wren's. "And I'm feeling much better now. How are you?"

"Slowing down," Wren chuckled. There was a wheeze there - a shortness of breath. Belle's own breath caught on that feeling of dread and her face betrayed _that_ in an instant. "It's nothing to fear," Wren scoffed, as if she thought it a lesson that Belle should already have learned. "Not if the going's easy."

"I wish that I could do more," mumbled Belle, knowing that she spoke selfishly. Wren was tired and ready to lay down her burdens. It would be wicked to wish the alternative upon her - lingering pain and a struggle for every gasp of air just so that the world could keep her a little while longer. "I understand why he turns so easily to magic when I think of what it could do for you."

"Hah! Turn me young again, I expect, so I've to do the whole thing over again. No thank you. The price for a life is a life. I've already lived one life more than I was owed, I reckon. I'd not ask him to give me another. For his sake and mine." Belle nodded. Wren was right. She _knew_ that Wren was right. Knowing it would not ease her grief in the days to come. "Light some more lamps and let's see you," Wren said, wriggling herself into a more upright position among her cushions. "Still bleeding?"

"Oh... yes." It seemed wrong to discuss her own troubles given the magnitude of Wren's. But Wren sat there, content with her lot, and it was Belle who had come here with a need. Obediently, she took a candle and touched it to the wicks of the oil and candle lamps that sat dusty on shelves and tables. "Why do you sit in the dark, Wren? You have so many lamps."

"My husband liked to be frugal with candles and firewood," cackled Wren, causing the chair to rock beneath her. "I caught the habit. Come here and let me see you."

Belle pulled the other chair nearer and perched at the very edge of it, allowing Wren to pull down her eyelids and peer into her mouth. The back of a wrinkled hand was pressed firmly to her brow for a long while, then Wren captured her left wrist and turned it so that she could press her crooked fingers to the pulse point. Belle stayed still, trusting to Wren's experience. "You've had no fever?"

"No. Chills. Hot and cold. Faint if I moved too much or too fast. But no fever."

"And the blood has slowed?"

"Oh, yes." Reluctant to remember the way it had been at first, Belle withdrew her hands into her lap and bowed her head. "Just like every month, now, and the pain has gone."

"Are you hungry for your food?"

"Sometimes."

"You're mending," Wren said, nodding approval. "The heart takes longer to mend, of course."

"Yes." Belle eased herself back into her chair, hands clasped in her lap. "I don't understand how I can be so sad when I didn't even..." It seemed too wicked to say it aloud no matter how often she had thought it. That she had not _wanted_ a child, not so soon. "I want to learn how to keep it from happening again," she said, thinking of Mistress Fitchett and the other women who had lost their sons to the Rot and filling with shame. "Until I'm certain that I can be a good mother I don't want to be one at all."

Wren laughed - her sudden, harsh bark of a laugh at first, then a crackling wheeze when she ran out of breath. "If we all did that there'd be no people left, my Lady. Waited 'til we was _certain!_ "

Belle laughed herself, oddly relieved by the suggestion that she was far from being alone in her doubts.

"Better prepared then," she said, her smile its own sort of medicine. "He said that he would leave me alone," she confided, softening her voice more because she feared that Rumpelstiltskin was able to hear her than because she was shy. "He would. But I don't want that." Her smile transformed itself into a shy smirk and Wren answered it with a gleeful grin, banging her hands upon her knees.

"And him such an old man!"

The exuberance left Wren breathless but she struggled to her feet, reaching for one of the two walnut wood walking sticks that leaned against the chimney breast. "One last outing for the herbs then," she said, and made no protest when Belle went to her side to take her arm. "One last customer."

"Oh, Wren..."

"And you shall take my books with you when you leave, my Lady, since you've that coach out there to carry them away. You'll take such herbs and medicines as are stored and labelled but leave the rest for Martha. She knows what to do with them." Wren gave the steep staircase a defiant glare before planting her foot on the first step. Belle went one step behind her, hands at Wren's waist and ready to grab her if she faltered. "Don't want anyone coming in here and saying what they're sure old Wren would've wanted done with it all, d'you hear me?"

"Yes, Wren." What else could Belle do but obey? Anyone had the right to see their last wishes honoured, even if it was horrible to think of it while Wren yet lived. Perhaps to Wren it seemed not a moment too soon.

They shuffled their way to the top of the staircase, Wren muttering about leathery old lungs and bothersome knees. She held the rail at the top and caught her breath while Belle slipped past her into the room.

Memory took her harder than she would have liked. For a few moments she could feel the pain again, the sticky blood again, the hot tears and terror that she'd shared with her husband again. Belle shook herself but Wren had seen and watched her with shrewd eyes.

"Not trying to be too brave are you?" she asked, rather gruffly. "Hurt like that needs letting out else it festers." She snorted, making her way to the tall shelves beside the window. "Your man needs telling that. Something's festered in him for a long time."

"Yes," Belle agreed, small voiced. "I've cried and cried," she said, drifting to Wren's side and watching her busy herself with jars and bottles. "I thought I'd go mad with it."

"Tears heal," Wren said, and she said it with a sigh. "But I'm sorry for your grief, duckling. I truly am." She took as deep a breath as she was able and sighed again, nodding. "Now then, you must learn this. Martha knows her midwifery but she's slapdash with the weighing and measuring. Tends to think that more is always better and it ain't so. You mind old Wren and you measure everything down to the scruple before you swallow a medicine."

"Yes, Wren."

It was an education to watch Wren at work. She did weigh and measure every ingredient with an exactitude that Belle might have thought unnecessary. She might also have thought it impossible given Wren's twisted hands but she worked swiftly, doing everything herself save crushing the ingredients with pestle and mortar. This she allowed Belle to do, demonstrating the correct motion and nodding her approval as half a dozen ingredients became a fine powder in the bowl. It reminded Belle of when she had made the pain medicine in Rumpelstiltskin's turret. She had taken tremendous care of course, following the instructions in his book to the limit of her ability and understanding, but she wondered now if more precision might have spared Rumple from the ill effects of the medicine that she'd made that night.

Belle did not look forward to taking Wren's books away with her but, oh, she looked forward to reading them and learning all that she could from them!

"You can make it up into pills with a touch of beeswax or make up a syrup," Wren told her. Her voice had become hoarse from the effort of instructing Belle. "Never more than seven days ahead of yourself for the pills or a month for the syrup - the potency dwindles and you don't want that. If you use the syrup you'll need to measure every dose every day." She chuckled breathlessly to herself. "There's been a fair few born around here because their ma tried to save herself a bit of time. It was beeswax for me. Easy to divide it up and to hide it away from such little ones as you do get."

Tilting the bowl to look at the greenish-brown powder, Belle wrinkled her nose at the sour smell. Pills seemed likely to go down more easily than any liquid that tasted of _that_.

"It's reliable? No children will come?"

"It's all there is unless you want magic," Wren said. "And I'd sooner chance an unexpected babe than I would magic." She turned and leaned towards the window, squinting down at the street through the thick glass. "He might have his own ways of course. If you trust him."

Belle looked too. Rumpelstiltskin could just be seen, leaning with his back to the carriage in a manner so relaxed as to appear almost sinful. It was another mask, if Belle was any judge. Odstone saw what Rumpelstiltskin wanted it to see.

"Yes," she said. Sighed. Rumple had expected magic to keep them from conceiving a child, yet conceive she had. Would she place her trust in another kind of magic now that he had been proven fallible? "I'm very lucky, Wren." Belle heard a rustling sound and turned to see Wren tipping the powder that they had made onto a sheet of paper, then carefully folding it to enclose the medicine. "That he's content if I never give him sons. That he comes to bed to make love to me. To _me_."

Wren offered her the packet with a misty-eyed smile. "Aye, duckling," she said, kindly. "That's proper, that is. A contract older than time, that is. Man and wife." They stared at one another, half smiling and half tearful, until Belle turned away and tucked the folded paper into her cloak pocket.

"How long must I wait? Once the bleeding stops?"

"Impatient are you?"

"...No." Belle frowned, rubbing her nose and quickly wiping her eyes. "But he might be."

"Bugger him," Wren scoffed. "When you're ready for him, that's the time. Not before. He's got two good hands don't he? He can see to himself if needs be."

Belle turned back with a look of polite enquiry, not understanding until Wren rolled her eyes and shook her head. _Then_ the woman's meaning dawned on her and Belle's mouth dropped open. But she didn't blush. Not even when Wren grinned at her. "Now then. All these are for you to take." She gestured to the shelves beside her where each bottle, jar and leather pouch was meticulously labelled. Taking up her walking stick, Wren banged the tip against a heavy black chest beneath the table. "All my books are in there. How to make your pills or your syrups you'll find in the topmost. It's not hard. Your husband would've made a good apothecary if he hadn't wasted his time spinning straw into gold. Maybe he'll take it up. Maybe you will. Find the books a home if not. Someone who'll use what I knew. It took me a lifetime to know it."

"Of course." This was too much like goodbye and Belle's throat was tightening. She swallowed down the aching lump. "But you're still here, Wren." She reached across the hunched shoulders and squeezed as hard as she dared, not wanting to topple the frail figure. "Please don't make me miss you before you've even gone."

"Not long now, duckling." Wren nodded, uncertain at first and then decisive. "Yes, not long now, so fetch your husband and have him carry these away. One less thing for an old woman to worry about."

Hiding her tears, Belle did as Wren asked.


	100. The Dukeling

"I won't say goodbye." Belle embraced Wren on the doorstep. "I'll see you again."

"I expect you will," Wren agreed, flustered by the affection and gently pushing her away. "Off you go now. Rest before market day. You've promised Odstone justice, my Lady, so you must be there."

"You command your mistress?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, but sourly and without fire. He had collected the items that Wren wished taken away without complaint or obvious resentment, speaking not a word. Now he stepped forward and drew Belle to his side, meeting Wren's gaze without flinching.

"Rumple--" Belle began, but Wren hardly needed her help and only smiled at her, silencing her.

"I remind the lady," Wren said amiably. "She's had a lot on her mind and might've lost track of the days."

"I had," Belle confessed. Oh, she had not forgotten about Dacey Tavish nor about her promises, but she had forgotten how close they were to market day and the promised justice. "Thank you, Wren."

Wren nodded and turned her steady gaze back to Rumpelstiltskin. Belle felt his fingers fidget at her waist.

"Your wife heals as well as can be hoped," Wren told him. Beside her, Belle heard the softest exhalation - relief. Rumple's hand tightened at her waist, hitching her ever so slightly nearer to his side. "Love her well."

"And now you command your master," Rumpelstiltskin replied, but quietly. The words were a rebuke but the tone of voice more suited to a quiet _thank you_. "Come," he urged Belle.

Belle went with him to the carriage and forced herself to keep from turning back to look at Wren until she was seated inside. Then she leaned forward to see through the door, giving the old woman the faintest of waves and the best smile she could muster. Wren gave her a nod, already making her way back inside the cottage.

Taking his seat opposite Belle, Rumpelstiltskin closed the carriage door with more than necessary force and sat stiffly, staring straight ahead of him until they were moving over the cobblestones.

Neither of them said a word. Belle moved to sit beside him, taking him by the hand. Hers trembled until Rumpelstiltskin squeezed it.

They were almost at the castle before Rumpelstiltskin shifted himself on the seat, turning to face her. Belle blinked herself out of her blank daze and found a smile for him.

"I have to deal with the dukeling," he said, eyes downcast while his fingers played with hers. "You should go to your room and rest."

"I want to hear what he has to say as much as you do," she protested, and felt his fingers tighten. His expression hardened as well, though Belle had no sense that his anger was directed at her.

"You want to stay my hand," Rumpelstiltskin said, only slightly accusing.

"Of course I do!" Belle waited until he looked her in the eye, then held his gaze, her obstinacy filling in where her courage faltered. "If I'm sure of anything it's that Gaston only became a part of this because _I_ married you."

"It won't be pleasant." Withdrawing his hand, Rumpelstiltskin vanished behind his haughty mask. "And I _will_ have my answers, whatever happens."

"I want them as much as you do," Belle reminded him hotly. "I was the one left naked in front of King George's court!"

"I don't dispute your right to be there, sweet." Rumpelstiltskin pushed open the door and jumped down while the carriage was still slowing before the gates. "Only your stomach for it."

Belle had to admit that he was right about that. She put her arms around his neck as he lifted her down, relieved when he squeezed her tightly against him before allowing her to slide down his body until her feet touched the road. "I won't cause him more harm than it takes to free his tongue," Rumple said, his voice as rough as his embrace. "You have my word."

What more could she demand of him? Belle wanted no harm at all to come to Gaston, yet there was her solid certainty that Gaston himself wanted to speak of what he knew. And Gaston had courage even if he lacked the insight to use it wisely.

"Thank you," she said, reluctantly letting go of Rumpelstiltskin. If he promised to spare Gaston unnecessary suffering, it was only because he knew that it would upset _her_. The wrong reasons but the right actions. She would have to be content with that for now. 

The drizzling rain covered her face and made her shiver on the walk to the castle entrance. "I will go to my room first," she said, shaking her cloak and skirts ineffectually. "Dry myself off."

"As you wish, my dear." Rumpelstiltskin wasn't really paying attention to her words. "I'll bring the dukeling to my turret." He smiled to himself. "If magic is what alarms him then let's surround him with it. Potions and dark sigils and spell books."

Belle nodded unhappily. "All right." Having claimed to have the stomach for the interrogation she could hardly object to that. Making use of Gaston's own fears had to be better than putting him to torture in some dripping dungeon, and at least Belle would _be_ there to speak for him.

She hurried to change her skirts and stockings only to find that the haste left her breathless and dizzy. Too soon; it was too soon for hurrying about anything. Her cloths were still heavy with blood and she could not simply ignore the weakness of her body. For just a moment, Belle envied her husband's ability to brush all human frailty aside with thoughtless magic. She sat on her bed and waited to feel better before making her way upstairs.

Nervous, not knowing what she might find, Belle stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Rumpelstiltskin sitting at the bottom of the winding turret staircase. He jumped up when he saw her. Belle stared at him, at the change in him. She had grown used to his soft shirts and bright brocade waistcoats, elegant and flattering. The attire of a gentleman. Now he was as she had first seen him - layered up in leather, all hard edges and dark colours, with the mantle of reptilian scales about his shoulders and the heavy coat covering him to the knees.

"Belle." Rumpelstiltskin offered his hand and Belle's thoughts fled back to the battlements, to that first touch between them when he steadied her climb and she discovered the warmth of his flesh. She took his hand and looked for her husband beneath the heavy leather. Framed by the mantle, his face seemed more severe, his colour darker and his eyes too bright. Belle understood why - oh, yes, she understood _why_ he shrouded himself in the terror of others. He could use that terror to his advantage; he could disguise himself and his true motives with his costumes and masks. But his power was no illusion. The danger was no illusion and she was afraid for Gaston. "Trust me," Rumpelstiltskin urged in a whisper, leading her up the narrow staircase.

Gaston was already there, bound to a sturdy chair in the very centre of the circular room. Evidence of magic was everywhere - worktables, shelves and spinning wheel all arranged so that Gaston would have a very clear view of sorcery at work. A small black cauldron oozed cloying brown smoke, books lay open at the most terrible illustrations and the air was unnaturally cold. She could see the vapour of Gaston's breath - fast and frightened breaths, though his back was straight and his expression one of stony dignity.

He could not see the scene for what it was, Belle knew. In all her time at the castle she had never seen Rumpelstiltskin make use of a cauldron, nor leave anything in his turret unattended if it was inclined to smoke or to ooze. He never left books lying open unless they were in use, instead preferring to put them aside, marking his place with her ribbons. She could see none of those in evidence now, only the sinister clutter that one who despised magic would surely expect of a wizard's lair. Had Gaston not been there, Belle would have found it comical.

And Rumpelstiltskin himself was the centrepiece of the scene, striding into the room with Belle beside him.

"Sir Knight," said Rumpelstiltskin, sweeping a bow.

"You mean to torture me in front of the lady?" Gaston asked, coldly. He stared through Rumpelstiltskin rather than at him, apparently unimpressed.

"The lady wishes to hear your answers." Rumpelstiltskin drew a chair towards them, stretching out his hand and pulling it with magic so that it scraped across the floorboards, skirted Belle and came to rest behind her near the top of the stairs. "My dear."

Reluctant to be made a part of the pantomime, yet in need of the chair, Belle nodded and sat down. Gaston met her gaze and she realised that his fear was, at least in part, for her sake.

"Understand that I would have killed you when you insulted her at the King's banquet," Rumpelstiltskin warned, turning to the table that held the cauldron and, delicately pulling back his frilled sleeve, reaching into it to pull out a bottle of black glass. "That was reason enough for me. You live because Belle wishes it. Do you understand that, dukeling?" His tone could have been mistaken for pleasant, conversational. "I have your potion. I have a little experience of drawing out such magic." With that, Rumpelstiltskin turned and gave Belle a smile that made her flush, gripped by another memory. "Your willingness to speak and to get this done quickly will make the difference, Knight. Without that..." He stalked towards Gaston and stood before him, displaying the little bottle. "This will hurt more than it has to."

Gaston swallowed hard.

"I understand," he said, haltingly. He shifted his weight, trying to move his arms where they were bound to the arms of the chair. There was some give in the ropes, Belle was glad to see. Gaston was bound to keep him from mischief and quite possibly from harm, but not to cause him suffering.

To Belle's great surprise, Gaston looked past Rumpelstiltskin and met her gaze. "Lady Belle. I can never apologise enough for my part in--" His face reddened with the struggle; words denied to him though he tried to force them out. Gaston closed his eyes. Stopped. _Thought_ his way around the problem before opening his eyes and looking at her again. "For everything I have done that has caused you unhappiness, my Lady. Before your marriage and since."

Belle nodded, truly grateful to him. _Please be willing to tell us what Rumpelstiltskin wants to know,_ she thought.

"Understand that magic capable of countering mine is rare," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Dangerous and unpredictable. Magic that even I would hesitate to trifle with. I wonder if you did so willingly? Knowingly?"

He turned on his heel, a sharp movement that caused Belle to startle in her seat. "My dear, would you uncork this and stand ready?" He held out the bottle. A fine layer of frost had formed upon the black glass wherever his fingers had not been touching it. Belle took it gingerly, nodding, and went to stand beside Gaston's chair.

"What are you going to do?" Gaston asked, his jaw tight. Rumpelstiltskin bent over him and reached towards Gaston's left hip, above which the dagger mark had been inked into his skin. Gaston flinched, insofar as his bindings would permit it, but Rumpelstiltskin did not touch him. Instead, catching Gaston's eye and narrowing his own, he pointed to the place where the tattoo was concealed.

"That," he said, "is no ordinary tattoo. Did you know that?" He did not wait for Gaston to try and fail to reply. "What did they tell you it was, hmm? A mark of brotherhood? A reminder of your pledges?" Again the strain of Gaston battling his own silence. He gulped and looked down at the pointing finger. "The men who assaulted Belle wore such a mark somewhere about them. Did you know _that_?" Belle stared at her husband. _She_ had not known that! "The sole of a foot. Below the buttock, behind the knee. Somewhere discreet but there. Do you know what the mark represents?"

Gaston closed his eyes, giving up the struggle to speak and letting out the breath that he had held the whole while. His face ran with sweat. Rumpelstiltskin straightened, his lips pursed. "I know that you were without the mark when I showed your fine flesh to Belle's people." he said. "Everyone got a good look. I made sure of it." Gaston squeezed his eyes more tightly closed. It did not surprise Belle that the memory was more painful to him than his current predicament.

"He can't tell you anything yet," Belle protested, not caring to stand by and watch Rumpelstiltskin make sport of this.

"He can think. Can't you, Sir Knight?"

Gaston nodded, pulling himself up straight in the chair again and half-glancing at the bottle in Belle's hands.

Rumpelstiltskin took half a pace back, indicating with a slow sweep of his hand that Belle was to administer the potion. That should have reassured her - surely he would not bid _her_ do anything that would cause Gaston to suffer? Instead, the calm gesture and the mild expression that accompanied it made her nervous, fumbling the bottle as she brought it, reluctantly, to Gaston's lips.

"What'll it do to me?" Gaston gasped, twisting his head so that Belle could not touch the neck of the bottle to his lips.

"It will let you tell us what you know," Belle tried to soothe, but Rumpelstiltskin folded his arms and shook his head.

"No," he said, gravely. "This is to make sure that the pain doesn't kill him when he does tell us." He leaned forward, raising his hand to shield his face as if to keep the words private from eavesdroppers. "You'll have one hell of a hangover come the morning. Anything stronger would drop an ox." All at once, Rumpelstiltskin dropped the playful stance. "I don't know what magic or deceit kept you from speaking to Belle the first time," he said. "Perhaps you could have if you'd tried. But this time I think you know more and someone has made _very_ sure that trying to share your knowledge will kill you. That mark you bear is more than a symbol, boy. It's pure poison."

Gaston did not react; he had known it. Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin's satisfied little nod.

"Once the poison is released I will contain it," Rumpelstiltskin went on. "Keep it from reaching your vital organs. I can't promise anything about the rest of you, not if there's magic in it. I'll draw it out if your answers satisfy me." He looked to Belle once more. "The potion, my treasure, unless you want to hear him scream in agony. I'd have no objection."

Gaston did not resist when she touched the chilly glass to his lower lip. He swallowed the contents of the little bottle without flinching and gave her a tiny nod of thanks. He was far braver in the face of pain than he was when it came to magic, Belle could see, but she felt a deep relief once Gaston's expression of grim resolve became slack - his eyes glassy and the pupils huge in the grip of the drug.

Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers in front of the knight's face. Gaston merely blinked, slowly.

"That should do it."

"He's barely conscious!" Belle pointed out, giving Gaston's shoulder a tentative shake.

Rumpelstiltskin had turned to busy himself at the table behind him. Now he turned again and faced Belle, taking the empty bottle from her unresisting fingers. He studied her face, affection and irritation at war with one another behind his eyes. They combined to give his voice a note of sarcastic relish.

"Would you like him to be?"

"...No," Belle admitted. "No, of course not. Shall I untie him?"

"I shouldn't." Again, Rumpelstiltskin left the choice in her hands. He had his reasons for binding Gaston thus but he would allow her to free the man. Belle took a steadying breath and went back to her chair. Trust. Her husband had asked her for her trust.

From amongst the carefully displayed magical clutter on the table, Rumpelstiltskin selected a strangely shaped dish made of a dull silver metal. Belle had never seen the like, nor the like of the instruments contained within it.

Rumpelstiltskin saw her curiosity and smiled a little. "Gifts from an acquaintance," he said, holding up the largest of the objects. The body of it was a glass vial set in more of the dull silver metal and at its head there was a long and very sturdy needle. At the base was a sort of handle into which Rumpelstiltskin had fitted his thumb. "Our world has magic. His leans towards manufacture. Science. He calls it reason and enlightenment." As Belle watched, a tiny bead of yellowish liquid appeared at the tip of the needle. "I call it dangerous, but some of it is quite useful. This potion cannot be safely swallowed but with this I can put it straight into the dukeling's flesh." Rumpelstiltskin grinned at her undisguised awe. "Perhaps you'll see that world someday, my love."

He wasn't teasing her, even if he sounded as though he was. Perhaps she _would_ see that world. Some day.

"What's in it?" Belle asked, nodding to the needle device.

"This will counter the magic that binds his tongue." Rumpelstiltskin glanced at Gaston, whose head had fallen forward until his chin met his chest. "And it will hurt him." This time he did not quite meet Belle's gaze. "You need not be here."

"I must," she replied, her voice not betraying her fear at all. "It's the only way?"

"If I'm to save him as well as hearing the truth? Yes." Reluctantly letting her catch his eye, Rumpelstiltskin faced her. "I've done what I can to ease the pain. I'll do all that I can to spare him from the poison."

Belle nodded, forcing a brave smile onto her lips. But her heart sank to think that it was only for _her_ sake that Rumpelstiltskin would spare Gaston anything. Were she not here, were she unaware of this, Rumpelstiltskin would enjoy Sir Gaston's pain. Perhaps even his death.

Her thoughts went to Baelfire as she watched Rumpelstiltskin bend over and study Gaston's swaying frame. Her thoughts did not want to be _here_ with Gaston's pain and this fear that her husband would become carried away by his dark glee and do something that could not be undone. Baelfire had tried to reason with Rumpelstiltskin, only to become so desperate that he turned to yet more magic in an effort to win his father back. What horrors had he witnessed, that child? What nightmares did he blame himself for being unable to prevent? And if that beloved boy could not persuade Rumpelstiltskin to behave otherwise, could _she?_ Was their love enough?

Rumpelstiltskin slid the needle into the flesh of Gaston's forearm. Belle forced herself to watch. She had expected an immediate reaction but Gaston barely stirred at all as his skin was pricked. Even when Rumpelstiltskin depressed the plunger and pushed the potion out through the needle, Gaston merely attempted to tug his arm free, scowling in groggy confusion as if at some minor irritation.

"He seems to be all right," Belle said, all but grinning in her relief.

"He hasn't said anything he shouldn't, yet." Returning the instrument to its silver tray, Rumpelstiltskin watched Gaston carefully for a long while. The seconds seemed to stretch out like hours for Belle, whose mouth had grown dry in her nervousness. "That should be long enough," Rumpelstiltskin said, finally, and lifted Gaston's head by the chin. Gaston made an effort to focus his eyes, then to wrench free of the hold on his chin. He slumped sideways at once. If not for the sturdy ropes that bound him, Gaston would have toppled to the floor. "Sir Knight? Answer me truthfully and leave the poison to me."

Belle stood up, too agitated to remain in comfort while Gaston endured such a trial. She went to stand at his right side and watched Rumpelstiltskin, waiting. He shrugged and settled his shoulders like a man about to attempt a feat of strength, then leaned over Gaston and pushed his hand below the other's tunic, delving for the hip. Gaston, apparently objecting more to the touch than he did to anything else about the situation, made another effort to stir himself and flinch away. "Who sent you to kill the Queen?" Rumpelstiltskin demanded, leaning his weight against the hand he'd placed beneath Gaston's clothing.

"My father sent me," Gaston said, in such urgent haste that the words ran together. Then he let his head fall back, moaning in pain, his already pale face turning ashen. Belle reached for his shoulder and then thought better of it. A touch was not always a comfort when there was pain. "But not to kill her, I swear I'm no assassin." This time his entire frame convulsed with it, rocking the chair against the floorboards. Rumpelstiltskin narrowed his eyes, grasping the left arm of the chair to support himself in his awkward pose. "I was to break her skin with the blade, nothing more."

"Poison?" Rumpelstiltskin demanded, ignoring the way Gaston struggled. Belle thought it unbearably cold of him, only to remember the way Rumple had snapped at her for distracting him when he drew out the twisted fairy magic from her body - he had needed every ounce of his concentration for the task at hand. Perhaps it was the same now?

Gaston's head lolled from side to side, even a headshake beyond him. He gulped, gritted his teeth and panted until tiny bubbles of spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.

"Poison only to magic," he hissed, squirming. "To bind her magic."

"Why?"

"To keep her from serving your ends!" The cry became a sob at the end of the final word. Gaston wrenched his head from side to side, his only freedom to try to escape the torment.

"And what are those?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, his voice gone deadly and quiet. "Do tell us."

"To destroy us all!"

Belle scarcely had time to take that in before Rumpelstiltskin's twittering giggle cut through the sound of Gaston's groans. She stared at her husband, afraid that such an accusation would anger him too much, but his hand remained over the dagger tattoo and his entire body remained taut with effort.

"So I've the Duke to thank for all this? I'll be sure to send him a suitable gift," Rumpelstiltskin said, snidely. "I wouldn't have thought he had the imagination."

"It's not his doing." Gaston's voice faltered, too little air in his lungs to sound the words. A pink tinge began to taint the spittle at his lips. "One man relays instructions to another and then another and they do not begin with my father. I swear that also."

"Where do our cleric friends fit in?"

Gaston shook his head, lips pursed and eyes tightly closed. He barely caught a breath. Belle reached for his shoulder, hesitated again, then touched him as lightly as she could. It did not appear to add to Gaston's pain. He did not appear to notice.

"I don't think he heard you," she said, disappointed to hear how her own voice wavered, gone reedy with fear. "Let me?" Rumpelstiltskin gave her a curt nod. "Gaston." Belle shook the man's shoulder and he snatched himself out of his daze with a cry, looking around wildly as if he had forgotten where he was and what they were about. He stared down at Rumpelstiltskin's arm, the wrist that vanished beneath his tunic, and then up at Rumpelstiltskin's face. Finally he noticed Belle's touched and lifted his gaze to meet hers, beyond hiding his terror. She laid her palm against his clammy cheek. "Gaston, the clerics who argued that I'd been bewitched. Who threw the magic dust over me. What part do they play in your father's schemes?"

"No, no, it's not..." Gaston croaked. He looked so confused. "They came to me. After the Dark One carried you away. I was to help them free you and stand willing to wed you. They... they wanted to free you from his spell so that you'd tell them what you'd learned. Here in his lair."

Rumpelstiltskin gave a nasty laugh. "Lair," he repeated, grinning.

"I wasn't under any spell," she reminded Gaston, moving her soothing palm to his brow. He was cold rather than burning hot, but the sweat ran freely down his face. "Why did Duke Hubert agree to such a plan?"

"He didn't plan to honour the marriage," Rumpelstiltskin said, in tones of exaggerated, delighted realisation. "That was for Sir Maurice's benefit, yes? To secure his compliance?"

"Yes," Gaston whispered. "But I was to be disowned at the birth of a brother. Free of my father. I would have married you, Belle, not left you to live in shame. I swear to you." His pleading look wrenched at Belle's heart and she nodded to show that she believed him. It seemed to give Gaston a little strength.

"Tell me about this," Rumpelstiltskin said, nodding to where his hand covered the tattoo. "Do you know what it shows?"

"The cursed blade of the Dark One." In spite of his pain, in spite of the potion, Gaston spoke those words with clarity and hatred, staring straight into Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. "If I betray my secrets it will cut out my heart. If I fall then another will take my place. You _will_ be stopped."

"Will I now?" Rumpelstiltskin lifted an eyebrow at him. "Not by you, if I take away my hand. This is no ordinary poison trying to 'cut out your heart'," he said, his harsh voice softening into a horrible intimacy. "It's the blood of the Dark One. Not mine," he added, the intimacy becoming a parody of good cheer. It made Belle shudder. "My predecessor, perhaps? He was the Duke's creature for a long, long time. Wasn't he? Things were done that made him very, very angry with your family."

Gaston nodded, some of his sudden assurance waning. Rumpelstiltskin nodded as well, shifting his feet and causing Gaston to gasp as the pressure of his hand altered. "I can probably pull it out of you. It's more mine than yours after all. Stolen. But if you know of the dagger and what it can do then why should I allow you to live? Hmm?"

The words were at Belle's lips - a protest, a plea or anything to remind Rumpelstiltskin of his promise. He gave her a sharp look and the words died, unspoken. If she did not trust him now then when would she ever?

"I cannot speak of it except to those who already know the truth and are bound as I am," Gaston gasped, pain making his voice a weakened whisper when he would most want to speak with strength and pride. Belle squeezed his shoulder. "The secret is well kept."

"By my enemies."

"By those who will never again see magic tear apart this land," Gaston said, and began to cough. His lips became stained with bright blood. "They know that you mean to destroy us. Did you think that none of us would fight you?"

"Frankly, yes," Rumpelstiltskin said, then before Belle or Gaston could react, he spoke again. "A seer was killed. Slaughtered, I'd say. Someone with a sharp blade enjoyed themselves. What know you of that?"

Rumpelstiltskin's cheek twitched when Gaston hesitated. Gaston frowned as though it were an effort to pull his thoughts together, although he seemed to be mastering the pain.

"It... was a seer who told them about the threat from the Queen," he said, doubtfully. "I know no more than that."

"Them," Rumpelstiltskin repeated. Now he sounded intrigued, as if Gaston had offered him a pleasant conundrum. Belle guessed that it was only to Gaston's benefit if he knew nothing of how the seer's corpse had been used to entrap Rumpelstiltskin. "Who? Duke Hubert?"

"One of many. I told you. Each of us know only a few others. In case we're tortured," Gaston laughed. Belle's heart lurched when tears ran down his face to mingle with the sheen of sweat. "In case we're discovered."

"How many?"

"I don't know!"

"Who told you these things?"

"The... the man who spoke against Belle to her father. They posed as clerics to move freely in the land."

"Do they all hide beneath a priest's cowl?"

"I don't know!"

"And how else do they plan to disrupt my work, Sir Gaston? Tell me that."

Belle realised that she had been holding her breath and let it out again in a rush. She gripped Gaston's shoulder more firmly.

"My task was to goad you at the feast," he said, seeming strengthened by her reassurance. "Distract you. Then later to break the Queen's skin with the magical blade having proved myself loyal enough for such a task. I can tell you nothing of any other plan because I was _told_ nothing. But..." Gaston's face crumpled with a new type of anguish and he looked up at Belle, eyes awash with tears. "But Belle loves you. She could not do so if you were as the legends say. Without a heart. Without a soul. Without _love_." Belle found herself nodding as Gaston spoke, her own eyes swimming with tears. It was a horrible thing to see any man undone.

"Yes," she said, seeing how desperately Gaston wished to hear that he was right. "I do love him," she said. Gaston had trusted in rumour, in _whispers_ and conspiracy and in the promise of a noble cause to die for. She believed with all her heart that he spoke the truth - that he knew not the extent of the conspiracy, nor who led it. Perhaps he did not even know the true purpose of the tasks given to him. Forsaken by bride and father, Gaston had looked for an heroic death. "What else do you know about all this?" she asked gently. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were on her and she did not look at him, not knowing whether she would see the fire of admiring ardour or a blaze of anger. Not _caring_. "Please tell us. Any small thing may help."

"He doesn't _want_ to help, sweetness," Rumpelstiltskin said, tartly. "He wants to live."

"Gaston?" Belle ignored the words and their cruel implication. Gaston might be a fool but he was no coward. He had been prepared to die the night he insulted her within Rumpelstiltskin's hearing. He had _expected_ to die in delivering the nick of his dagger to the Queen.

"They... use magic," Gaston said, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. He seemed to have forgotten about the pain, although his rigid muscles had not. "But they say that all magic must be purged from the realm."

"Ha!" Rumpelstiltskin cried, indignant.

"They used _you_ ," Belle said, as kindly as she could. "You see that now, don't you? You, your father, the King... none of _you_ would allow magic to hold sway again, but I think these men would. If it served their purposes." She thought of Flora and the baby, of the boys of Odstone, and shuddered. "No matter the consequences."

Gaston hung his head, nodding as he fought sobs of exhaustion and torment. Blood dripped from his mouth onto Rumpelstiltskin's leather cuff.

Belle wondered if that dagger would have killed Regina after all. It wouldn't take much of a lie to persuade a man made desperate, like Gaston. Tell him that the cause was noble. Tell him that the blade would not harm the Queen, only bind her evil magic. Send him on his way and hope that he'd be dead before he discovered the truth?

"Can you take out the poison?" she asked of Rumpelstiltskin. His face, too, was glossy with the sweat of strain. He nodded.

"It will take some magic to mend him afterwards," he warned, hiding the hint of a query in his feigned indifference. "Nothing but magic can undo magic."

"Please," Gaston whispered. "I'm not afraid to die but... not like that." Gulping, he nodded to where Rumpelstiltskin pressed upon the dagger mark. "End it cleanly if I am to die here, I beg you."

Even in the face of Gaston's surrender, his agony, Belle's thoughts turned to Wren - to her request for a clean and painless end. Wren who had scorned magic for her entire life, swallowing her pride. Belle blinked and her tears fell, the slow droplets becoming a silent, steady stream down her cheeks.

"You're not going to die, dukeling," Rumpelstiltskin said roughly. "I might have need of you yet." With that he snatched his hand away from Gaston's flank, the fist closed tightly and surrounded by the glow of magic. Gaston screamed, or rather he _began_ to scream but lost consciousness before the sound was fully born, slumping forward as far as the ropes would allow to hang limp and unmoving.

Blood began to soak through his tunic at the hip. Belle fell to her knees beside the chair and reached towards the wound, but the blood was coming fast and she did not know how to help him!

"Press on it," Rumpelstiltskin commanded. Belle looked up at him, fumbling to obey. Intensely preoccupied by whatever he held in his hand, Rumpelstiltskin spared her the briefest glance. "Much harder than that. Hard enough that he'd scream if he were conscious. So hard your arm hurts." Wincing, Belle rose up on her knees and leaned all her weight on her hand. "That's it. I have to take this far away."

"Is that really the blood of the Dark One?" Belle asked, looking up in time to see Rumpelstiltskin open his hand and reveal a bright ball of glowing, sparking magic with a squirming blackness at its heart. His fingers remained curled like claws around the glow; she could see how hard he worked to contain it there.

"In part, yes. They put it into the ink. Nasty." Even under such obvious strain, Rumpelstiltskin sounded grudgingly impressed. "Keep him from bleeding to death while I'm gone."

"Gone?" Belle had barely drawn the breath to utter the word when she felt the change in the air behind her. When she glanced over her shoulder, Rumpelstiltskin was gone.

Her alarm settled quickly when she saw that the pressure had indeed stemmed the flow of blood. Rumpelstiltskin was right, it made her arm hurt to press down so hard, but at least Gaston was beyond feeling any pain. Belle tried to breathe as quietly as she could; she did not want to awaken him to endure this.

Rumpelstiltskin had warned that it would require magic to heal this wound. Perhaps it was time to swallow a little of her own pride? Belle concentrated, opening her left hand with the palm facing upwards. "Cloth," she whispered, picturing one of the many useless household linens from her trousseau. They had only found use once before when Rumpelstiltskin lay bleeding and helpless, here in this room. Now she peeled back Gaston's tunic, drew down his leggings to expose the bloodstained hip, and pressed a folded square of beautifully embroidered white bedlinen over his wound.

Should she free him from the ropes? One was across his chest, not tight at all but keeping him from doubling forward over his thighs, while his arms and legs were each bound to the arms and legs of the chair. Belle remembered trying to move Rumpelstiltskin's dead weight and thought better of tipping Gaston to the floor. At least this way she could be sure he kept still.

Where had Rumpelstiltskin gone? There had been an angry, dangerous look to that ball of magic he'd taken with him - the sense that removing the poison from Gaston's body did not remove it nearly far enough to keep it from killing him. How far would Rumple need to take it? Was _he_ in any danger?

The rush of blood beneath her hand had slowed now. Belle tried to lift the bloodstained tunic and peek at Gaston's wound. It was not so large as she had feared, perhaps as wide as her palm where the tattoo had been. It was ugly, though - the flesh had been torn outwards as if Rumpelstiltskin had ripped a solid object from beneath it by brute strength. Belle found that she no longer needed to press so firmly to keep the blood stemmed. Close to her ear, she could hear Gaston's unsteady breathing becoming more even - deeper.

Gently, half hoping that she would be able to push him upright in the chair using only her left hand, Belle grasped Gaston's shoulder. She succeeded only in rocking his weight, stirring him from his faint so that he gave a strangled cry and struggled in his bonds until he remembered where he was.

"Belle," he whispered. "I live?"

"Yes," Belle soothed, pushing until he righted himself in the chair. It became easier to hold the cloth to his wound; she did not need to contort her own body so much to manage it and sat back on her heels. "He took away the poison. I'm stopping the bleeding."

"I... did not think to live," Gaston mumbled. "Thank you."

"Are you still able to speak about what you know?" Belle brushed hair out of her eyes, finding her own brow damp with perspiration.

"I..." Gaston frowned, sluggish thoughts taking a while to form. "I think so. I have said all that I know."

"There might be things that you don't know that you know." The statement left him frowning in abject bemusement, groggy as he was. Gaston nodded, anyway.

"If they thought to make me an unwitting assassin," he said, and Belle _felt_ the pain take him; his every muscle stiffening in resistance to it. "Then I was betrayed."

"Gaston." Belle shifted her weight, once again lifting her hand from the wound. The blood oozed slowly through the cloth; the wound would need good stitching, or magic. Rumpelstiltskin would hurry back, wouldn't he? "Prince James suggested to me that... that your father sent you not to be my husband but to die in battle against the ogres. To be rid of you."

To her surprise, Gaston snorted with breathless laughter.

"Probably. Would you have grieved even a little, my Lady?"

"Of course I would!"

"And... you'd grieve for him."

"Yes. I would." Belle tried to fathom what she was seeing in Gaston's eyes. Doubt. Pain. The confusion of the drug, perhaps of blood loss.

"I don't believe that I was deceived about what he means to do," Gaston said, his words slurring together but his determination carrying him on. "To curse this world and damn us _all_."

"No. You don't know his heart. These people who plot against him don't know him at all. _I_ do." She patted Gaston's chest, trying to soothe him before agitation caused him to lose more blood. "Do you think that I could love such a monster, Gaston?" she asked, kindly.

Gaston nodded, fixing her with a long and lucid stare that made Belle feel uncomfortable.

"I think that you do, my Lady," he said, not harshly. Belle's mouth dropped open, her shock giving place to an angry hurt that robbed her of any immediate reply. Gaston nodded again before averting his gaze, frowning deeply. "I think that you do."

Drawing breath to answer him, Belle was interrupted by Rumpelstiltskin's return; it was only a quiet sound - the scuff of his boot upon the floorboards, of air moving out of the way to make room for him once more. She jumped to her feet and turned to face her husband, full of a guilty fright. Rumpelstiltskin gave her a thin smile and took her by the shoulders.

"My dear," he said, moving her gently aside. "Let's mend the dukeling, shall we?"


	101. Curse

Belle found herself exhausted by the time she left Gaston sleeping. Rumpelstiltskin had permitted him a proper room on the landing beneath the turret, muttering that he would not have Belle running needlessly all over the castle in her present condition. The gruff concession had amused her at first, but she was more than grateful for the short walk down to her own rooms.

Stretching herself out on top of the bedclothes, face down, Belle did not even trouble to take off her slippers. She could barely think; she could only fall into an exhausted sleep, too weary even to move her limbs to make herself more comfortable.

It was dark outside when she stirred awake again, curling up on her side to ease the stiffness in her back. Rumple lay beside her, on his back with his knees raised; Belle could smell his pipe smoke, though he was without the pipe now. One candle burned at his side of the bed - just enough to allow him to read the book that now lay across his chest, open but ignored. He turned his head and smiled at her.

"How long was I sleeping?" she managed, battling the bounce of the mattress to ease her way to her husband's side, where he welcomed her with his arm.

"You missed tea," Rumple said. "Smoke was most unimpressed."

Resting her head upon his shoulder, glad to find that he had shed the leather layers and now wore only his soft shirt, Belle chuckled.

"I don't imagine that she went without."

"Indeed she did not." He straightened his legs so that Belle could curl herself against him. Her head seemed full of wispy clouds; his arms the most welcoming place in the world. "The dukeling sleeps."

"His name is _Gaston_ ," Belle said, pushing the book down to Rumple's belly so that she could play with the buttons of his shirt. "You're the one who says that names are important."

"Important enough to use sparingly." But he kissed the top of her head, plainly in no mood to disagree with her. "And how is my wife?"

"Sleepy." Belle dragged her sluggish thoughts into some sort of order and considered the rest of herself. "Thirsty. A little bit hungry."

At once, Rumple began to roll towards the edge of the bed. "I'll fetch you something."

Belle caught him by the front of his belt and held on tightly until he lay still again. "Don't go yet."

Subsiding without complaint, Rumple dropped his book somewhere behind Belle and drew her close again. Face buried against his chest, Belle could smell the heavy scent of leather to remind her of how very different he had seemed a few hours ago. Following Gaston's revelations, she would have expected to lose her husband to his turret and to his spells - to his quest. Instead he laid himself down beside her and read a book while she slept. Was it possible that they had come so far?

"Did you learn all that you wanted from him?" Reluctance to speak of it made her voice sound timid.

"I believe that he had no more to tell us," Rumple answered, his voice remaining soft. The voice he used only when he spoke to her. "It will have to be enough, won't it?"

Nodding, grasping a handful of his silk shirt, Belle planted a kiss on his chest.

"Thank you," she said. "For finding a way to spare him."

"It was a close run thing." He stroked the back of her head. "Magic and poison all in one. Perverse. Like too much else that's happened lately." Belle watched him gesticulate with his left hand while the right smoothed her hair in slow sweeps. "It's magic in the hands of those who... who use it but do not understand how it works. Who don't care about the cost."

"Fairy magic?"

"In part. But dark. It's as if the dukeling's friends have collected a little magic here, a little there and..." Rumple made a fist. "And for a long time, if they have the blood of my predecessor."

"Like you. You collect magic, don't you? Magical things?"

"I know what I'm doing," Rumple muttered. "I know better than to combine magic in ways that can _never_ be predicted or controlled." He gave a sharp, hissing exhalation, his frustration making his body tense beside her. "A pity the knight doesn't know the extent of his brethren's activities. Few enterprises fare well without their figurehead."

And Rumpelstiltskin would kill that person without a thought, Belle knew. She closed her eyes, wishing that she thought otherwise.

"Gaston said that you mean to destroy the world. Everything and all of us." She wished more than anything that she felt able to discount the possibility without a second thought.

"That's what they get for relying on prophecy," Rumpelstiltskin muttered. The hand in her hair went quite still. "What a seer glimpses is... easily misinterpreted."

"Tell me," Belle said quietly. Not a plea, not a command. Only a signal that she was ready to hear the truth of it. She prayed that she was.

"Belle... I want you to be well first. Strong and... and yourself again. Please, wait a while."

She shook her head.

"Your plan, your way to find Baelfire. You can't do something that makes things worse between you, Rumple. I don't understand magic but..." Belle levered herself up on her arm and looked down at him, at his face in the candlelight. "If it's a future with your son that you want, you can't do something dreadful to achieve it. Something he might not be able to forgive."

"It's the only way," he grated, turning his face away. "I have tried _every_ other way since the day he was lost. Don't ask me to stop now. I can't give you that."

He thought that she asked for her own sake, Belle realised, bowing her head.

"We'll find another way," she said, and she was certain that they would. If they tried, together. "A way that harms no-one. I'll help you." She fingered his cheek until, reluctance twitching in every muscle, Rumple looked at her once more. "I'll do it because I want to see you reconciled with your son. I don't need any other reason. I love you." _And I'd give my life for it,_ Belle realised. _I truly would, if it meant his happiness._

It was a wonderful, peaceful thought - a balm for all of her recent woes. Rumple shook his head helplessly.

"There's no other way," he whispered, but Belle could see his eyes so clearly; the doubts; the hope there that he _might_ be wrong. She moved herself until she could reach to kiss him on the cheek. Rumpelstiltskin slipped his arms around her and pulled her down, pulled her close and burying a groan in her hair. "Bae will love you," he said. "As much as I do."

Belle tried to move, to give him the kiss that she suddenly wanted more than anything else, but Rumpelstiltskin held her where she was, half covering him and with her cheek beside his. She could smell the pipe smoke in his hair.

It was not the most comfortable of embraces, but Belle stayed until Rumple loosened his grasp.

"I'll fetch you a tray," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and moving out of her reach all at once. "Rest yourself, treasure."

"Thank you." She would have liked to check on Gaston, but did not want to seem to doubt Rumpelstiltskin's assurance that all was well. Besides, as Wren had reminded her, Belle needed to turn a clear mind to other things before tomorrow, before market day when she had promised to deal with Dacey Tavish. How much stronger she had felt that day, fired up by her anger and her disgust! She felt the mistress of nothing and no-one, here and now; only swept along by the force of events beyond her control.

Dealing with one brutal man would hardly set Odstone to rights. Their master had been remote for so long that they simply managed with out him, as best they were able, yet their security and their trading routes depended upon Rumpelstiltskin. They lived in fear that their protector would withdraw his favour, just as did every subject of the kings and queens of the realms. What laws they lived by - what _written_ laws - were for the protection of property and the rights of the wealthy few, not the safety of a beaten wife and her daughters. There was no need for things to remain so. If Rumpelstiltskin meant to travel to another world to find Baelfire then things _could_ not remain as they were, could they?

Lost in thought, Belle closed the curtains and lit more candles. She drifted to her bathing room and back again, deep in contemplation of Odstone - of what they would need if their master suddenly left them behind. Had Rumple even considered the problem? Belle suspected glumly that he had not. He might well be correct in thinking that the people of Odstone were grateful for his distance, but they looked to him nevertheless. Even Dacey Tavish had thought to call upon Rumpelstiltskin's aid when things were at their worst in Odstone.

Belle was half in and half out of her clothing when Rumpelstiltskin returned carrying a laden tray. Busy with a stocking beneath her petticoats, Belle gave him a quick smile and returned to what she was doing. It took her a few moments to notice that her husband had stopped just inside the room to stare at her, the silver tray clutched in front of him.

She was hardly an alluring sight in her bodice and petticoats, the latter hitched up about her knees while she leaned against the bed and worked down a twisted stocking to her ankle. Nevertheless, Rumple was looking at her in _that_ way, his lips parted and his eyes warm with appreciation.

"I'm sure you've seen me take off my stockings before," she said, overcome with irrational shyness.

Her remark brought Rumple to his senses and he nodded quickly, hurrying past her to the sitting room. Belle heard a clatter as though he had fumbled the tray as he placed it on the table. She pressed her lips together to make her giggle a silent one, slipping off her second stocking. As she began on the cord that laced her bodice beneath her arms, Belle heard - or perhaps she just _felt_ \- Rumpelstiltskin return to the doorway of the sitting room to watch her.

There had been no time, no _opportunity_ to doubt that he desired her still. Ever since their terrible quarrel, the loss of the child, there had been only solace and reassurance in their embraces. Rumpelstiltskin was, after all, a gentleman when it came to his wife. He had continued to treat her as his queen during all of this. Even in his jealous accusation, Belle supposed, he had been... restrained. She closed her eyes to ward off the memory of his snarling rage. That wasn't welcome here, now, when he watched her with love and without demands of any sort.

Belle had intended to change into a warm nightdress, one of her cotton ones, but instead put on her spider-silk robe over her underthings, clumsy as she tried to fasten it. Rumpelstiltskin approached her then and brushed her hands out of the way, working each of the rosebud clasps in turn until he reached the last, just above her breasts. His eyes lingered there for just a moment before he fastened the final rosebud.

"There," said Rumple, untucking her hair from the collar and arranging it about her shoulders. Transfixed by his quiet reverence, by the curious little smile that animated his mouth, Belle watched him with parted lips and felt a familiar hitch in her breathing. "Nice and warm."

"Yes..." It was the only response that Belle could muster. The foolishness of it made her quite cross with herself, but Rumple appeared not to have noticed how easily he reduced her to empty monosyllables. He ushered her towards the sitting room and her waiting meal.

_Their_ meal, she was pleased to find; he had brought up cups and plates for two. Rumpelstiltskin waited until she was seated before taking his own chair. He had brought them a platter of cold ham, with thick slices of buttered bread and a pot of tea. Belle poured for each of them, smiling when Rumpelstiltskin beckoned with a crooked finger to encourage her to add a second and then a third cube of sugar to his.

"How did you come by such a sweet tooth?" she laughed, watching him stir with his silver spoon.

Rumple wrinkled his nose. "It came along with this." He held out his hand, palm down. It took Belle a moment to realise what he meant; the curse, his greenish flesh. "I'd only tasted honeycomb before that. Didn't know what I was missing."

Nodding, Belle took a slice of ham and a piece of bread. Rumpelstiltskin did likewise, folding the bread in half around the meat.

"Unspeakable power, immortality and... a sweet tooth. It seems like an odd combination."

"Oh, this power could make a man ravenous for anything and everything. Appetite without limit and the means to satisfy it _endlessly_."

"But you don't," Belle pointed out, not certain that they were speaking any longer of sugar and honey. "You don't do that. You're no glutton, you barely eat at all." And as for his other _appetites,_ how restrained and selfless had he been with his untried new bride?

Rumple nodded, snorting quietly to himself, and took a bite of bread and ham. He chewed and swallowed before he answered her.

"I quickly discovered that to have everything is almost as bad as having nothing. The sweetest things lost their flavour if I did not treat them with due reverence and restraint." He sipped the oversweetened tea, his smile sad and his eyes distant. "It truly is a curse, Belle. Everything, forever."

"...Yes," she agreed, uncertain that she was even qualified to voice an opinion. Rumple had grown tired of everything in the world in the same way that she might grow tired of the view from a window, or of her needlework for the day. _Everything_ had become tedious to him, no matter how sweet. Where was hope once the savour had gone out of life? Rumpelstiltskin's hope had been Baelfire. Only ever Baelfire. "I can see that."

"There was a time when I indulged my appetites," Rumple said, with the same awkward matter-of-factness that Belle sometimes caught herself employing to hasten a difficult conversation. "Not all of them for..." he caught a drip from the side of his chipped teacup and licked it from his finger. "Sweet things."

"Revenge," Belle said, taking her own cup between her palms.

"Among other things, yes." He spoke now with the reverence that must have escaped him at the time; a reverence for Belle and for what lay between them, this painful honesty. "I... I took the poison from Gaston straight to his father, the Duke," Rumpelstiltskin said, and ploughed ahead before her indrawn breath could become shock and condemnation. "I wanted to... I wanted to shove it down his throat, Belle." He brought a fist down among the tea things and made everything rattle. Made Belle jump in her seat and stare at him in alarm. "But I thought of you and I came away without making myself known to him. Sent the poisoned magic up to die forgotten amongst the stars." Slowly, Rumple opened his fist. He stared at it as though he could scarcely believe his own words.

Belle believed him. She captured his hand between both of her own. "That's a _good_ thing," she whispered.

"Is it? When the Duke or his allies find other means to strike at me, will it be a good thing then?" It was no rhetorical question; Rumpelstiltskin was pleading with her for the answer. "They all but found the means of stopping me. The curse in the corpse of the seer. The magic they used upon you. They could imprison me if they perfect that magic. Me!"

"Oh, love..." This was all the honesty that Belle had fought for, yet she could barely face it. It came hand in hand with such anguish on Rumpelstiltskin's part. "Perhaps they could, but you're forewarned now. You can arm yourself and find allies to defend you."

"Allies?" His astonishment interrupted even his rising panic. Rumple stared at her as if she had grown a second nose.

"I'm one," Belle said, gripping his hand tightly. "And a few months ago you wouldn't have believed that I could be. Wren--"

"She's dying." Pulling his hand free, Rumple pushed back his chair. He made no effort to remove himself further than that, rubbing his face with both hands and staring ahead of him, at the table and at nothing. He folded his arms as his breathing settled down and the look in his eyes became less wild. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to spoil your meal with talk of this."

"It's all right." Belle broke off a piece of bread and put it into her mouth. "See?" she asked, muffled. It bought her a smile - a surprised and fond smile and the slow shake of Rumpelstiltskin's head.

"You are a treasure," he told her after a while. "I wanted you to know that I spared the Duke. I'm not sure why."

Not sure why he had spared the man that ghastly punishment, or not sure why he had wanted his wife to know it? Belle thought that it was perhaps a little of both. Rumpelstiltskin had forgotten how to think in these terms - trust, mercy and tenderness had been beyond his reach for far too long. And perhaps he had also forgotten how to take precautions for his own safety, thinking himself immune to all harm while the Dark One's dagger remained safely hidden?

Whatever he said, Belle did not think that Rumple had spared Gaston's father for her sake. Not entirely for hers. Surely he could find the same peace in forgiveness as could any other person alive? And in doing so, defeat a darkness within himself that most people could never comprehend - the darkness that came alive when it became an _easy_ thing to end another man's life.

"What is it that frightens them so?" Belle hesitated to ask - to ask more of Rumpelstiltskin after such a rush of humbling honesty. But she thought that he would answer, and perhaps not all for her sake. Was Rumple finding a kind of peace in not carrying his secrets all alone, too? "You couldn't destroy the world, could you? Not the whole world?"

Rumpelstiltskin ran a fingertip around the rim of his teacup, each circuit taking in the angular chip and lingering there for a moment. There could be no other husband anywhere, Belle thought, who would need to pause and contemplate his answer to such a question.

"No," he said. "If that came within the Dark One's power I think it would have been done already." Tilting his head to the right, Rumple looked momentarily amused. "The dukeling's friends might not know that, of course."

"What is it that you mean to do, Rumple?"

The question seemed to fill the world, ringing in Belle's ears. Again Rumpelstiltskin paused in thought, this time closing his eyes. He drummed his fingernails beside his plate, causing crumbs to dance across the painted porcelain. Belle found that she could not draw a breath. She dared not make the slightest sound.

"To move us to where Baelfire went," Rumple said, just as Belle began to hear the clanging in her ears from holding her breath so long. She released the breath, transfixed by his expression. It kept changing, as though each new thought brought a change in the weather of his mood. Resignation. Surprise. Amusement. Fear. Confusion. "All of us. It is... magic older than I am. The blackest, the harshest." Rumpelstiltskin blinked and turned slightly in his chair - turned to face his wife and look her in the eye. Staring back at him, Belle wondered what he could see in her. "A spell fuelled by pure, black hatred of the world and everything in it." He drew out each word for effect, but without the malicious relish to which he so often resorted when cornered.

Belle felt her jaw working, ready for words that her mind could not supply. She could feel tears ready to well in her eyes, stars help her, and Rumpelstiltskin just _looked_ at her. Waiting.

Trusting.

"Yours?" Belle managed to whisper, certain that if there was such hatred in her husband then he was not one person after all, but a shattered man, that loathsome blackness hidden from her in a facet of him that she had never met.

She was unafraid. Oh, she was afraid of the very _suggestion_ of such wicked magic, but she was not afraid of Rumpelstiltskin. Not then. Not one tiny bit.

"No," he promised, leaning across the corner of the table to touch her arm. "Then Bae's father would truly be dead." Fumbling, they managed to find each other's hand and hold tight. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes could have drowned her; his unblinking watchfulness became a new and yet familiar wonder as Belle watched. "Understand this," he urged, leaning closer. His elbow knocked over the chipped teacup and spilled the last of his cold tea across the table. Neither of them glanced at it. "Now that I have you, I have the means to enact this curse myself. If I was willing to sacrifice my love - sacrifice you - I would have the power to reach Baelfire. Today. Now. It would cost me the thing I love most in this world."

_More than that!_ Belle's thoughts threw out, a chaos, a whirlwind of half-understandings. _It would cost you your_ self. _Your soul!_ She clutched at Rumpelstiltskin's hand so hard that her fingers ached. He held hers with far more care. "There was never a moment when I would have done it," he whispered. "Not from the day we married. Please know that." Belle nodded, undone by his urgent sincerity just as easily as ever.

"Come here," she whispered, lunging for his embrace without a care for the table that lay in her way. Rumpelstiltskin pulled her into his lap before the tea service had stopped rattling on the tray, clutching her to him and burying his face against her shoulder with what sounded like a sob. Belle put her arms around his neck, closing her eyes as she pressed her cheek against his soft curls. When she should have been frightened for herself, for everyone, her horror was for Rumpelstiltskin alone; that he should endure such dark and empty thoughts; that he had been alone until he found a wife too stubborn and curious to hide herself away from him.

He needed her now - an embrace better than this one; the twining of their limbs and the joining of their bodies. It was not desire that made him squash her in his arms and pant against her shoulder. It was not passion that caused his hands to roam her back, grasping with longing. There was only need, the need of all that Belle was to him - raw and heartbreaking and hers to answer or deny. Hers.

Hushing him, Belle drew back until she could shower him with hasty kisses; his brow, his temple, his cheek, his nose and then, in answer to his soft groan and the flutter of his closing eyelids, his lips. It felt like coming home. She buried her hand in Rumple's hair and he did likewise to hers, clasping the back of her neck while his fingers curled into her hair. He opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, the urgency of his need softening at the first taste of her. Belle sighed into the kiss, the storm of her thoughts falling blissfully silent in the moment. There would be time enough for everything that needed to be said and done. There was time enough for this first. She closed her eyes.

Rumple allowed one hand to drift down Belle's back, all the wound up tension leaving his body as she met his yearning. They parted for a breath, in perfect accord, then came back together smiling, almost laughing, with Rumple's teeth grazing her lower lip and making Belle tingle all over. She plucked at his bottom lip in revenge before pressing hard and stilling them both, their lips together and their rapid breathing matched. Rumpelstiltskin moaned, twitching away from her as if to say 'too much'. It didn't matter. He buried his face against her silk-clad shoulder again and Belle pressed her cheek against his head, content to allow the moment - their moment - to become whatever it would.

Shuddering all over, Rumple released his hold on her, arms falling to his sides.

"Belle, I..." He made the most unconvincing effort to twist from her grasp. Belle smiled and tightened her arms about his neck. "I feel strange," he mumbled, bringing his hands up to her arms and tugging until she relented and gave him space to breathe. "Belle... I can't..." Words slurring, Rumpelstiltskin pushed at her again. Belle sat back, opening her eyes to smile at him. She gasped.

"Rumple!" The greyish discolouration faded from his flesh as she stared, leaving him pale-flesh pink. He swayed as though drunk, still trying to free himself by pushing her from his lap. Belle couldn't speak as she rose and backed away - she could only stand and stare. Rumpelstiltskin stared too - his hands were changing, the black fingernails fading as the skin turned pink. He shook his head, trying to speak.

The curse! Their kiss had...

Belle brought her hands to her face and clasped them over her mouth, crying out in amazement.

"No." The chair clattered behind Rumple as he lurched to his feet, still staring at his outstretched hands. "No... no..." He stumbled backwards, tangling himself in the legs of the chair and barely keeping his balance. Belle reached out to him, but what could she do? He was changing as they watched - she in astonishment and her husband in mounting terror. His backwards scramble brought him up against the far wall, startling him enough to cry out and half turn to look behind him.

"Rumple," Belle said, picking her way past the chair and holding out both her hands to him. She could hear her heartbeat, pounding like a drum with the racing of her blood. "It's all right, my love," she said, the words breathless and strange. She felt as though that kiss had drawn some burden out of her also; she felt lighter. This felt like a dream. "Y-you knew that this could happen," she reasoned, trying to soothe him but not certain that he was hearing a word. What did it _feel_ like to him? To Belle's anxious eye, Rumpelstiltskin appeared disorientated, clumsy and confused. He had broken out in a sweat in the few moments since she had first glimpsed his changing flesh; his brow was beaded with it now and his eyes... Belle stared at his eyes. They changed also, the overlarge irises retreating inwards and fading, fading to the dark colour that she had glimpsed there before. Ordinary eyes. Lovely eyes.

"No," Rumple said again, sliding down the wall when his legs ceased to support him. His head fell forward as well, a dry sob escaping him.

Belle crouched down in the space between the bookcase and Rumpelstiltskin, stroking his hair back so that she could see his face. Even his hair had begun to change, the curl less full beneath her fingers and the texture coarser than before. She began to feel a growing elation, for only one thing could have brought about such a transformation; true love's kiss between them, breaking the curse of the Dark One's dagger. True love, and _proof_ of it. How many lovers ever knew such an absolute absence of doubt? But while she could enjoy the triumph of true love over a cruel curse, she could not enjoy her husband's misery and fear. Rumpelstiltskin continued to stare at his changed hands, still disbelieving.

"It will be all right," she said again, desperate to reassure him.

"How?!" After such a broken stillness, Rumpelstiltskin's snarl made Belle start and lose her balance. She steadied herself on the shelves of the bookcase. "How will it be _all right_?" Rumple tried to push himself to his feet but cried out and fell back down, hard, his right leg buckling beneath him. His every breath became an almost-sob of pain, his hands going to the leg to clutch at it. "My power... my only means of finding Bae!" He tore one hand away from soothing his pain to point at her, his finger trembling in front of her face. "Your only protection _and_ mine! D'you think true love will stop an angry mob? Do you?!"

"No," Belle said, capturing the shaking hand and refusing to let go when Rumple tried to pull it away. "Do you think that regret will stop one?! Or wishing that things were otherwise? You're _free_."

"I'm weak," Rumpelstiltskin snapped. His strength and fire seemed to snap too; he sagged back against the wall, his head striking it with a soft thump. He closed his eyes, shaking his head helplessly. "Oh... Belle, I feel so weak."

Belle hadn't the room in her thoughts for the implications and the future; not when Rumpelstiltskin was changing before her eyes, becoming an ordinary man. Not when he needed her arms about him and all the safety that her love could offer him. Shuffling awkwardly, Belle wedged herself into the space beside him and drew him close. Rumpelstiltskin came to her and rested against her shoulder, limp and silent while she stroked his hair.

Without Belle exactly seeing the process of change, his hair hung almost straight now. She wanted to touch his skin, to touch him everywhere and get to know him anew; she wanted to gaze into his changed eyes until she learned to find her husband there and not be startled by the difference.

"It will be all right," she said again. Somehow she was just sure of it. They were blessed with true love, the most powerful magic known, and everything _would_ be all right. "I love you. It will be all right."

Nodding unsteadily, Rumpelstiltskin reached his arms around her and buried his face against her chest.

"We shall choose to believe it, mistress," he whispered. He swallowed hard, shuddering in her arms. "What choice is there now?"


	102. Skin Deep

By the time her husband grew calm, Belle's own fears had begun to take hold of her.

The last time Rumpelstiltskin's magic had loosened its hold over the Dark Castle the changes had been swift; the candles burned down, the fires went out, the food in the larder began to spoil and hot water no longer came to her bathtub at her whim. Those had been inconveniences; Belle had tackled them to the best of her ability, but she had understood even then that if the castle came under attack - if Rumpelstiltskin's enemies came while he was weakened - there would be little she could do to protect them.

Now she understood how many and how diverse were his enemies, and how ruthless they could be.

"You'll still be able to do magic, won't you?" she asked, jolting Rumple out of his exhausted daze against her shoulder. He sat up, pushing back his hair and blinking rapidly. Did the world look different to him through new eyes?

 _Old eyes,_ Belle corrected herself, catching a glimpse of expressive brown when he glanced at her face.

"I hope so," Rumple said, low-voiced. The initial panic had bled out of him in the safety of her arms. It was a solemn and determined figure who forced his way to his unsteady feet and, grasping the window frame so that he could take the weight from his right foot, offered his left hand to help Belle back to her feet. "The Dark One has no monopoly on magic in this world."

She watched with her heart in her throat as Rumple shuffled towards the table, grabbing for the back of the chair when he could no longer keep his hold upon the window frame. "I've learned much," he said, the words almost hissing through clenched teeth, bending forward over the chair. "Let's hope that I have the power to use it." He stifled a groan, his knuckles whitening where he grasped the wood.

His bad leg, of course. Belle had seen it before, the ankle and foot twisted from an injury that never fully healed. It had caused him pain then. Now he seemed unable to bear his weight with his right leg at all, his every movement awkward.

"Lean on me," she urged, hoping that his strength would grow as the curse receded. It had been a shock, a terrible shock; it had been a crushing blow to his plans. Of course he was weak and out of sorts!

With one hand on Belle's shoulder, Rumple shuffled around the chair and fell into the seat, grimacing as his right leg twisted at the ankle. He nodded, pushing away her hands when she reached for him.

"Enough." It was impatience born of pain and fear. Knowing it for what it was did little to ease the sting of it. Belle took a deep breath before she sat down, sideways on the chair so that she could face him. She barely caught Rumple's eye before he looked away, his jaw hardening.

"You're angry with me." That made her sad. True love's kiss was no blessing as far as her husband was concerned. Did he see the beauty of it at all, or only the setback to his dreadful plans?

"Not with you," he answered shortly. "I should never have allowed this to happen."

The sting of hurt became a body blow. Belle bowed her head, expecting to cry. She did not - there was nothing but a painful catch in her breath. Even in his present mood, Rumple was unable to be harsh with her and not be sorry for it. He touched her cheek with his knuckle, stroking it down towards her jaw. "Not now," he qualified, soft-voiced, and Belle nodded.

"I understand," she managed to say around the lump in her throat. And she did understand; Baelfire first. _Always_ Baelfire first, and she would not begrudge that little boy his father's love for anything in the world. But was she sorry to see Rumpelstiltskin rid of that twisted curse? Could she be sorry for it at _any_ cost? "I'll help you. We'll find him. There's a way and we'll find it, together." Her voice only wobbled a little.

"I could see... sense... so much," Rumple said. "Do _anything_." He shook his head as though he hoped to awaken himself from a bad dream. "Outlast time itself if I had to."

Belle said nothing. He wasn't really speaking to her; he was only trying to make sense of it for himself. She waited in silence for what felt like hours. It could only have been a minute or two, during which she was aware of their every breath and of her husband's every slight movement.

"Belle, I was nothing before I was the Dark One," Rumple said eventually, looking to her for the one thing that she could offer him now - her love. The reassurance of her love. His expression was slack, his eyes dull.

"I don't believe that," she promised him, touching his hand where he rested it upon his knee. "And even if it's true, you're no longer nothing. Think of your _knowledge_. Your experience." She gestured with her free hand to the walls and heavy furniture around them. "You have wealth that you couldn't have dreamed of then. You still have time, and you have _me_. And I love you." With half a laugh, half a sob, Belle fingered the back of his hand. His skin looked so different! "Man or monster, I love you."

"Belle." Rumple said her name so sadly, as if he pitied her for her stubborn optimism. "Love didn't save my son before."

"Don't lose heart," she pleaded, able to imagine her husband in every state between rage and exultation, but not in despair. Not with true love in his heart, burning like the warmest flame. "There's a way."

From the pursing of his lips, Belle saw that he thought her irrational. Even foolish. But somewhere deep within herself, somewhere beyond these platitudes, she simply _knew_ that a good thing had happened. A right thing. And she was equally certain that it had brought Rumpelstiltskin one vital step nearer to reconciling with his son.

Rumple thought only of _finding_ Baelfire, but what his heart yearned for was reconciliation. Forgiveness. To be a family once more and to know his son's love.

"There'll be a lot to do," she said, answering his sour expression with a briskness that she knew he found mildly irritating. She indicated his plate with its half-eaten bread and ham. "You should probably eat that. You'll need your strength."

Standing, Belle brushed phantom crumbs from her silk robe, watching as the folds fell about her. She would be sorry indeed if Rumple had lost the skill to create such beautiful things, and not for her own sake. He had a skill, an eye, a craftsman's touch that transcended the magic of weaving with cobwebs. "I'll see to the wood stove," she decided.

"There are more urgent matters," Rumpelstiltskin complained.

"Yes." Belle tucked her chair back under the table. "And now you'll need to eat, drink and sleep if you're to have a clear enough head to manage them, just like everyone else."

"Then you got everything you desired," he said, snidely. But quietly.

"Don't you dare," Belle warned, her gentle patience and her concern for him no match for outright unkindness on his part. "I've asked very little of you for my own sake, Rumpelstiltskin, and you know it."

He nodded ungraciously and stared at his plate. He still trembled and it was all that Belle could do to keep from stroking his hair and trying to soothe this all away. He was right - there were more urgent matters. "Gaston," she said, trying to make a fresh beginning. "Will he be all right up there?"

"What I did for him will not be undone," answered Rumple, grudging the reassurance. "But there's no key for the lock on his door. I'll need to find another way to keep him out of my way." Belle managed to keep herself from reaching for him while he pushed himself to his feet, swaying.

He took two steps and half-fell, catching himself against the oak bookcase with his right ankle twisted horribly beneath him

"Rumple!" she cried, almost falling over her chair in her haste to reach him. He hissed through his teeth as Belle helped him back up and slung his right arm across her shoulders to support him. She helped him as far as the bed, his muted sounds of pain seeming like screams to her attentive ears. Even in warm candlelight, Rumpelstiltskin's face had turned deathly pale. "Let me see," Belle urged, kneeling before him and reaching for his lower leg. He prevented her with a hand against her shoulder - a hand that shook.

"Check on the dukeling," he said. "Make sure he's not going anywhere."

Reluctant to leave him, Belle climbed to her feet and hesitated. Overcoming her indecision she turned to go, only to hear Rumple call her name as she reached the door. "No... Belle. There's something else that I need you to do first."

She listened to his request without a word, then nodded and hurried down the staircases towards the marble hall and the great room beyond it.

Although this was now her home, Belle had spent little of her time in that richly decorated room. The lack of natural light depressed her and it had always seemed to be very much Rumpelstiltskin's own place, with his spinning wheel in one corner and his assortment of eerie treasures on the plinths and shelves. Once or twice she had noticed the tall, plain wooden staff propped against the chimney breast, but she'd thought nothing of it among the many still stranger objects present in the room.

She should have thought of it. Belle hefted it in both hands and studied the wood. It had been cut with some care from a young tree, trimmed and then worn smooth with use - with Rumpelstiltskin's constant touch. There were stains, dents and even signs of scorching along the length of it. The thought of it brought a lump to her throat - the thought that the staff, like those threadbare clothes in Baelfire's room, came from Rumple's life before magic and curses. Rumple hadn't needed to lean on a staff for centuries and yet he had kept it; for all these years, he'd kept it near to him in this room that he made his home. Why?

Whatever his reason for keeping it, Rumpelstiltskin had need of the staff now. Belle went back upstairs with it as quickly as she could manage.

Rumpelstiltskin had made his way around the bed. He stood with his back to the bottom right bedpost, leaning against it to relieve his leg of any weight. At least he looked less pale than before; he no longer seemed about to faint!

Out of breath and flushed red with exertion herself, Belle offered him the staff. Rumple did not quite manage to keep his expression from changing as he took it from her; that grave determination became something bitter for a moment.

"Thank you," he said, flatly. "Now for the prisoner."

Flustered as she was, it took Belle a moment or two to understand that he meant Gaston. "There are spells in place all over the castle," he went on, walking more confidently now that he had the support of the tall staff. If it pained him then he did not allow it to show beyond the fact of his heavy limp. She followed him, hardly able to keep up. "Some will fail, others may simply fade with time. A few ought to remain indefinitely."

"All right..." Belle tried to think about the implications of that while she hurried after him up the stairs. She found that she required all of her strength just to keep moving. Whatever he claimed, Rumpelstiltskin did seem angry with her. Shaken as he was, preoccupied as he was, his words had a bite to them.

Many of the doors in the castle had locks, many of them good and sturdy ones like the one to her own chamber, but Belle had seldom seen a key to fit them. The room where they'd housed Gaston was one such, the door opening to admit Belle and Rumpelstiltskin but barred to Gaston himself by magic unless one of them gave him leave to pass the threshold.

"He can't see me like this," Rumple said quietly, standing aside and nodding to the door. Belle gave it a push, more used to doors opening for her at her approach as though manned by invisible attendants. It swung open, creaking to a stop about halfway through its arc.

Gaston groaned in his sleep, still exactly as Belle had left him - tucked up in a good bed and wearing a simple linen nightshirt. She crept over to check on him, saw that his breathing was steady and there was no sign of a fever, and returned to the door.

"Where is the key?" she whispered. Rumple shook his head, pushing himself away from the wall to lean on the staff again.

"I don't know." Frustration added to the sourness of his tone. An hour ago he would have been capable of solving such a problem with magic that required barely a thought on his part. "Well, we need a different kind of prison, then." He limped towards the winding stairs that led up to his turret, taking no notice of Belle when she made herself his shadow. He managed the staircase better than she could have hoped, not pausing even when his ankle twisted beneath him again and he fell against the outer wall with a grunt. He pushed himself back up at once and continued on upwards.

Belle dared not suggest that he ought to be resting; his sense of urgency was too great. But what did he mean, a different kind of prison? This room had only magic!

"Stay there," said Rumpelstiltskin when Belle reached the top of the stairs. "It's no longer safe for you in here."

Did that mean that it was also unsafe for _him_? Belle watched him tug a box from a shelf, one-handed. He almost dropped it before managing to balance it on his left arm for long enough to move it to the nearest work table, where he dropped it with a clatter. Trapping the staff awkwardly beneath his right arm, Rumple began to sort through what sounded like glass bottles or jars.

Selecting two, one a vial of blue glass and the other a squat, rounded jar of clear glass, he set them on the table and broke their wax seals with his thumbnail.

"Magic?" Belle asked, weakly.

"What else? I prepared for a land without magic, remember?" Still he spoke bluntly, flatly, giving her no clue as to his state of mind. He poured the contents of the vial into the little jar, careful to avoid spilling any.

Her heart sank. He'd prepared for this land without magic by hoarding magic to take with him? To unleash upon a place that was blessedly free of it?

"What will it do to Gaston?"

"Keep him sound asleep," said Rumple. "Unless you can carry him to the dungeon, my dear, it's this or chain him to the bed." He swirled the mixture around and then selected a small funnel from among his instruments, decanting the liquid into a clear glass bottle which he then corked. He selected a tiny golden spoon from amongst the instruments beside him. "One spoonful on the tongue once a day. Unless you've a better idea?"

 _Let him go,_ Belle wanted to say, but even if Rumpelstiltskin would agree to such a plan, Gaston was too badly wounded to leave. And would he return to his co-conspirators the moment he was beyond Rumple's sight? She could have no idea of his intentions when it came to Rumpelstiltskin. If Gaston learned that the curse had broken... what would he do?

"Until I have a better idea," she said unhappily, and took the proffered bottle and spoon. "Or we find the key." Rumpelstiltskin grasped his staff again and shifted his weight, breathing heavily. He was right about one thing - Gaston could not be allowed to see Rumple in his weakened state, nor to know that the curse had been broken.

Belle heard her husband make a slow and heavy descent behind her as she carried the potion back to the room where Gaston lay. For the moment, sleep would be a blessing to him just as his unconsciousness had been a blessing while Rumple worked to heal the wound. Neither stitches nor magic alone could knit the flesh. It had taken both to stop the blood and the result was far from satisfactory. Magic had left its mark upon Gaston forever.

Gaston made no sound when she gently opened his mouth, nor when she tipped the tiny spoonful of liquid onto his tongue.

Outside the door, Rumpelstiltskin's staff clicked to a halt against the floor. His mood made Belle uncomfortable - it was as though she could anticipate the quarrel they would have at the smallest provocation; as though Rumpelstiltskin itched to take out his anger on her. He was afraid, overwhelmed; she would need to be patient.

Pocketing the bottle and spoon, Belle turned back the bedclothes and lifted Gaston's nightshirt. Rumple had left him no modesty, the wound being just above the hip. What awe Belle had once felt at the mysteries of the male form had long faded; without passion she could see very little of interest in the nakedness of either a man or a woman. Gaston's cock was a thick, wrinkled and pallid thing lying in the midst of wiry black curls that spread from his belly to the inside of his thighs. Checking the dressing, Belle tried not to look at the rest of him.

Rumpelstiltskin was right about one thing - it was a dreadful shame to confuse capability with the mere accident of being born with one of _those_ things between one's legs. It hadn't done Gaston much good, firstborn son though he was.

Satisfied that the wound remained clean and that Gaston had no fever, Belle tucked him back up and got to her feet. Tiredness was taking her over, making her thoughts sluggish, and it was with an inner sigh that she saw how low the candles burned in Gaston's room. Well, he wouldn't need light tonight, would he? Not if the potion kept him unawares. She blew them out quickly, before her soft heart could overrule her hard head.

Insofar as she had imagined the breaking of the curse - and it had seemed disloyal to her husband to really try - Belle had imagined happiness. Relief. Joy. And Baelfire would have been there to soften the blow, his smile and his love all the proof that Rumple needed that everything would be all right. This uneasy feeling was not what she would have imagined.

"He'll feel no pain this way," Rumple said, avoiding her eyes as she reached the door. It was a gruff statement, perhaps, but he said it for her sake. Belle touched his arm and nodded.

"Good." She looked up and down the passage. Was it her imagination or had the castle grown colder? "We'll need to spare the candles," she said. One of the torches that lit the corridor was already spluttering its last. "Bring up some firewood to our room. Let in some daylight where we can."

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her as though she had spoken in a foreign tongue and Belle bit down on her irrational guilt. His thoughts were of Baelfire, of the future - of himself. That was natural, but _her_ thoughts needed to take a more practical path for tonight or they would freeze in their bed and go hungry in the morning!

While she watched, trying her hardest to think of a way to reach him across this gulf of understanding, Rumple hung his head. He shifted his grip on the staff, not quite hiding his pain when he moved his feet.

"How will I care for you now?"

 _Oh..._ Hesitant, Belle stepped in front of him and took his face between her palms. She brushed back his hair and wished that he would lift his chin and look at her.

"We'll care for each other," she said. "Just the same as before." Her nervousness and perhaps her weariness gave rise to a faltering little laugh. "I expect we'll get it wrong just as often." Not knowing what else to do, Belle gave him a kiss before lowering her hands. Rumple pressed into it, squeezing his eyes shut as if he feared the kiss would be their very last.

His lips felt different. Softer and warmer, the pressure that he returned to her as tentative as their very first kisses. Everything would be new again, Belle realised as she stepped away. What changes would the breaking of the curse bring beyond the most visible and obvious ones? Rumple would be forced to change his habits, to live as a man again, but would his nature change along with that?

"Be cautious as you go about the castle," he urged, and for the first time since he changed, his voice was entirely familiar to her; the warm fondness that she had earned with her devotion and her understanding. "I made many changes over the years. Things may... change back." He gestured vaguely to the passageway just as the torch behind him burned out and filled the air with tendrils of sooty smoke. "I feel so strange, Belle." He laid his hand against the stone of the wall, frowning to himself. "Hollow."

"You don't look very different," she offered, unable to think of anything more helpful to say. "The same nose." She touched it, causing Rumple to smile and turn his head to dodge her finger. "I can still kiss you without fetching a ladder, so that's all right." Slowly, taking the time to discover the new texture of his skin, she brushed her fingers down his cheek. "Less... green."

This time, Rumple laughed with her - a soft chuckle that caught him off-guard and left him shaking his head, watching her with warmth in his eyes. Belle hoped that she could grow used to those; she was certain that she would quickly become used to every other aspect of this transformation. Every _physical_ aspect, anyway.

"I'll see to the firewood and that the stove stays alight," Rumple said, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him towards the stairs. "The rest can wait until morning. You're tired." He snorted in distaste. " _I'm_ tired."

Belle nodded, grateful to be released from her sense of obligation about the chores. She ought not run all over the castle doing chores - not yet, when moving too quickly still made her dizzy. Lame as he was and as weak as he felt, Rumple appeared to be strong enough for a man his size; he could manage a bucket of logs. And more than that, Belle realised as he left her at the door to their room, he was more anxious than ever to show that he could provide for her. Best to let him.

She was going to miss the bath. Nothing else, she decided, changing into her nightgown and then blowing out all but one candle. The fire was already burning lower than before, one of the logs broken in the grate. The welcome lump of her big hot water bottle would be cooling as well but she would not miss that if Rumple lay beside her.

Getting into bed, Belle put her feet atop the bottle while she brushed out her hair and plaited it, tying it off tightly with two ill-matched ribbons - one at the scalp and one at the end of the braid. She would not be able to pamper her hair so easily without the effortless supply of warm water so she should keep it as neat as she used to.

Pulling the covers up to her chin, Belle sat and waited for Rumpelstiltskin to return.

There was no mistaking his heavy gait now; there would be no more surprising her from behind and making her jump when she could hear him far away down the stairs, his staff striking the floor. From the sound alone, Belle could tell that he climbed steadily and without needing to stop to rest himself.

She pulled his nightshirt out from beneath the pillows and hugged it to herself to warm it through before he joined her.

"There," Rumple said, only slightly breathless when he paused at the threshold. "Enough for tonight."

Turning over to face him, Belle smiled. She was used to his being able to see her in almost any light; it took her a moment to understand why Rumple ignored her smile and went to the fireside to drop the basket he carried. With her back to the light, he could see her expression no better than she could have seen his.

It was going to be so strange to learn about him all over again.

Belle lay still, listening to the sounds of Rumpelstiltskin building up the fire. That done he returned to close the door, locking it and removing the key. She said nothing, content that a lock which he'd made proof against the Dark One would also secure them against anything Rumpelstiltskin himself might fear in the night. He shuffled around the bed, carefully closing the drapes first on her side and then his, leaving the end open to receive the warmth of the fire.

She expected him to join her then, to exchange his clothing for his nightgown, but instead she heard him make his way to her bathing room and close the door behind him. _That_ hadn't occurred to her. How had she grown so _comfortable_ with the things that had seemed utterly _strange_ to her not very long ago?

Habit, she thought, listening to the crackle of the new dry logs until Rumpelstiltskin returned. Habit was something that everyone underestimated.

She heard Rumple rest the staff against the wall beside the far bedpost, then he opened the curtains just far enough to allow him to sit heavily on the side of the bed. He sighed as if in relief, stretching out his right leg, then slid his arm beneath the pillows in search of his nightgown.

"Here," said Belle, suddenly feeling ridiculous for having taken it. She thrust it towards him. "I warmed it for you."

There was a snort from the shadows - of amusement, she hoped. Rumple took the silk. "Thank you." Yes, he was pleased. His voice told her that. Belle relaxed and worked her way a little deeper beneath the covers, forgetting for a moment that he could no longer spot her scarlet blushes in a darkened room.

It seemed to take Rumpelstiltskin ages to change. The tightly laced boots would help to support the weakened leg, she supposed, but he could not disguise the pain in the sound of his breathing when he eased the boot from his right foot. He did try to disguise it, to slow and to quiet his breathing.

At last he stood, supporting himself by means of the bedpost, and leaned over to blow out the last candle. Belle lifted the covers while he got into bed, coaxing him right to the middle to join her. This movement too caused him pain, his right foot pushing against the mattress. They would need to exchange sides, Belle thought, before the flash of inspiration faded into the background of her tired mind.

Her husband was as warm as ever. Belle allowed him to make himself comfortable on his back before draping herself against his side. Rumple stretched out his arm to welcome her, just as he always did. She enjoyed the nearness for a little while, but he was tense. Careful of her. He did not relax into the pillows nor indulge himself by playing with her hair.

Belle thought that she had an inkling of understanding. When he'd been ill, when she'd glimpsed the man beneath the magic before, he had lost all his ease with her, such as it had been at the time. It was not his cursed flesh that he was afraid of revealing to her - not only the marks of that curse that he feared she would find unappealing. _I was never lovely,_ he'd told her, during those first days of discovery together while he tried to understand his bride's unwavering acceptance. Her desire for him.

It had taken a terrible sorrow to dampen that desire, which had grown out of fascination, of willful trust and of timid touches. It was no transient and skin deep yearning that she felt for him when they were together; it was not because he was handsome nor beautiful that she loved him, nor because he swept her away with romantic words. It was all of him, Rumpelstiltskin, difficult and dangerous. It was everything that he dedicated to her with his tender care and his growing trust. His respect and his devotion.

Whatever he had been and whatever he had become today, Rumpelstiltskin was still that man, still her husband, and just as welcome beside her as he had always been.

She could show him that. Belle hooked two fingers into the cord that closed his nightshirt and tugged, twice.

"Am I allowed to touch you?" she asked, doing her best to sound more sultry than curious. Rumple turned his head to look at her in the firelight. He sought her face with a hesitant hand and gently held her chin.

"You must do as you wish," he said, his voice strained almost to a whisper, light and sweet with tenderness.

Belle _wished_ that she was well again; that she could kindle her own desire and give them both the escape that they needed tonight. The escape into one another where everything - _everything_ \- made perfect sense. But not while she bled and not while her grief remained such a complicated knot inside her, so tight and unresolved. She could not give them what they needed the most but she could discover her husband again; she could satisfy her curiosity, and no doubt offer Rumple some pleasure into the bargain. It seemed a _good_ bargain. She kissed his shoulder, then his collarbone, then leaned right over him and stole a kiss from his lips.

Those first, definitely; his lips, the flesh of his upper lip and chin now smooth where he had been almost scaled before. Belle tasted all around his mouth, gratified when Rumple sagged back into the pillows with a contented sigh before curling his arm across her back.

"Have you missed our kisses?" she asked, still hurting with the knowledge that there was one kiss he regretted and would take back if he could. Rumple nodded, a soft sound of acknowledgement her only reply. "You taste the same as you did," she told him. "I'm glad."

Rumple nodded and kept his silence. Did she taste the same to him? Did she even _look_ the same to him, now that his senses had dwindled to those of a mortal man?

Would the same touches please and satisfy him? Belle hesitated with that thought, not sure if it made her excited or nervous. A little of both? At least she would no longer be too afraid to try, nor Rumple too unsure of her to guide her loving. They _knew_ each other now. They would find the way together.

"There's no need to do this," he said, misreading her hesitation. "It's too soon, hmm?"

"I'm only going to touch you," Belle smiled, flexing her fingers. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my hands."

"Nor your curiosity, I suspect." At last she heard some teasing in his tone. "I saw you gazing at Sir Gaston."

Belle gasped, her outrage only half feigned.

"I was not _gazing!_ "

Rumple slid her braid through his fingers and let it fall against her shoulder with a soft _thump_.

"Of course you weren't." She could still hear the smile in his voice, no longer teasing but fond and kind. "Something very... innocent... has survived in you, treasure. Something pure." He trailed a finger from her chin and down her neck to the dip of her throat. "I was so afraid of snuffing it out."

"Love?" She shook her head, not understanding. It had not been her pure love alone that freed Rumpelstiltskin from his curse.

"No. Something else. Your beauty. Here." He tapped the finger over her heart. "It's so alive in you."

"I don't understand," Belle admitted, shy because of it. But if beauty truly lay in the eye of the beholder then a person might find it anywhere, mightn't they? She had, in the quiet sadness and gentle longing beneath a monster's prickly armour. He in turn had found an innocence in her that he treasured, a beauty that he could not define and feared to damage.

They kissed, just softly, and then Belle pillowed her head on Rumple's chest and took hold of the hand that came to find her hair. He gave her her way, spreading his fingers when she wove her smaller ones between and holding the hand still for her to explore with slow care. The back of his hand was softer now while his palm felt just as it had before. There were calluses on some of his fingers, old and smoothed over - proof of a man who laboured with his hands. Wordless, Belle guided his hand to her hair and allowed him to stroke. His right hand held her braid captive already.

She held her breath and listened for the heartbeat beneath her ear. Where there had been a rapid and rhythmic sound before, as though his heart were the source of all his explosive energy and enormous strength, now she could hear the steady thump-thump of a mortal heartbeat. It seemed to beat rather faster than her own, just at the moment; Rumpelstiltskin was far from calm. Was it pain, fear or the prospect of her exploring hand that agitated him so?

The uncertainty made her caresses timid, her hand finding the shape of his ribs and his hip before faltering. He _felt_ the same through silk, save for the few places where his flesh had peaked like scales before. She found a scar on his right flank where one of those hardened patches had been; circled it with her fingers for a little while because it was new to her.

"Grazed by a misfired arrow," he said, distantly, as though having to dig deep to find the memory. "Before they called me coward they called me lucky. I might not have survived my training at arms."

"One of your own men shot you in _training_?" Belle asked, appalled. Her father punished carelessness just as harshly as he did disobedience in his armed men, saying that no man had any business being careless with a weapon about him!

"It broke the skin and struck the barrels behind me." Rumple's fingers joined hers, tracing the shape of the scar. "Lucky. I was no great soldier but they thought me good luck after that. Until I ran." She heard him swallow hard. "Without magic I can only run," he said, all the fear that he had been containing or concealing coming out in that unsteady statement. "I'm scared, Belle, and I want to run." The words were almost lost between his fractured breaths - the effort of holding back a sob.

Belle wrapped her limbs around him as far as she was able, fearful of jarring his right leg and causing him pain. Rumple clutched her close, her cheek pressed against his chest, fighting for control of himself. _That_ felt no different - the tight embrace, the strength in his arms, the familiar scent of his skin and his silk gown. His struggle with himself.

Curiosity would have to keep. For tonight, this closeness would be enough.

"I'm here," she soothed, and for the first time she had no doubt that he would take that as a comfort, a reassurance. "I love you." She didn't need to discover his new flesh to be sure of that - as sure as she had been in those confused moments after true love's kiss did its work. She only needed to remember it to feel the warmth and fullness in her heart again. It might be bittersweet to live with love, it might be frightening, but it was surely better than living without it?

"I love you too." Rumple plucked the topmost ribbon from her hair. It tickled her back as he tangled it through his fingers for safekeeping while they slept. Belle smiled and squeezed him even harder as he repeated, "I love you too."


	103. Glamour

The dawn was still far away when Belle awoke, but she found herself alone. Muzzy and still half in her dreams, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes.

"Rumple?"

There was no reply. Belle sighed and flopped back among the pillows, hooking the hot water bottle up towards her with her feet. It had not gone completely cold, wrapped in the old sheepskin; with it tucked behind her knees she felt warm enough.

What were they going to _do?_

No doubt it was the very same question that had driven Rumpelstiltskin from their bed in the middle of the night. He had been more fretful than weary, and Belle could hardly blame him if he opted to get up once his wife was asleep and her comfort closed to him. She doubted that he would awaken her in order to share his fears. Where would he go? His turret, to see what magic could be salvaged? Or would he go to spin, to soothe himself at the wheel? But that was magic too - straw into gold. What would he do if he could not spin?

Belle did not want to go running after him like a mother hen, though her worry grew as she lay there sleepless. There had always been times when he preferred to be left alone - to be upset or angry without the intrusion of his new wife's persistent voice of reason. Rumple would return to her bed if he longed for her comfort... wouldn't he?

Today would be market day. Belle stifled a groan of dismay and flipped the bedclothes over her head, snuggling deeper into the warmth. Today she must be a leader for all to see; there must be justice for Tavish _and_ for his wife, for Lulie. No, _Tullia_. The unusual name sat so strangely upon those slender shoulders - it seemed a name for a girl to grow into rather than one ever intended to suit her from birth. Belle supposed that was why everyone called her Lulie, but she had earned the right to be called as she wished, that day in the street when she faced her father and accused him.

And today, she must have justice.

Rumpelstiltskin had been beside her, whenever her thoughts turned to the handling of Dacey Tavish. Oh, he would probably tease and even mock her for her soft ways, but Belle had not expected to be alone with all of Odstone watching her - _looking_ to her. Would he come with her today? What would the people make of it if he did?

She turned onto her side and dragged a pillow beneath the bedclothes to hug in the absence of her husband.

Would he forbid her to go to Odstone at all? He had feared for her safety whilst at the height of his powers and Belle was surely no safer now, while Rumple himself could be in equal danger. That put a different complexion on things, didn't it? Until now, Belle had dismissed his caution as overprotectiveness, indulging it for his sake rather than for her own, but faced with the prospect of seeing _him_ in harm's way, her chest tightened horribly.

Love was certainly easier when the possibility of loss seemed far and remote.

Belle tossed and turned until the first songbirds broke the silence, then dragged herself out of bed and hurried to add another log to the fire. Lighting a candle from the low flames in the grate, she used it to light two others.

The big iron candelabra were impressive and gave the room a good light, but without magic or a servant whose sole task was to see that the castle remained lit, they were going to need something more practical in the future. And a lot of candles. Her thoughts went to the lanterns of faceted glass that decorated Rumpelstiltskin's rooms at the roadside inns. She had seen few of them in the castle, keeping one in her kitchen because the colours were pretty.

Her thoughts on the small things, the practical things about which she had not had to trouble herself since her marriage, Belle readied herself for the day. Most pressing would be to wash and dry her cloths, she realised; she had nothing better for the task, short of tearing the fine linens from her trousseau into rags. The thick and soft cloths for her blood had been among her gifts from Odstone. Perhaps she could buy more today?

She stood for a moment before the long mirror to inspect herself. Rumpelstiltskin's theft of her ribbon last night had left her braid hanging oddly, but the bottom ribbon had held. With one of her aprons over her short blue dress and a shawl about her shoulders she looked... herself. Yes. Peering closer, Belle could see even in the poor morning light that some of her pallor was gone. The startled, haunted look had faded in her eyes as well - the expression of a girl who might burst into tears at any moment.

Knowing better and unable to help herself, Belle put her palms against her belly and looked down. If she imagined the sorrow sitting there where the child would have grown, she could take its measure. Another dawn, another day since the child slipped away. When it should have been the greatest of her troubles it was only one among company. Somehow, that made it easier to bear.

"Come on," she told her reflection, sternly. "There's a lot to do."

There was. The chamberpot from her stool wanted emptying; her cloths required soaking and scrubbing at the pump and the stove needed feeding with wood. And while she crouched to attend to that, enjoying the nearness of the hot embers, Belle felt a furry tickle against her bare ankle. Smoke butted her backside and made an enquiring sort of noise.

"I didn't forget about your food," Belle said, feeling guilty because she had. She rose, wiping ash from her hands onto the apron, and watched with pleasure as Smoke wound about her ankles in the most ingratiating way imaginable. Moving the kettle onto the stovetop, Belle gave the cat a wink. "Let's see what's in the larder, shall we?"

A plucked chicken, which had sat unheeded and unchanging in a silver dish at the back of the larder since Belle first found the kitchen, was now dripping blood into the dish. She carried it carefully to the work table near the stove and cut off the breast meat. Should it be cooked? Smoke seemed to think not, rising on her hind legs and sniffing keenly up at Belle's work, but Belle nudged her aside and began to chop the meat into small pieces.

Smoke delivered a demanding meow and made as if to jump up and help herself; Belle moved her body to block the way, laughing, and managed to keep the cat away from the chicken long enough to place a skillet onto the stove plates.

"Go and see to your kittens," she urged. "You'll eat before I do, you have my word."

Laughing at herself for conversing with a cat, Belle quickly cooked the meat through. The aroma made her mouth water and made her aware of a true hunger that she had not felt in some time. Eating had become a duty, a chore, but this morning she was hungry enough to envy Smoke her savoury breakfast. The impatient cat continued to weave between her ankles until Belle turned out the meat onto a plate to cool.

Not trusting that Smoke would not simply help herself to the rest of the raw chicken if left unattended, Belle picked up the cat and carried her, squirming, in search of the kittens. They were as restless as their mother, pushing at each other and trying out their legs in their bed of straw. The golden food dish was quite empty and had been licked clean.

"I'm sure he didn't mean for you to go hungry," Belle told the top of Smoke's head. "We've had a bit of a shock."

As soon as she set the cat down on the flagstones, Smoke led the way over to the fussing kittens and flopped down beside them. Belle followed and knelt beside the nest, watching as three of the kittens piled in to suckle. The fourth appeared transfixed by the visitor, swaying on its paws while giving Belle an unblinking, blue-eyed stare. This kitten had a small bib of white, with white whiskers among the grey. When she reached out to offer it a chicken-smelling hand, it crouched back and spat at her, fierce as a lion.

Smoke, instantly alert, watched Belle's hand with care.

"We're all going to be friends," Belle told them, stroking all three of the nursing kittens at once, then scooping up the wayward one and placing it beside its litter mates. "I think there may be mice here from now on."

In the meantime, she fetched the plate of chopped chicken and scraped it, still warm, into Smoke's golden dish. Leaving her kittens without the slightest hesitation, impervious to their small cries of indignation at being displaced from her teats, Smoke trotted over to sniff at the bowl.

Belle put away the rest of the meat, wondering what she was going to do with everything in the larder. Rumpelstiltskin was the better cook by far - perhaps he would help her? It did not seem like the sort of thing she should be asking of him today, but they needed to live.

She cooked porridge, using most of the milk mixed with a little water. The fresh cream would not keep, so she brought that out as well. Should she make up a tray and try to find Rumple? He needed to eat properly now - she could not allow him to neglect that in his worry and preoccupation.

Deciding to eat her own breakfast first, Belle sat at the kitchen table and stirred a generous pile of thick cream into her porridge before crumbling sugar lumps over the top. It was delicious and filling, warming her from the belly.

Her letter box caught her eye while she finished the last few mouthfuls of porridge. It was where she usually left it; pride of place in the middle of the kitchen table, and so familiar to her now that she could overlook it for days at a time. Would the magic still work? Rumple said that it was a property of the boxes themselves rather than his doing - it should still work, shouldn't it?

Belle was about to reach for the box when she heard the sound of Rumple's staff upon the stone stairs beyond the kitchen door. Full of relief, she carried her empty bowl to the sink before fetching a clean one for Rumple. The kettle had yet to boil but would be hot enough for tea; she lifted it with a cloth wrapped around her hand and brought it to the table just as Rumple came into the room.

He looked so _tired!_ Belle had been sparing with the candles and the kitchen had only one meagre and high barred window to its name. Even so, a glance was all she needed to tell her that Rumple had not rested well before he left her in the night. He leaned heavily on the staff and looked almost bewildered at finding her there.

"I came to prepare your breakfast," he said, weakly.

"I beat you to it," Belle answered, surprised at her own brightness. She enjoyed being busy and useful, she knew that, but this was something more. She felt buoyed up by something, even in the midst of so much change and uncertainty. Could true love's kiss do _that_ , if it could break a curse as black and cruel as that of the Dark One's blade? "Come and eat."

Rumple nodded and made his way to the table. He did not take his usual seat at the head, instead choosing the nearest to the door and slumping into it with a sigh of relief. Belle put his porridge down before him and kissed him quickly on the top of his head.

She lit two more candles and brought them to the table before she brought the teapot across. Rumple made a start on the porridge, hesitating each time he brought the spoon to his lips as though steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"Would you prefer something else?" she asked. This new frailty in him made her feel timid, almost apologetic. "Everything in the larder will need to be used soon."

Shaking his head, Rumple straightened himself in the chair. "I'll get used to it."

Belle filled the teapot and sat down next to him, arranging cups.

"You couldn't sleep?"

He shook his head again, leaving Belle puzzling over how to make headway when her husband had turned inward like this. Should she simply leave him to his thoughts, or would that convince him that she did not care about his unhappiness? Rumple ate as though he had forgotten how it was meant to go - as though he needed to concentrate on every step from spooning up the thick porridge to swallowing it. He fared much better with the tea. He reached for the sugar tongs without thinking, then hesitated and tried the tea unsweetened. Belle caught his look of surprise, a hint of pleasure too, and smiled into her own cup.

The hot tea seemed to fortify Rumpelstiltskin as the food had not. He sat back in the chair and looked at Belle, at last. She tried her best not to stare at the unfamiliar shape of his hair, nor to study too closely the deep lines of worry and laughter revealed by the change to his flesh.

"You must be at the town hall today," he said, surprising her utterly. She had already steeled herself for a debate about that, about her safety and his.

"Yes."

There was so much love in Rumple's eyes. Sadness too, and worry, but so much love.

"How will you punish the man?"

Wrong-footed by the lack of an argument about going, Belle hesitated and hid her confusion by taking a sip of tea.

"It should be for his wife to decide," she said. "Odstone has no law for his crime. But it should."

"Then it will," Rumple said with a shrug. "My wife will see to that." He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed. "Be careful. I don't think you understand the power you have over them."

Belle nodded, though she did not understand what he meant.

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes. I won't leave you unprotected." Rumple spoke with rather more grim determination than with pleasure at the prospect of accompanying her. "I almost have it."

"Have what?"

In answer, Rumple put down his cup and tugged his lace sleeve away from his left hand. Belle watched, puzzled, until he passed his right hand over the left and the skin... changed. His fingernails blackened and his skin took on the strange texture and sheen that she had become so familiar with. But it was not the change that set her heart pounding and reduced her voice to a squeak - after all, she had witnessed such changes in him before.

"So you do still have magic," she managed, almost steadily. Almost managing to convince herself that she had not been wishing - praying - otherwise.

"I do. You were right. The world is no match for three centuries of knowledge." While they both stared, Rumple's hand returned to being pink and ordinary, the fingernails pale with their little half-moons. "I've taught others how to work a glamour, after all." He did not sound triumphant, nor gloating - if anything, Rumple spoke of it with grim determination. "I nearly have it."

Swallowing to regain command of her voice, Belle forced herself to smile. She half-rose from her seat and gave him a kiss on the temple, then another on the cheek. There she recoiled with a different sort of surprise, finding a growth of bristles that had never been there before. Rumple looked at her askance when she sat down hard. The he smiled and rubbed his own chin and cheek.

"How would you like me to grow a beard, my love?" he asked with a trace of malice. Belle swatted him on the arm.

"Not at all, thank you!" Her thoughts had flown straight to the black and bushy beard now sported by Gaston, and the way it hid so much of what had been familiar about his face. There had been more than enough change in Rumpelstiltskin for the time being!

His laugh hadn't changed. Not his _true_ laugh, the quiet one that didn't always make much of a sound, and lit up his eyes. It added to the lines beside Rumple's eyes and yet stripped the years from his face somehow in those moments of boyish delight.

"As you wish," he said, still chuckling. Belle poured them each some more tea, almost fumbling the strainer when she felt Smoke brush against her ankles again. A moment later, Rumpelstiltskin peered down beneath the table as his legs received the same treatment.

"Mind my leg, cat," he said gruffly, and it was hard to say whether Smoke obeyed or ignored him entirely when she leapt up onto his thighs, purring. "An empty food dish, is it?" he asked, staring her down.

"I gave her chicken," Belle said, fascinated by how easily Rumple's hands caressed the animal's fur. He seemed to do it without thinking, in contrast to her self-conscious efforts to be friends with the cat and her kittens. "Is it very painful? Your foot?" She asked as delicately as she could, but realised as she spoke that she could accept no dismissal for an answer.

"When I bear weight on it," said Rumple shortly. "There's magic for that as well."

Belle sighed. She had been going to ask him where Wren's chest of books and bottles had ended up - to see if anything in there might help him. "I must deceive the eye in Odstone," he said, as if following the direction of her thoughts. "Our lives depend on it."

"We can't hide everything," she said, seeking out his hand and squeezing it. The comfort of _that_ had not changed. Rumple returned the pressure warmly. "We'll need candles. Firewood. To buy food when we need it." Belle bit her lip there, silencing herself. She _dared_ not suggest to him that what they needed above all was a servant. Several servants!

It was not that the prospect of hard and tedious work daunted her, but the sheer _size_ of the castle made it a grim thought. She had discovered during her early attempts to take charge of her new home that the chores were too much for one person alone. Even allowing for the fact that they occupied very few of the many rooms, there was too much to do.

"Are we still safe inside the castle?" she asked, voicing a fear that she had not recognised until that very moment.

Rumpelstiltskin brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. She shivered at the sensation of his new bristles against her delicate skin.

"It's still a castle. Have you looked outside?" When Belle shook her head, Rumple reached for his staff and clambered to his feet, dislodging Smoke just as she settled down to sleep on his lap. "Come and see."

He led her to the nearest window up in the great room. Belle pulled aside the heavy curtain and ducked behind it with him, her jaw dropping at what she saw. Gone were the thawing formal garden, the elegant gravel path and the decorative gates. The front aspect of the castle now boasted a curtain wall to match the rest, complete with a huge and forbidding portcullis and vast thick doors of oak. A grim stone quadrangle lay between the window and these imposing grey walls. Rumpelstiltskin's whimsical palace had reverted to being a mountain stronghold, fit to withstand a siege. The outer fortifications, anyway.

Belle's mouth still hung open. She shut it with a snap, juggling the various questions that demanded her tongue.

"Magic did all _that_?"

"Yes. The castle did as I wished."

"But... but it was real? The... the rosebushes and the hedges, and the wall that wouldn't have kept out a boy with a ladder?"

"Real enough." Rumple put his left arm across her back. It was chilly behind the curtains. "Other things were more illusion."

"The dagger!" Belle put a hand to her mouth, looking at him with wide eyes. His defences for the Dark One's blade had been more illusion than anything else. "Is it still dangerous?"

"I don't know what it is now." Frowning, Rumple looked at her. She stared back at him, trying to fix every detail of his changed face in her mind while she could see him in good daylight. "I wouldn't care to let it fall into the hands of others."

"No." Belle shivered. There was the distinct feel of damp behind the curtains. It hadn't been there before. Just how much _had_ Rumple's effortless magic contributed to their comforts here?

Rumple trailed a fingertip down her spine as though trying to catch her shiver.

"Daunted?"

"No!" The denial came so quickly and easily that she could not pretend it had been a considered answer. The question had not been altogether unkind, just slightly pointed. "We'll manage," she said, more calmly and confidently, and caught herself in a defiant lifting of her chin just as Rumple caught her eye again.

"You're sure of it, aren't you?" he said, shifting his grip on the staff and turning his body a little to face her. "Everything will be all right. You're sure of it." There was nothing pointed about those remarks; Rumpelstiltskin seemed to be in awe of her certainty rather than frustrated by it.

"Yes," Belle said. "I think I am." Much to her relief, he did not ask her _how_ she could be so sure. She had no idea. "I want to open up these curtains," she said, when she could not stand his quizzical stare any longer. The unfamiliarity of his brown eyes still unsettled her. "We'll need the light and I'm tired of living in the gloom. It's not healthy."

Joining her again on the other side of the heavy fabric, in the warmth and the gloom, Rumple looked up.

"Easier said than done," he said, grasping his staff with both hands to keep steady while he studied the pelmet. "I nailed them down."

"You--"

"Nailed them down." He looked at her and did his best to appear aloof. "Why not?"

For the second time in a handful of minutes, Belle forced herself to stop gaping. She shook her head, chuckling to herself.

"All right," she said. "Now I _am_ daunted."

They looked at each other for a long moment, lost for anything to say. Rumple looked away first, his gaze coming to rest upon the spinning wheel in the corner. Belle looked too.

"Can you still do it?" she asked, fingering his sleeve. "Straw into gold?"

"Probably." He shrugged. "First things first. We must arrive in Odstone in suitable splendour." He waggled his pink fingers at her.

Belle's heart sank. The coach and horses; the shadowy coachman - what had become of them? How had she allowed herself to become so immersed in Rumple's magic that she lost sight of what would happen if that magic were ever diminished?!

"I suppose I ought to change into something more grand," she said, glancing down at her damp apron and silvery shoes.

"Why?" asked Rumple, mildly. "You are their mistress, and my wife. My true love." Their eyes met again at that and they shared a shy, fleeting smile. "You must dress as you please."

His words filled her with happiness, but Belle went upstairs to change. Her short and light skirts might be practical for her activities about the castle but she feared they would make her look like a frivolous little girl in Odstone. One of her mother's sober dresses was in order, and she ought to do more with her hair than leave it in the half collapsed plait that she'd woven last night.

While she washed her face, Belle heard Rumpelstiltskin climb the stairs past the door to her room. Her urge to hurry to his side quite shocked her; he was no invalid in need of her care, nor a child in need of her supervision, yet she was drawn to _fuss_ over him at the first sign of his mortal frailty! She could not wish away the castle's endless flights of stairs any better than she could take away his pain, and doubted that hovering by his side and fretting would accomplish anything except to irritate her husband.

She was much stronger herself, today, and her bleeding light enough that she would not spend the day worrying about the state of her cloth. Rest and red meat must have done their work in helping her to mend, but Belle warned herself sternly not to try too much too soon. Rumple needed her more than ever; it would not do to make herself ill.

With her hair pulled back and pinned, and her old boots on beneath her dark green dress, Belle took a candle and made her way upstairs to look in on Gaston. She had expected to find him soiled and in need of her care, but instead he lay peacefully, his thickening beard the only evidence that time had passed for him. How much magic could Rumple sustain at once now that he was without the inhuman stamina of the Dark One? It would be a blessing not to have to wash and change Gaston like an infant, but better that than see her husband overreach himself.

Belle followed faint sounds from Gaston's doorway to the angled one at the very end of the passage, opposite the turret stairs. Rumple was in his old room, that humble box of a room with its bed and its wardrobe. There were other things now - clothing spilling across the floor and a pile of shoes just inside the door. The bed appeared to have suffered a small avalanche of rolled up stockings. Rumple stood beside the open wardrobe gripping one of the doors for support and looking flustered in the meagre light of one lantern.

"Can I help?" she asked, her concern rapidly transforming into amusement. Rumple stood bare to the waist, breeches wrinkled about his backside, and his expression of hurt annoyance made for an odd sight. "You seem to have plenty of choice about what to wear."

"Never use magic to keep things tidy," he said, waving distractedly at the mess.

"I never would," Belle said, promptly. "You did." She lit the candles in their iron candelabrum to shed a better light upon the scene, blowing out and pocketing the candle that she'd carried with her to Gaston's room. "Your 'pockets' exploded?"

"Something like that," he muttered, sheepish in the face of her teasing. Belle put her hand against his bare back and felt a familiar, pleasant tingle at the warmth of skin on skin. It wasn't quite a shiver. It made her inhale a little sharply and lifted her heart. Where his cursed flesh had peaked over the spine to form a slight ridge, now Rumple was all bony knobbles and smooth skin. "We can expect to find things in odd places, no doubt."

Belle nodded, doing her best to keep a solemn face. She took a red silk shirt from the pile at Rumple's feet and held it against herself, watching him.

"Wren's things? Do you know where they are?"

"Library," he answered at once. "How is the dukeling?"

"No change." Belle folded the shirt over her arm and picked up another bright piece of cloth. A waistcoat this time - stiff wine coloured brocade at the front, soft brown lamb's leather at the back. "How does he stay so clean?"

For a moment, Rumple looked blank. Then he nodded, waving a hand while he gathered his explanation.

"The potion. Half of the mixture, at any rate. I gave you a little of it when you were injured, do you recall?"

Belle did, and nodded. She had not been troubled by bladder or bowels while she lay in bed mending. _And I hardly wondered why,_ she recalled, guiltily. It had been so, so easy to let the magic smooth inconvenience from her daily life, hadn't it? It was not only love that had beguiled her, here at the Dark Castle.

"Let me see you?" She gave his elbow a hopeful little tug. Rumple moved to face her properly, gripping the door of the wardrobe tightly until his feet were still again. He grew nervous, his gaze fleeing from hers just as she looked up to smile at him.

It was strange to see him so pale. Belle fingered his collarbone, her fingertips finding more hair where there had been none before. It was short and rather coarse, and in the warm candlelight she could not really make out its colour except to know that Rumple was nowhere near so dark as Gaston in that regard. His hair was sparse by comparison, not obscuring his skin. When she brushed her hand across it, down across the midline of his chest and to his belly, his muscles twitched in response and she made him shiver visibly.

Curious as she was about the changes, and aware as she was that they must continue on below the waist, Belle mastered herself. She gave him a little kiss, however, lest she leave him in any doubt about his continued worthiness as a husband and bedmate. In the kiss, she tasted the mixture of salt, soot and sage with which she habitually cleaned her own teeth, and smiled.

"You'd better dress up as the Dark One, then," she said. She meant to tease, but even as she spoke the words they made her sad. Free at last, Rumpelstiltskin still had to put on the costume and play the part. Did he want to? "If they're frightened enough of you, perhaps they won't notice when I make a fool of myself."

Rarely caught giving voice to such doubt, Belle surprised even herself with that. Rumple caught her behind the neck and drew her back for another kiss, this one bringing her bosom against his bare chest and her hands to his hips to keep her balance. There was wanting in the kiss - in the way Rumple's breathing became noisy in his throat and the way he tasted her, eyes screwed shut. But he was the one to end it, gently pushing her back. His hand lingered perhaps a moment longer than necessary against her chest in the process.

The kiss had put a fire back into his eyes. Belle blinked deliberately and looked around her at the scattered clothing, startled by the realisation that it was not so much the physical change to Rumple's eyes that had disturbed her, but the expression in them. What had been missing had returned, oh so very bright and alive with its own mischief.

"You're many things, sweet," he said, taking the clothes that she had idly chosen from her arm and nodding, satisfied. "But you're no fool. A law that deters a man from striking his wife is no fool's errand." He gave her a brief smile, and with it a flash of teeth so very much nicer than the stained ones she'd become used to seeing. "I wish I'd thought of it."

Belle gave him a slightly watery smile and hurried out into the corridor. It had been an enduring, nagging fear of hers that Rumple found her foolish in her innocence; that he tolerated it because he found that innocence agreeable but that he would really much rather she change her ways. Grow up. Grow hard to the world as he had. Did he really mean to leave the laws of Odstone in her hands?

Her stomach in a nervous and excited flutter, Belle went to finish getting ready.


	104. A Better Place

Rumpelstiltskin came downstairs wearing a long, hooded coat that covered nearly every inch of him. His leather gloves matched the trim of the wine coloured coat. Even Belle, fully aware of what had happened to him, could not tell at first glance what Rumple looked like beneath the hood.

He paused at the top of the final few stairs and spread his arms.

"Well?"

"Very mysterious," Belle agreed, straight faced, and only then noticed that Rumple was walking without his staff. He moved rather stiffly down those last, wide marble steps, but to the casual observer... "What about your leg?"

"Magic and a stout splint," he said, allowing Belle to push back the heavy hood. "Are you well, my dear?"

"I think so." In all honesty, Belle could not tell how she felt. The butterflies rioting in her belly were all that she could think about. She was well enough to convince that casual observer, at the very least. "I hope that I can do the right thing. I so want to make a difference here."

Rumple smiled, delicately untucking some of her hair from beneath the collar of her green cloak.

"Just remember that I can still turn him into a slug for you," he said, resorting to a theatrical whisper. "If you change your mind."

"If I were Tavish's wife, I might ask for just that," she sighed. "Are you going to... um..." She touched his cheek, nervously.

"When I must. Magic is a lot harder now. Unless you'd prefer that I--" Rumple passed his hand in front of his face and _changed_. He grinned as well, enjoying Belle's wide-eyed reaction. Had she not been all too aware of his painful leg, she would have kicked him on the shin.

"You forgot about the horrible teeth," she said, proud of how she maintained her composure in the face of his teasing. In truth, she found it quite upsetting to see him restored to the form that she had known and grown to love so well - it only added to her confusion. Oh, she _loved_ him no less for the transformation but she missed the familiarity. It had been comfortable, and now things were new again. Using magic to change his appearance yet again only made things worse.

Another pass of Rumple's gloved hand and he became pale-fleshed again, hair lank about his face, his worried eyes that warm brown. "You'd fool anyone," she assured him. Rumple nodded, relieved by her verdict. He had reason of his own to feel nervous. It was odd to think of Rumpelstiltskin, the Spinner, with butterflies in his tummy just the same as her own.

"Will we need to walk?" she asked, slipping her largest basket over her arm and moving towards the doors.

"No." Rumple walked with care, taking her arm. Whatever he had done to his leg, it combined with his cautious movements to lend him a distinct swagger in place of the limp. "Things aren't quite that bad."

Belle had to pause once they opened the big outer doors, allowing herself a few moments to adjust to the changes. There had been a light rain during the night and the cobbled courtyard ahead glistened, full of drips and shadows. Rumple put his hand on her shoulder and stood close beside her, taking in the scene himself.

"I traded a vanishing potion for that garden," he said, sighing.

"You made a deal for a _garden?_ "

"Yes. Why not?" Rumple gestured to the empty expanse of stone before them. "I had the space."

She took his arm and kept as close as she could to his side while they crossed the expanse of cobbles towards the gate tower. This resembled the one Belle had grown up behind, but there were men to raise and lower the portcullis and to open or bar the main gates as required.

"I never needed to stop anyone getting in," explained Rumple, leaving her and going into the guard house. "They'd never get out again. Ah." He emerged from the darkness and extended his right hand towards the iron portcullis. It began to rise, the scream of some mechanism in the guard house testifying to long neglect. Belle covered her ears, wincing until the sound died away. Rumple had lifted the portcullis just enough for the two of them to walk beneath. Belle had to steel herself to take the three steps required, not liking the thought of tons of spiked iron being held up by magic. She was hardly reassured when, catching her across the waist to be certain that she was safely beside him, Rumple gestured over his shoulder and allowed the portcullis to fall with a horrifying crash. "We'll need someone to repair that," he said, mildly.

Taking that as a sign that he might not be opposed to employing a few hands about the place, Belle said nothing. She had come to enjoy their privacy, even their solitude. When she had thought of a servant before, she had thought in terms of a lady companion. Now she found herself thinking of cooks, scullions, gatekeepers and guards - of all the people who made a working castle live and breathe. As Rumpelstiltskin put it, he had the space. The main building was his palace, barely fortified at all, but there were other wings. It might be possible to bring the castle back to life without sacrificing their privacy, mightn't it?

And they would need plenty of that if Rumple was going to maintain the illusion that nothing had changed. This close beside him, Belle could tell just from his breathing that everything had changed. He was not free of pain, either.

The castle seemed never to have had a moat nor needed a drawbridge. The road was defensible, coming to a rise that ran the length of the curtain wall. Hidden amongst the trees just beyond the road was a steep scramble, and it would be the work of short hours to block the river road with a rockfall, perhaps even squashing any attacker who attempted to march up the winding mountain route. Men could perhaps march five abreast, four if the outermost valued his life.

A mile or more of the road to Odstone fell between steep banks covered with pine trees. Even in winter it seemed almost like a long tunnel, so there again an attacking force would be disadvantaged. The only thing the Dark Castle lacked now was the men to stand upon the walls and pour death upon the attacking foe.

Belle found herself frozen at the mouth of the short tunnel beyond the portcullis, the memory and the _taste_ of siege returning to her as though it were yesterday.

"Belle?" Rumple's soft concern brought her back to the present, her heart pounding with remembered dread.

Forcing a smile, Belle went out through the open gates. A short, cobbled walk now led out to the road. Beyond that point, everything seemed familiar. There was the coach, the horses in harness... and no sign of the eerie shadow driver. Rumple, his hood now concealing his face, gave an apologetic shrug as he opened the door for her. "We'll need a groom, I suppose, and to find the stables. I assume we have some."

"They're real horses, then?"

"Of course." Seeing her bewilderment as she took her seat, Rumple grinned at her from the folds of the hood. "They live at the inn where we passed our wedding night. Or they did." He sighed. "So many little arrangements. It's hard to remember them all."

"Keeping things tidy by magic," Belle said, rolling her eyes. "Can you drive a carriage?"

"Yes, I can," answered Rumple, sweeping half a bow before he jarred his leg and thought better of it. He straightened up sheepishly. "Can you?"

"I've never tried," Belle laughed, counting her lucky stars that they were headed in the direction of Odstone and not down the treacherous path to the valley floor with its sheer drops away to the right.

Before she could quite come to the realisation that she would much prefer to ride beside Rumpelstiltskin on the box, he had the carriage moving.

Belle tucked her basket into the corner of the seat. She carried nothing in it other than the scroll detailing Odstone's land laws and the little book describing the legal reforms imposed by King Leopold when he he ascended to the throne. She could see the hand of courtiers between the lines, seeing to it that the rich and powerful families would continue to be so in Leopold's kingdom. Belle wondered what had become of them - of Leopold's law - when Regina had him murdered and took his throne.

In the natural order of things, Snow White would have become queen upon Leopold's passing and Regina her honoured advisor, the queen dowager in her own right. Two women seldom held such power in the world; Belle could not help but wonder what they might have accomplished had they joined forces. Their birthright, their intellect and the unquestioning love of their people... together, Snow and Regina could have made the kingdom into anything they wished.

There would be a civil war. It might take the Princess Snow years to gather the men and the arms, but there would be a war. With magic on one side and a just cause on the other, who would win? Belle sighed. Either way, the people of Leopold's kingdom would lose.

Odstone, at least, was not a kingdom. With no need of taxes from his people, Rumple was content to be landlord and master in name only; it was a better living than many citizens of the great kingdoms enjoyed. But what of Rumpelstiltskin's protection? They counted on that, whether it be from the winter snow, a magical plague or an invading army. They had grown used to it, and thought little of it until that protection failed, just as Belle had so easily become used to the magical comforts of the castle.

Rumpelstiltskin did not stop the carriage outside the town gates as he usually did on the busy market day. Instead they slowed, people scrambling out of the way. Belle caught fleeting glimpses of surprised faces on a busy street before they came to a stop outside the town hall.

Pushing the book back into the bottom of her basket, Belle straightened her cloak and reached for the door catch. Before she had her hand on it, Rumple tugged the door open and offered her his hand.

"My Lady."

There was a crowd. It was not a press of people such as had gathered to see the murderer hanged, but many had come to meet the arrival of the carriage. Belle was expected here today, and felt herself watched with a cautious respect as Rumpelstiltskin led her to the open doors of the town hall.

Janek awaited them inside, looking as strained as ever. Belle could not blame him, since his position consisted of little more than standing between Rumpelstiltskin and the people of the town, and taking the blame from one or the other when things went amiss. He might dress in finer clothes than many of the townsfolk and wear a gold chain about his shoulders, but Belle doubted that he was envied by anyone.

"My Lady Belle," he said, his deep voice as strained as his expression. "My Lord." Janek bowed, apparently further unnerved by the way Rumpelstiltskin remained hooded. "T-there have been many petitions," he stammered, following them into the main hall. It was empty, much to Belle's relief; she had feared that a crowd would await her there also. "Matters of little note, but... but they would be heard by you, my Lady. If it pleases you?" The poor man's voice grew thinner and thinner as he spoke, almost running out before he finished his query.

Belle looked to Rumpelstiltskin, trying to catch his eye in the shadow of his hood. She could see enough to know that he had restored his former appearance, right down to the large golden eyes. Would it pass, if he dropped the hood?

"My dear?" He left the decision entirely to her.

"I will hear as many as I can today," Belle said. "I've read your laws, Janek. They aren't fit for this place. We need new ones. Laws that protect the people as well as their property."

"Janek was a lawyer in another life," Rumple supplied, the words playful and hinting at unkindness. "I gave him refuge here when his mistakes came back to haunt him. I'm sure he'll help."

Gulping, Janek looked at the floor just in front of Belle's feet. She studied him, with his long blue robes trimmed with black fur and his polished gold chain. Now that she saw it up close, she could make out the detail of the links. Each one was in the shape of a spool of thread upon a bobbin. His brown skin was crowned with black hair that was turning towards white. He looked as though he had been built to worry, to gnaw at little problems. But not to bow, she thought, without knowing exactly why. He had been higher than the mayor of an unknown little town before he came here. Before he made a deal with Rumpelstiltskin.

"I'd like that," Belle said, and the warmth in her voice encouraged Janek to straighten himself to his full height at last. He had a tendency to hold himself ready to bow whenever Rumpelstiltskin was near. "Where you came from, Janek, what had the law to say about wife beaters?"

At her question, Rumpelstiltskin gave her a tiny bow and retreated to the back of the room, installing himself in the wooden window seat. Only Belle would have noticed that he stretched out his right leg because it pained him.

"My Lady," Janek said, doing his best not to look for Rumpelstiltskin. He ushered her politely towards the dais, to the table with the only chairs in the room, and began to draw out his own for her - the one to the right of the larger chair reserved for Rumpelstiltskin.

Rumpelstiltskin cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly. While Belle looked down the length of the room at her husband, startled, Janek hurried on and instead drew out the head chair for her.

"Wife beaters, Janek," she pressed, because the poor man's attention was back with Rumpelstiltskin. "Sit down and tell me about that."

Taking out a large linen handkerchief and mopping his brow, Janek did sit down.

"It was a fine, my Lady," he explained. "Five silver, or ten if it was done in drink."

"Did it work?" Belle deflated somewhat, realising that Janek was frightened of these questions. He feared a trick. He had known Rumpelstiltskin and his ways for long enough to expect this to be a kind of test, a cruel joke. "I'm not going to bite you," she said, pleading a little for his understanding. Lawyer or no, she really would need his support here today. "Did the fine stop men from beating their wives?"

Janek shook his head. "No. Not often."

"Was the fine thought fair, in your land?"

The man paused to consider that one, his eyebrows pulling together. They were turning white too. It was hard to guess at his age, or at how many of the white hairs could be accounted for by the years alone.

"It wasn't thought of at all, Lady. It was the way of things."

"And here? This Shaming that Wren and Tullia spoke of. Does that work?"

"It..." Janek almost - _almost_ \- glanced at Rumpelstiltskin. Instead he lowered his voice and spoke with less care than before. "It teaches them not to get caught again, my Lady, if you want the truth of it."

Now he was testing her, Belle realised - sounding her out to find the extent of her goodwill, her sincerity. Of the protection she would offer him in the face of Rumpelstiltskin's displeasure.

"I plan to ask Mistress Tavish what the punishment should be for her husband," she said. "Because there is no law here - no written law that applies to this crime."

"What if she demands to see him hang, my love?" Rumple's voice could still cut across the distance. "Will you swing on his heels?"

Belle shot him a cross look. Janek froze in his seat, mortified at being witness to this.

"I'll grant him clemency," she said steadily, "and banish him."

"So he can go and hit women somewhere else. I see."

It was not that Rumpelstiltskin mocked her. He spoke calmly, almost pleasantly, as if they discussed nothing more important than the weather. But he was goading her, and Belle knew it. And he wasn't wrong.

"My Lord," Janek began, uncertainly. "Lady. Tavish was a good farm hand. He worked a while for those who held The Apiary before Randall came. He needn't die or go away to keep him out of mischief. Let him raise his fist in a farm hand's dormitory and see what it gets him."

Rumple nodded, folding his arms across his chest. He was quite the sinister figure in that long robe, his face shrouded.

"Then I suggest you give him no choice in the matter," he said. "And make it clear to him that if his wife or daughters are ever beaten again I _will_ turn him into something that makes a satisfying crack when I step on him."

"Magic isn't--" Belle began, hotly, but Rumple held up a warning finger. He so seldom interrupted her, challenged her, that she fell silent in sheer surprise.

" _Fear_ of magic," he corrected.

"The people here are so afraid of your magic that they don't _tell_ you when a man beats his wife," she said, steadily. "So laws will have to do the best they can where fear has failed."

Belle realised that Janek was holding his breath. _That poor man_ , she thought. He couldn't know that Rumple played these games with her - that he enjoyed rattling her ideals and that they loved each other no less if they disagreed. For all Janek knew, Rumpelstiltskin was about to turn him or Belle into something that went _crack_ when stepped on!

They could have had this exchange in private. Belle wondered why Rumple had chosen to have it here and now, witnessed. He never did anything without a reason, even if it was a reason that she could not begin to fathom. He had challenged her, yes, but was it possible that the result was that Belle was seen to be challenging _him?_

Either way, Janek had begun to resemble her father when he was in need of the medicine for his heart! Belle touched his hand on the bench and felt him jump in his seat.

"I leave you in the hands of your mistress," Rumple said, evenly. "Is it to be a public session?"

Belle looked to Janek, only to realise that he in turn had looked to her for the answer. She took a deep breath and made herself comfortable in the big leather seat. Her feet didn't reach the platform beneath the chair, a fact which she concealed as best she could by rearranging her cloak.

"The people outside seem to wish it," she said, trying to sound as confident as a leader should. "Have them brought in. There should be benches or chairs provided in the future," she added, as Janek hurried to do her bidding. "It isn't necessary for everyone to stand before me. Only those answering a charge, or who wish to speak."

Janek gave one of his anxious, automatic little bows and hurried out. He spared a nervous glance for Rumpelstiltskin on the way.

Belle looked down the empty room again. Rumple's back was to the latticed window - she could barely see more than shape and movement.

"Are you making fun of me?" she asked, without accusation.

"I am not," answered Rumpelstiltskin, very quietly. And then the hall was filling with people - men, women, girls of all ages and a handful of older boys, just old enough to have escaped the Rot. Where would they find justice for _that_ crime?

Hardly anyone seemed to notice Rumpelstiltskin there at the back of the room. They all filed past within a few yards of him, most failing to recognise him or to see him at all. At first Belle suspected some magic or other, but there were those who _did_ spot him. Tullia Tavish, for one, even though she was preoccupied with guiding a nervous-looking woman who Belle assumed to be her mother. And then there was Wren, walking at a painful shuffle with her two sticks while Martha followed at her heels, half poised to catch the old woman if she stumbled. Both of them nodded to Rumpelstiltskin, who returned a slow nod of his own. His arms remained folded across his chest, his pose nonchalant.

Most people crowded forward until Janek had two burly men clear a semicircle of space before the dais. Wren remained at the back of the room, leaning against the wall. She shooed Martha away from her to join the others. Rumpelstiltskin watched Wren for a few moments before resuming his study of the crowd.

Three other men took their seats at the table, two to Belle's left and one more to Janek's right. She looked at each of their faces in turn, noticing which of them were displeased to find her there. Only the man to Janek's right seemed angry. The other two were nervous, glancing at each other before realising that they could not whisper together without Belle overhearing.

"By what right do these men sit in judgement?" Belle asked Janek, her voice low but not a whisper.

"Elected, Lady," Janek said, almost falling over his own tongue in his haste to please her. "To see fair play when the master... or mistress... is absent."

"And Rumpelstiltskin himself appointed you mayor?"

"Yes, my Lady."

Nodding, Belle straightened her cloak again to hide her dangling feet from the crowd.

"We'll speak of that another time," she said. It had been one of the things that interested her most in Leopold's reforms - elected officials to administer justice. All of them men, of course, and with only men of a certain standing able to cast their vote, but still - she thought it better than relying on lineage and patronage alone. "Please have Tavish and his accusers brought before us."

Tullia and her mother were ushered forward at a gesture from Janek, the men who served as guards leaving the two women alone in the empty semicircle. Belle could see that it remained painful for the older woman to walk. She favoured her left side, holding that arm in an odd position beneath a tightly wrapped shawl.

Belle rose to her feet, waving to prevent the men beside her from rising also out of courtesy. She looked out at the faces, nearly all of them wary and worried. Nearly all of them strangers, still. For a moment she was afraid that the nervous butterflies in her belly would actually make her sick. But if it took all her courage to stand here and proclaim herself a worthy leader, how much more had it taken Tullia and her mother to come and stand before her? They were used to Rumpelstiltskin's capricious care. For all they knew, anything could happen here today - to them as well as to the man they accused.

The last time Belle had seen Dacey Tavish, he had been in a drunken rage, barely able to stand. It seemed another man entirely who was pushed ahead of the guards, down the narrow passage and into the makeshift hall. He had lost weight and his clothing had fallen to all manner of stains and tears. Like Gaston, Tavish now had an untended beard. He moved at a shuffle, his wrists bound before him, looking at no-one.

Mistress Tavish seemed to shrink where she stood as the small party approached the front of the room, looking at her daughter with pleading eyes.

"Guards," Belle said, distressed at how even her voice made the other woman jump with fright. "Please stand between the prisoner and his accusers."

Although the two big men looked first to Janek, they moved to obey her. Neither Tullia nor her mother were very tall. The two large men beside them might have been a wall, all but obscuring their view of Dacey Tavish.

Catching Wren's eye as she looked for Rumple's, Belle was reassured by a smiling nod from the old woman. Rumpelstiltskin remained still, watching and waiting.

Belle took a deep and slow breath, gripping the edge of the table. She swallowed twice and moved her tongue across her dry palette to make sure that her voice did not desert her.

"Odstone is unique among these lands," she said, startled and rather impressed when her voice filled the silence at her first attempt. "We bow to no king. We need no standing army. We levy no taxes, because a master who can spin straw into gold does not need the wealth of the land, and is pleased to leave it for you, his people. To protect it for all of us." There were nods of agreement from a few places in the crowd, reassuring her. "We live well, but I think we can live better." Again Belle caught Wren's eye. The old woman was listening intently now, her expression calm. "We can live in a land where it is a crime for a man to hit his wife or his children. That is the accusation before us today." More nods, this time accompanied by the murmur of righteous anger. Dacey Tavish scowled at his boots.

She could see that she had won their interest, if not their hearts. Queen Regina had been quite right about the people's loyalty to Rumpelstiltskin. He dismissed it because he had done nothing to deserve it, but his very distance had allowed Odstone its prosperity. The people _did_ live well here, for all that fear was Rumple's ultimate means of ruling them.

"Mistress Tavish," Belle said, resuming her seat as gracefully as she could. "Tullia. I have heard your accusations and so have these men." She gestured to Janek and his companions. "Are you willing to repeat them here and now, for all to hear? To tell us more?"

"Yes, my Lady," Tullia said at once, her voice dripping bitterness. Out of her sight, Tavish grimaced. "My mother isn't one to speak her mind, Lady. But I will, and she'll swear if what I say is truth or lie. Won't you, Ma?"

"Yes," said Mistress Tavish, trying to pull her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. She met Belle's gaze for the barest of moments.

Poised for defiance, Tullia seemed unnerved to find it unnecessary. She took a step forward, leaving her mother standing sadly alone behind the two guards.

"My father's hit her more times than I can count," said Tullia. She spoke quietly, her voice broken with nervousness and emotion. "And me, and my brothers and even my little sisters. When he's drunk he beats my mother until she stops moving. If there's any justice, my Lady, he can never be allowed to do that again." 

Mistress Tavish caught at her daughter's sleeve, pulling her back and giving her a look that suggested she had gone much too far. Her knuckles white where she gripped the table's edge, Belle suspected that Tullia had not gone anything like far enough.

"Is this true, Mistress Tavish?" she asked, gently.

"My girl speaks the truth, yes," the woman spat, finding defiance of her own in the fear of reprisals against her daughter.

"And what do you say, Mister Tavish?" Belle asked, causing all heads to turn towards the sullen prisoner. "Have we heard the truth?"

Without lifting his head, his bound hands squirming at each other, Tavish mumbled something. Before Belle could react, the nearest of the two guards cuffed Tavish across the back of the head.

"Speak up."

"I said a man's master in his own house!" Tavish shouted, finally looking up and glaring at Belle with wild rage. "Always has been, and every man here knows it. I won't be judged by no girl."

"Yes," Belle said, and although the man's anger made her heart race, her voice sounded perfectly calm. "You will."

Without looking up, she fancied that she could _feel_ Rumple's grin beneath that hood of his. "Does anyone wish to speak against the accusations?" she asked, searching the faces of the assembled for any sign that someone did.

No-one did. No-one met her gaze at all. Belle looked to Wren again and saw her shuffling sideways to be nearer to Rumpelstiltskin, all her concentration on managing her walking sticks and her stiff limbs. Rumple looked at her in surprise, as if she had spoken to him.

"Mistress Tavish," Belle said, and waited while Tullia led her mother forward to stand just in front of the dais. "My husband has never struck me. My father never struck me, nor was I ever badly hurt when my wayward behaviour called for a just punishment." Astonishment gave the woman the courage to look Belle full in the face at last. "I have never known cruelty, and we have no law written down to guide me in this. Your husband beats you. What do _you_ say his punishment should be?"

Perhaps only the front two rows of people could hear her words. Belle sat still and listened as the whispers fanned outwards towards the back of the hall, her eyes never leaving the Tavish women.

"It's always been the Shaming," Tullia began. Belle raised a hand, shaking her head.

"I'll ask you in a moment, as his daughter," she said. "I must hear from his wife. What is your name, Mistress?"

"...Rosemary," she said, as if she could not recall the last time anyone had asked. For just a moment, she almost smiled.

"Rosemary," Belle repeated, smiling herself. "Before you decide, know that I offer you the means to choose. Whether it is a question of finding a livelihood for you and your daughters, or finding a way that you can keep your farmstead in your husband's absence, or simply a question of money to recompense you for this long neglect of your rights, I will deal with you fairly. Do not let fear for your future and that of your daughters influence your decision. Please."

"She is my _wife!_ " roared Tavish, surging forward. Janek's chosen men were not particularly fast, but they were extremely strong. One caught Tavish by the shoulder, the other scything his legs from under him with a kick. They took station either side of Tavish to keep him on his knees, then, just as they had a week ago at the crossroads.

Stars above, had it only been a _week?_ Belle felt as if she had aged a year in that week. Dacey and Tullia Tavish both looked as if they had too. She took a deep breath; now was not the moment to dwell upon her own troubles.

"Show me the law that says you may beat your wife, Mister Tavish," she said, spreading her hands. "Where is it?" She looked at the portly man to her left, who still looked as perplexed as when he had taken his seat, and to Janek at her right. He looked as if he might break into a nervous grin at any moment, and Belle wondered when that gaunt face of his had last seen a real smile. "Janek, is there such a law? Is a wife in Odstone... property?"

A gasp repeated itself through the crowd, but it was the sharp and oh-so-familiar "Ha!" from Wren that lodged itself in Belle's mind. She looked over in concern when Wren began to cough. She stood beside Rumpelstiltskin now, almost close enough for their arms to touch, and Rumple had straightened himself out of his lazy sprawl to stand rigid beside her. Without looking at her, he took Wren by the elbow to support her until the coughing subsided.

"There is no such law, my Lady," said Janek, joining her in raising his voice for the assembled. The hesitation had vanished from his voice; Belle sensed that he understood her purpose here, and that it was not to cause him trouble.

"If a man strikes another man in the street, what is his punishment?" she asked, and repressed a smirk when a wag deep in the crowd called out,

"A kick in the knackers!"

Tullia didn't even try to hide her snigger.

"A fine, my Lady," Janek supplied, his reluctant smile colouring his voice. "Depending on the injuries."

"And if he hits that same man again?"

Now there were whispered conversations breaking out among the onlookers. They, too, seemed to realise that Belle had not come here to play at justice, nor even to put Tavish in his place, but rather to open the way to change. Change for the better, she hoped.

"The stocks," Janek hazarded. "If the other man's friends didn't get to him first."

Belle nodded. That had been the purpose of the Shaming as well, hadn't it? A public spectacle, a punishment in itself, but above all a warning. A warning that people would no longer stand by and permit a thing to continue.

"Then what should we do with a man who makes a habit of hitting his wife behind closed doors?" she asked, quietly again, her attention on Rosemary Tavish. "What would seem like justice to you?"

There were a few shouts of encouragement. "Hang him!" had Dacey Tavish twisting between his guards, trying to turn around and hurl himself at the owner of the voice, who sounded like quite a young man.

"A stroke for every blow he ever laid on her!" called someone else, an older woman this time. Belle saw Martha Carter roll her eyes at that one.

"The master has the right of it," someone else said, this one no raucous shout but quietly spoken. Belle realised that it had come from the man to her far left, one of the councillors. "A curse on him."

Rosemary looked as if she might burst into tears. What a dreadful spectacle for her to endure. Belle would rather have stood beside her, a protective arm across her shoulders, but at least Tullia was there. Belle had to be above them today, and she needed to be seen there. Seen by everyone.

"Please, my Lady," Rosemary whispered. "I just want it to stop. It's not for me to decide his fate! Please!"

Dacey Tavish growled something unintelligible.

"Very well." Belle had no intention of forcing the poor woman to say more. She had been given her chance to speak freely - to speak to a spoiled and inexperienced wife on behalf of all those less fortunate. She need not do it here and now if she did not want to. "Thank you, Mistress Tavish. Tullia, what do you say?"

"I want him whipped bloody until he's truly sorry, my Lady," Tullia said at once. "But what good will that do?" She shot her father a look of burning contempt. "There ain't enough blood in him to make him that sorry."

"You little bitch," snarled Tavish, managing to stagger to his feet, bent double, before the guards forced him back down again. One raised a hand for a blow.

"No!" Belle said, loudly and sharply because there was no time to speak gently. "We do have a law for slander, for insults, for foul words. Tullia may make use of it. That is her right."

"My Lady," Janek said, leaning close to speak confidentially. "A woman cannot bring a complaint of that nature. It must be brought on her behalf by a male relative."

"It doesn't say that on my copy, Master Janek," Belle said primly, and waited until he sat back, nodding graciously. "If there is a law in Odstone then it applies equally to all," she said, making sure that she could be heard above the ongoing hubbub. "Man or woman."

Everyone fell silent. Belle felt almost dizzy, as though the silence were pulling her forward, dragging her in. Did she go too far? Here, in Odstone, where Rumpelstiltskin was the ultimate power; where they needed no army nor taxation; where they bowed before no monarch? No. It was a small piece of the world, but she could help it be a better place.

Slowly, making sure of her legs under her, Belle stood up. This time she did not prevent Janek and the councillors from rising with her.

"Dacey Tavish," she said, looking down at the man. He answered her with a look of pure loathing. "You will spend one month a prisoner in the cell here." Belle saw him brighten, the loathing twisting towards a kind of mockery. He thought her weak. Soft. "In the meantime, I will see to the future safety of your family and your farm. If they wish to remain there, then you must go elsewhere. If they choose to leave, then you may be permitted to return, if you can prove yourself capable of managing the land and your beasts."

He wanted to speak, to argue with her, but only a wordless splutter emerged, tainted with spittle. "Take him back to the cell," Belle said. "Feed him well, give him all basic comforts, but give him only milk or boiled water to drink. Not even small beer or cider. Take him," she said again, disgust welling up in her where the fluttery butterflies had been a while earlier.

There were jeers and subdued cheers as Tavish was dragged away. And he _was_ dragged, for he refused to move his own legs. Belle braced her hands against the table, not sure that she could still move her own.

"Tullia," she said. "How many hands do you need to tend the herd?"

"My brothers did it without much help from Pa," she replied promptly. "But I helped drive the herd over to the Yewtree farm three days ago, my Lady. Wren said the beasts ought not suffer, but there's fewer hands to go around now." She looked at the floor. "Since the Rot."

"I see." Belle could see Janek watching her out of the corner of his eye. He had noticed her unsteadiness, or perhaps her pallor. She took another deep breath and straightened up with an effort. "Do you and your family have enough to live on?" she asked, looking from Tullia to her mother and back. She saw that it was on Rosemary's lips to say that they did, but Tullia spoke first.

"Hardly, my Lady."

"I will see that you do," Belle assured them. "And when you've decided what you want to do, I'll see to that as well." She wanted to say that she needed them at the castle, but one look at Rosemary persuaded her against that. The woman was half broken, bewildered by the speed of recent events, and still in pain from the beating she'd received. Perhaps they would choose to come and serve at the castle, but not today. "Take your mother home, Tullia. Come to Janek for whatever you need and he will be reimbursed." She glanced at Janek who gave another of those slow, gracious little bows. He looked intensely relieved, yet almost as stunned as Rosemary Tavish.

Belle sat down, her head spinning. She saw Wren smile and nod at her from over by the window and raised her own hand in a weary wave. The old woman would probably come over and scold her if she did too much, if she wore herself out.

Wren turned, awkward on her sticks, and said something to Rumple. He leaned in to listen, then recoiled very slightly, but Wren moved faster. Dropping one of her sticks with a clatter, she grasped the edge of Rumple's hood and lifted it back a little. No-one else could possibly have seen, for Rumple stood half facing the window. Everyone in the room was busy talking, or watching Belle, or turning to watch Rosemary and Tullia make their way slowly along the side of the room.

Frozen, Rumple stared at Wren while she tipped her head back as far as she was able and studied what she saw, her hand moving to hold his chin. He didn't try to stop her.

Nodding, smiling to herself, Wren let her hand drop to her side and said something to Rumpelstiltskin. He nodded, stiffly. Wren's smile widened and then, without the least fuss or warning, the old woman crumpled at Rumpelstiltskin's feet. He tried to catch her and was down on his knees with Wren draped across his arm before Belle was even on her feet.

Seeing her rise so quickly, seeing her horrified stare, everyone turned to see what had happened.

They saw Rumpelstiltskin, his hooded head bowed over the body, very gently move his hand to close Wren's unseeing eyes.


	105. Darkness

The women carried Wren away.

Belle wanted to go with them, with Wren, but only because she could not think of what else to do. The life of Odstone went on around them, but Belle could not think of taking her basket from the carriage and touring the market, nor of speaking to the people she had planned to see today. She was numb. From her frozen tongue to feet that didn't want to move from the spot where Wren had fallen, Belle was numb.

Close by, his back to the room and facing the corner, Rumpelstiltskin had not said a word. It had been left to Janek to organise everyone, to clear the room and to choose from among the many women who stepped forward to help in taking Wren away. Martha Carter had spoken with a forced smile of laying out, of respects to be paid, of a grave to be dug. Of tradition. And Belle had nodded, glad to listen to any voice that sounded as though it knew what it was doing.

Only when they were completely alone in the town hall did Rumpelstiltskin return to her side. He pushed back his hood so that his face was at least out of shadow. They stared at one another, and Belle wondered if his blank expression and anguish-filled eyes were a mirror of her own. Of all things, it was the sight of Rumple's pain that brought her own to a head - brought a sob to her throat with such force that she had to smother it with a hand, half turning away from him and closing her eyes.

"Come," he said, taking her by the arm. Belle reached for him in return, thinking that he meant to keep close by her side while they went out into the street, but magic wrapped itself around her, stifling. Before she could even form a protest, they were standing outside the door to her chamber back at the Dark Castle. Rumple grabbed for the wall to keep from falling when he swayed. The glamour faded and left him once more an ordinary man.

"We can't just vanish!" Belle gasped, gesturing uselessly to the stairs.

"We just did."

"But--"

"I couldn't--" Catching himself on the verge of shouting at her in his frustration, Rumple took a deliberate breath. His eyes were wild. He gestured jerkily to his face, willing her to understand without his explanation. "It's _hard_! Wren's... demise... called on power that I no longer possess and... and we had to _leave!_ "

Unable to bear his agitation, Belle reached up to hold his face between her hands, soothing him with soft sounds.

"I understand," she promised, and held him tightly about the neck when he sagged against her and buried his face in her hair. "I'm sorry," she said, because she could not bear the gusty sounds of him trying not to cry. Or not to scream. Or shout at her. She wasn't sure. "I didn't realise. It's all right."

Rumple staggered, cursing under his breath and making another grab for the wall. Whatever magic had soothed his pain had stopped working along with the illusion of his face. "Let me help," Belle requested, because Rumple looked as though he wanted to flee. He did not want to be seen like this, even by her. "Come and sit." Knocking open her bedroom door with her foot, putting as much strength as she could spare into helping her husband remain upright, Belle managed to get him as far as the bed.

"D'you know what she said?" Rumple asked, hysteria making his voice shrill. Belle knelt by his feet and began to unlace his right boot, shaking her head.

"Wren?" She had seen the old woman speak to him. Seen that _smile_ of hers, a bright little girl shining from that wrinkled face.

"She said 'that's proper, then'. She _knew!_ "

"She did say that she always knew if you were gone or come back again," Belle sighed. It was no surprise to her if Wren had sensed something. Wren paid attention to people and to detail, and thought before she spoke. "Perhaps it was the curse she felt."

"Perhaps." Rumple reached down to stop her at the fourth turn of the laces, grimacing and breathless. "Leave it, love."

Belle allowed him grip her hand and help her up. She sat close beside him, on his left to avoid the painful leg, and watched him carefully pick at the tight bootlace himself.

"Was it always so bad?" she asked, making her hands into fists to keep herself from clutching at him. Her comfort could not always help him, and Rumple was concentrating hard on removing the boot without causing himself more pain. "Before?"

"Uh... no. No." At last he had the boot loose enough for comfort and straightened up. "I'll get used to it again."

When he had spoken of a stout splint, Belle had envisioned bandages and carefully cut strips of wood or reed - the sort that she had seen on some of the soldiers returned from battle with the ogres. But Rumple's boot didn't allow for the bulk. She watched curiously as he peeled back the leather to reveal metal where she had expected wood. It was a dull silver, not unlike the strange canisters that had once held his invisible spiders, and seemed far too insubstantial to form a splint. They were not bound to his leg at all and Belle realised that he had merely used them inside his stocking to reinforce the strength of his leather boot.

"What are those?" she asked, staring while Rumpelstiltskin drew the flat strips out.

"I have no idea," he confessed, passing them to her and leaning back, hands behind him, so that he could further stretch out the troublesome leg. "But it's unbelievably strong. Try to break one."

Belle did, fully expecting the thin metal to bend like lead. And bend it did, but only a very little. It sprang back into shape with unbelievable force for something so insubstantial. Rumple watched her with a wan smile. "Not everything in my collection is magical. Some are just..." he nodded to the four metal strips in Belle's hand, each about a foot long. "Curiosities. You never know what might be useful."

She nodded, suddenly lost for anything to do or to say. Rumple looked so miserable and was trying to be so brave because _she_ was here. Belle was trying to be brave because she felt that she ought to. Between the two of them, the strain was dreadful. She looked down at the metal strips, shuffling and exploring them with her fingers. Rumple watched.

"What..." She had to stop. Swallow. Take a breath. "What are the funeral customs here?"

"Burial facing the sunset," he said, too quietly. "They drink wine and pour a cup at the head of the grave."

"Should I go back and help?" Her insides wobbled at the thought.

"You are their mistress," said Rumple, gently, but stressing the words as though weary of repeating them. "Attend the burial if you must. That's enough."

It sounded so callous. But that was how Rumple had survived these long years without falling into madness, wasn't it? He had hardened his heart against sentimentality. So, in her way, had Wren. Belle closed her eyes and tried to think of what needed to be done, not what ought to be done.

"The carriage, the horses," she said. "I'll have to go back anyway and--"

"Janek will see to them." Rumple caught Belle's doubtful look and scowled impatiently. "That's what he's paid for," he told her, exasperated. "To manage in my absence!"

Pain, grief and the shock of his own mortality were sharpening Rumple's temper. Belle understood that, inside her head, and that she owed him patience and understanding. But what her head knew and what her heart understood were not always the same thing. His sharp tone brought her to tears, the sobs sudden, dry and painful.

It could only have been a few moments before Rumple overcame his annoyance and put his hand at the back of her neck, hesitating between petting her hair and pulling her close against his side. Belle chose for him, twisting herself and burying her face against his shoulder, reaching her arms around him as best she could because in that moment she had felt so utterly alone. In his arms she always felt a part of _them_ , and there was a kind of peace in that. Even in the worst of times.

She wept only a little. It was as though she had spent all her tears already, the well run dry. Rumple kissed her hair and stroked her back, saying nothing, waiting for her to sniffle her way into stillness.

Belle did.

"I shouldn't be the one crying," she mumbled, searching the pocket inside her cloak for a handkerchief and finding none. "I hardly knew her, but..." But Wren had been the one to welcome her in Odstone, to accept her without hesitation. Wren had been there to advise her and to comfort her. Wren had been _wonderful_ , and now she was gone.

"Here." Rumple tugged his black silk handkerchief from his belt pouch. Much folded, it sprang open in his hand to reveal Belle's careful embroidery. "She wouldn't want your tears," he said. "I do know that."

Belle nodded. He was right - Wren would tell her to dry her tears; to think of the living.

"Oh, there was so much that needed to be done today," she sniffed. "The market, and to order lots of logs and kindling. Candles. I promised the Fitchet women a commission for my dresses and..." She stopped because Rumpelstiltskin was staring at her, his soothing hand gone still against her back. "I know that it's nothing compared to your quest!" Belle heard herself snap. Oh, gods, she didn't mean to snap! She wrenched herself free of his encircling arm and stood up, but distance did not restore her self-control. "But we need to eat, to keep warm and clean and... _Someone_ has to think of these things!"

"I'm not without magic," Rumple said. He wavered between annoyance and sullenness. "Tell me what you want done and it will be done."

"We don't _need_ magic for those things!" Belle protested. "To disguise you, to keep you safe, that's one thing, but why waste it on... on firewood and vanishing tricks?! You're exhausted and it's been less than a day!"

Rumpelstiltskin laughed. It was neither his eerie high pitched cackle nor the warm chuckle that Belle so loved - it was a bark of sound, then another, then another, shaking his shoulders as he threw back his head.

"Less than a day," he repeated, his eyes ablaze with dark passion. "I had the power of a god, and now I can't even _walk!_ " he yelled, startling Belle back a step. It was only that inability to walk that kept him from jumping up and shouting in her face. "I had the means to reach my son and now it's _gone,_ woman! Don't you see that?"

An answering anger rose in Belle, petty and unfamiliar and born of all the recent hurts. She bit down on it as hard as she could, tears swimming in her eyes, her shoulders heaving as hard as his in the storm of heightened emotion.

"I do see," she managed, fighting fresh sobs with every word. "You've forgotten how to _live_ without magic. You're afraid. So am I! Everything keeps changing and I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or think, or feel! But I have you," she finished, her voice going weak and wobbly the moment her pent up frustration was spent. "I can't be sorry about true love, Rumple. I can't."

"You may yet have good cause," he snapped, though she could see that his heart was no longer in it either. He looked down at his unlaced boot as though the prospect of working it from his foot seemed an uphill struggle. Had he slept at all last night? "Please... leave me alone. I'll... I'll deal with the other matters. Later. Please."

By the time he finished speaking, Rumple's voice was hardly more than a whisper. Belle nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and turned to go.

The tears started again on her way downstairs, but this time the sobs were almost a relief. They felt like an indulgence instead of a torment.

The great room was in darkness, the last of the candles having burned out along with the fire in the grate, which was down to a bed of glowing embers. Belle went to the closest window and dragged back the right-hand curtain. She had tied them with string once before to let in the daylight, finding them impossible to draw. Halfheartedly, Belle grasped the mass of brocade and yanked it downwards. There was no clatter of brass rings upon a rail; she could well believe that Rumpelstiltskin, deciding that darkness suited his nature, had indeed simply nailed the fabric to the wall beneath the pelmet and left it at that.

Another couple of yanks with all her weight behind them achieved little. She would need a ladder and, cruelly, light by which to work. A few more tears escaped her when she laughed about that.

Smoke appeared at her feet, circling Belle's skirts and giving a loud, demanding cry.

"Hungry again?" Belle asked, admiring the cat's tenacity; this room was a floor up and a fair walk from the storeroom that Smoke and her kittens called home. "Come on then."

Cats were a mystery to her, but it was a pleasant chore to see to Smoke's needs. Belle almost wished that Rumple had allowed them to return in the carriage. She would have liked to see to the horses, a task at which she was more than competent. Better that they were stabled somewhere with enough hands, of course, but caring for them herself would have been... comforting. There was nothing complicated about caring for the needs of a beast.

Smoke might be rather smaller than the beasts she knew best, but the very presence of the cat beside her raised Belle's spirits. Smoke trotted along as though herding Belle towards the straw storeroom and her empty dish, her tail erect and curled over at the end. Whenever Belle glanced down, she found Smoke looking up at her with great approval and interest.

"What would you like?" she asked, stooping to pick up the enormously heavy golden food dish. "Everything will go to waste in a few days if I don't cook it, or pickle it, or... something."

A strident _meow_ was her only answer.

Two of the kittens had wandered some distance from the nest and had fallen asleep together in the middle of the flagstone floor. Smoke went to sniff them, briefly licking one before returning her full attention to Belle and the golden dish.

The breakfast things still cluttered the kitchen. Her soaked cloths were in a bowl under the pump, as was the porridge pot and the earthenware bowls in which she'd served the meal. Belle sighed, quickly rinsing out the golden dish and drying it on one of her aprons. She told herself that if she ever began to resent the loss of the castle's magic, she must think of Wren and what _her_ opinion would be of such laziness and waste.

Smoke was provided with a large gutted fish, which she all but snatched from Belle's hand while Belle stood and pondered whether or not to cook and bone it. She decided against it, on the basis that Smoke was no pampered pet. She was a mouser from a woodpile in a shed and had probably eaten far worse than day-old fish.

"That should be enough to feed five," Belle said, placing the fish across the top of Smoke's dish and carrying it back to the storeroom, Smoke frantic about her ankles and purring loudly. "For a little while."

Then Belle set to work in the kitchen. First her cloths, which she scrubbed and rinsed as best she could under the pump, before draping them over the clothes horse and putting it as near to the stove as she dared. Then the dishes, the porridge stubbornly clinging until her hands were chilled and she decided that she ought to have boiled some water for the task.

Wren must have managed such chores, she thought; she must have done these things day in and day out for much of her life, besides her work as healer and apothecary. And wife and mother, Belle reminded herself. And friend to anxious little girls who came from far away, without the first idea about how to be a good wife.

Why weren't there more tears?

Rather than waste wood by lighting a fire, Belle brought a chair near to the stove. She took Wren's cookery book down from the shelf and sat with it, opening it across her knees. There was very little in it about preserving food. She ought at least to make a large stew, using what she could so that they could eat it over the next several days. And stock - what cuts of meat she could not use completely could be turned into stock.

Waste offended Belle, after years of watching the ledgers at her father's castle; after careful preparation for a siege. But Odstone did not go hungry. She did not think that Rumple had ever taken more than he might have eaten himself during the course of a season, had he bothered to eat much at all. It was a full larder to feed a household of two for a month or so, not near enough for a working castle. It was theirs to waste, then, but she did not like to.

Today, in Odstone, she had felt... accomplished. She had done a thing that no-one else had thought to do or been in a position to do, and her nervous dread had given way to elation as she won the people over. For once, Belle had been sure that she _belonged_ there amongst them and that she knew a way to serve them. Elation had died with Wren, and so had Belle's new confidence. Rumple had swept her away when every instinct told her that she should _be_ there. Not to interfere, not to take any active part in tending to Wren, but to be seen. To be approachable.

When the shock of Wren's passing wore off, there would be questions about what Belle had done today. And Belle would not be there to answer them.

But Rumple had needed her here, and was she not his wife above all else? His wife and his true love. She closed the book and hugged it to her chest, beginning to understand that a part of the pain she felt was for Rumple's sake and not her own. He was struggling, and counting the cost of convincing the people in Odstone that nothing had changed. The carriage, the horses, the magic to take away his pain, the glamour to hide his true face... it took its toll, all of it, and then Wren... what had it cost him to fulfil that obligation?

Rumpelstiltskin never broke his deals.

Belle unfastened her cloak. It was so chilly in the castle now that she had not even noticed that she still wore it, until she warmed herself beside the stove. She fetched more wood and carefully built it up atop the embers; she would need a good heat for stocks and stews.

She had just fetched her apron from the back of her rocking chair when she saw Smoke carrying one of the kittens across the flagstones. Crouched low, the cat moved quickly and deliberately, her eyes fixed straight ahead of her. The kitten hung meekly from her jaws, even when she mounted the kitchen stairs and began gently bumping its hindquarters against each step.

Frowning, Belle followed. Cats moved their kittens if they feared that all was not safe, didn't they? Smoke had moved them once already, from the kitchen fireside to the room filled with straw. Perhaps she had merely changed her mind. Had the room grown too cold?

At the top of the stairs, Smoke paused before trotting through the open doors and into the great room. She carried the kitten to the corner formed by the chimney breast and the wall and released it there.

It _was_ a nice warm spot, Belle supposed, standing aside as Smoke slunk past her to return for another kitten. The kitten beside the fireplace wobbled up into a sitting position, slipped against the polished floorboards, and cried for its mother.

Belle still had her cloak draped over her arm. She shook it out, folded it into four and tucked it into the corner, placing the kitten gently among the folds. It purred uncertainly for a moment and then began to sniff its way along the walls. Belle sat on the arm of one of the fireside chairs to watch.

Smoke returned with another kitten, sniffed her way cautiously across Belle's folded cloak, then left again with that same look of purpose about her.

Only when Smoke had deposited the fourth kitten and stretched out to let them suckle did Belle return to the kitchen. She could hardly blame the cat for desiring a warmer nest, and perhaps one where she was more likely to be noticed by those in charge of the larder. Perhaps she would like a box or a basket of some sort?

In a week or two, there were going to be kittens everywhere. Belle hadn't thought of that when she took them from Randall's log store. She had imagined sleek adult cats slinking about in the darker corridors in search of mice and rats. Perhaps Rumple could persuade Smoke to nest somewhere else, somewhere that could be closed off and kept warm for them?

But perhaps now was not the time to ask Rumple to concern himself with a cat.

His anger ought not have surprised her so, she supposed; not when he was in so much pain. She had soothed him in her arms after true love's kiss broke his curse, but her arms were no true refuge for him. Rumple feared that Baelfire was lost to him forever - that his long search for the way had come to nothing. Because of Belle.

Did he blame her for it? He never wanted to love her; never thought that anyone could love him enough in return for true love's kiss to do its work. Did Rumple blame her for being the one to... to look him in the eye and try to _see_ him? And for loving what she saw behind the mask of cruel indifference?

It was too much. There had been _too much_ \- the loss of the child, of Wren, and learning that her husband was a man willing to damn the world itself, if it meant reaching Baelfire.

And to think that she had worried about the wedding night!

Belle spent an hour chopping, browning and stirring. She put meat and vegetables into one huge copper pan, bones and the trimmings into another for stock, and thought of Rumpelstiltskin the whole while. She chopped chicken livers and fried them, leaving them covered in the larder for Smoke's next meal. She washed and dried pans and knives, then fetched a dusty bottle of red wine up from the cellar to add to her makeshift stew. Before she had finished, her kitchen was tidy and full of mouthwatering, savoury smells while her larder had less meat on its way to spoiling.

She felt much better for it. Time and being busy had undone the knot in her chest, separating her anger from her hurt from her grief, and making room for love again. It continued to be a hard lesson for her; that Rumple preferred to be alone when he was upset. Where Belle would seek distractions to pull herself out of a bad mood, Rumple preferred to indulge it. She worried about him, that was all, because Rumple found it so easy to convince himself that he was failing as her husband, her lover, or her protector.

What black thoughts would cloud his mind today, with the loss of Wren on top of everything else?

Did he fear mortality? Hers... he'd feared that when it had seemed likely that he would outlive her by centuries. But his own? Or was it that he feared running out of years in which to find Baelfire?

Few were so wise as Wren when it came to facing their inevitable end.

Leaving Smoke's golden dishes where they were, Belle took her up fresh water and the chicken livers in humble earthenware bowls. The cat sat, watchful, while her kits slept in a disorderly pile, bloated with milk. Smoke blinked very slowly at Belle as she set down the food and water near the door.

"Your fish is where you left it," Belle explained as the cat sniffed the food, then grew exasperated with herself for feeling the need to speak to the creature. Smoke was hardly going to answer back! But there was a pleasant companionship about having the cat close by, and when Belle seated herself in one of the fireside chairs, Smoke was quick to jump up onto her knees and purr. "At least you seem happy," Belle sighed, stroking the fur beneath Smoke's chin. "You and your little ones."

The cat lay down across her thighs, then curled herself up neatly with her nose to her tail and went still, her purr faltering into silence.

It would have been nice, had there had been a fire in the grate. As it was, Belle was soon uncomfortably cold there, even with the warmth of the animal on her lap. There were embers, still, but a room of this size required a hearty blaze to keep off the chill. And that required a plentiful supply of logs, and someone to come along and put one on the fire every now and then to keep it alive.

Belle closed her eyes. It all seemed too much to face, even though her reasonable mind told her that it was only logs, only laundry, only cooking. She found herself wishing that they lived in a cottage like Wren's instead of a vast and empty castle. It would be so much simpler!

She must have dozed off, soothed by the warmth and companionship of the cat. It was dark the next time she opened her eyes, and it took Belle several moments to understand where she was.

Smoke had left her, but Belle could hear purring from the corner where she'd put her cloak down. She felt her way carefully around the armchair, then crept forward until she found the edge of the carpet.

There was still a light in her kitchen, and _that_ was a waste of candles. It was enough to lead Belle safely down the stairs and into the welcome warmth. The food smelled delicious and seemed to require nothing of her but an idle stir with a ladle.

Neither she nor Rumpelstiltskin had eaten since breakfast. They ought to. The stew looked ready enough, and there was half a loaf of bread growing dry in the larder.

Cold and tired, Belle put the kettle on the stove and laid their places at the table. Then she took down the lantern of coloured glass that she kept on a shelf for decoration, lit the candle within, and went to look for her husband.

Rumple was no longer in their chamber. Belle's heart sank at that, at the sight of his heavy cord coat abandoned on the bed and his boots on the floor. He might have gone _anywhere_ in his desire for seclusion, but she realised that she had never been unable to find him before now, even when he had gone out of his way to make some distance between them. He would be in his turret laboratory, wouldn't he? Or back in the little room that had suddenly filled up with all his clothing.

He wasn't there.

Belle came back down the stairs from the turret with a box half full of candles tucked beneath her arm. A couple of large brass and glass lanterns lay atop the candles. Rumple had clearly taken them out from amongst the clutter that had arrived in his turret; the room now had shelves and cabinets in front of bookcases, crates stacked upon piles of books and every inch of the surfaces covered with... objects. Belle didn't know what most of them were, and didn't care to investigate them under poor light.

She lit a fresh candle from the box and placed it inside one of the brass lanterns, leaving it there beside the box to allow at least a little light on the staircase. Then, her own lantern held before her, Belle climbed upwards.

There were books _everywhere._ Belle stopped at the top of the stairs with a gasp, taking a few seconds to understand what lay before her. The library door stood open and a sea of books spilled out from it, lying two or three deep in some places. She hurried through and around them to reach the library, expecting to find Rumple there, but the room was in darkness. What had been a small mountain of books just inside the door appeared to have burst outwards into the passage, while others had spilled in the opposite direction across the floor of the library. Raising the lantern, Belle could see that there were further stacks of books on the winding iron staircases and all along the balconies.

She stared. When she had first entered the library, it had seemed to her that it must contain every book ever written in the world; it had been difficult to fathom that there were so _many,_ or to imagine how long it might take her to read them all. How many more books were here now?

The sound of coughing pulled her away from the books. She picked her way through scattered volumes to the next door along, the room that Rumple had kept for Baelfire. Almost at once she could smell the familiar pipe smoke, but there was no light inside the room. The door was slightly ajar. She heard a shuffle, then another soft cough.

Almost thinking better of it, Belle knocked gently on the door. There was no answer, but she had not really expected one. Here, of all places, she was an intruder.

"Rumple?"

There was no reply. Belle closed her eyes, reaching for strength, for patience, for the wisdom to face the husband whose concerns were on such a magnified scale that she, young and so sheltered from the world, could hardly begin to see.

"At least let me bring you some light in there?" she begged, feeling feeble for all that she had tried to muster her strength. She wanted his arms, his comfort, and it made her feel stupid and selfish. "My love, please?"

"Belle."

All he said was her name; neither permission nor dismissal. Belle hesitated a moment longer then went inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the new shapes thrown up by the dancing candlelight. There was quite a draught up here.

Rumple was on the floor at the foot of the bed, his back against the footboard and his bad leg stretched out in front of him. His staff lay beside him and his pipe hung from his lips. He held something in his lap, a bundle of cloth, and his fingers toyed with it as he so often toyed with her ribbons and laces.

Leaving the lantern on the mantelpiece, Belle went and knelt beside him. His slack expression frightened her. Close to, she could see the shine on his cheeks where tears had left their tracks. "Oh, my love," she whispered, then caught herself about to promise him again that everything would be all right - that they would find the way to Baelfire. That it was _better_ this way.

No wonder he hid from her. Belle swallowed back her tears and sat down close beside him, relieved beyond measure when he extended his left arm to welcome her. He let her put her head upon his shoulder and her arms about his ribs. He took the pipe out of his mouth and laid it down beside him, beside the staff, before hugging the bundle of cloth to his chest. It felt warm against Belle's arm.

"This was his," he said. "Milah made it before he was born. Wove it from thread that I spun. He wore it the first time I held him in my arms." Rumple snorted, softly. Wearily. "Even when he was tiny he laughed that I treasured it so. He didn't understand. What it meant to me - what _he_ meant to me. No-one ever did." Belle felt him turn his head and look down at her. "No-one does."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You must be so afraid now. I do see. I do."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, loosening his hold on the cloth to shake it out and let her see it. It was just a shawl for a babe, homespun and carefully woven. Frayed at some of the seams; loved and lived-in - the humblest of things in a castle filled with treasure.

Belle squeezed him, gave him her warmth, and understood that it would never be enough. Not if she loved him for a thousand years and filled this castle with children of their own; not if he had all the magic and all the power in the world. Rumpelstiltskin would never be happy until they found Baelfire.

And so they would. Together, they would find Rumpelstiltskin's son.


	106. Warm Feet

One tiny spoonful, dropped onto the tongue. That was all it took to keep Gaston in his world of dreams; a tiny drop of magic. Belle gave it to him because it spared him pain, hunger and thirst, but she could not allow it to continue longer than necessary.

Rumpelstiltskin was indifferent to Gaston's survival. The potion _was_ his compromise for Belle's sake. It would be up to her to find an alternative solution to the problem that Gaston had become.

At least he slept peacefully. Belle could have sworn that she glimpsed a tiny smile beneath the bushy whiskers when she felt Gaston's brow.

She left the potion and spoon beside the bed and, silently apologising to the man who might have been her husband, left him in darkness. Left him to his dreams.

The man who _was_ her husband awaited her downstairs. On the way, Belle noticed that Rumple had placed a lantern in the marble hallway; another on the table in the great room; another at the head of the kitchen stairs. He had also tied back the curtains in the great room with string, just as Belle had done while he lay ill. She smiled to herself about that, recalling that he had kept the string just as he kept her ribbons. It warmed her that he had remembered.

Rumple himself was in the kitchen, just bringing a second bowl of stew to the table. There was already a teapot and cups, the milk jug, the sugar bowl and the remaining half loaf of bread that Belle had thought of using for their evening meal. She smiled again, leaning against the wall in the shadows beyond the kitchen door and watching him.

He seemed to move freely enough until something jarred his leg or broke his awkward stride; it was as though his body recalled well enough how to manage with the staff. It only gave him difficulty when he stopped to think about it. But he looked so tired. Belle hoped that it would take no persuasion to have him sleep beside her tonight.

"I know you're out there, little wife." Rumple drew out her chair, one-handed, and waited.

"I like watching you," said Belle, unabashed as she went to take her seat at the table. "You know that."

"Not a pretty sight, I'd imagine." He looked down at himself, at twisted stockings on his feet and breeches that stopped short at the calf; at a shirt of red silk untucked at the front, the sleeves rolled up and fallen down again.

To Belle's eye, he looked comfortable; like a man going about his everyday business in his own kitchen, where only his own wife might see him. He had certainly seen her looking more unkempt herself.

"You look... busy," she decided, and she was glad of it. Upstairs in Baelfire's room she had been afraid that Rumple might never get up again; that he'd sit there and let the hopelessness of his quest consume him. But he'd held her, kissed her and allowed her to help him back to his feet. He'd sent her to see to Gaston, and even found a smirk when he saw that she had completely forgotten about their guest. Their _prisoner,_ Belle had to remind herself.

"You were right," said Rumple, sagging into the head chair with obvious relief. He propped his staff carefully against the table before drawing his bowl towards him. "We have to eat."

"Yes."

"Tomorrow I'll arrange for candles and firewood," he said, tasting the stew. Belle watched his face, ridiculously anxious for his reaction to her efforts. He didn't grimace, at any rate. Belle broke the bread and pushed half of it towards him, taking the rest for herself. "Workers to mend the castle gate. It'll take a craftsman."

Belle took some comfort from the fact that he had not even considered attempting the task by magic.

The stew was tasty and thick, and in spite of everything Belle was hungry for it. She emptied the dish and managed half of the chunk of hard bread, trying all the while not to keep her husband under anxious scrutiny.

Should she broach the other matters? Servants? Gaston? The farmers and traders who were accustomed to supplying their castle by magic? Wren's burial?

No, Belle decided. Not tonight. The day had been too much and she was glad that it would soon be over. Time for the two of them, now. She poured out the tea, then rose and went to fill the kettle again from the pump.

"Thirsty?" Rumple asked, puzzled.

"Water for a wash," she explained. Turning to go back to her seat, Belle saw his shoulders sink with a sigh.

"You enjoy your bath," he said, pushing away the last of his meal and leaning back in the chair, weary. "We should keep that little bit of magic, hmm?" He smiled faintly, accepting the teacup that Belle pushed into his hands. She sat down and picked up her own.

"I think you should hoard your magic as you do your gold," she said. "And only spend it when you have to." Perhaps she teased a little, but only because it was better to tease him than to become a nag.

"I like to spoil my wife." Rumple was much better at teasing than Belle ever would be. It was there in his eyes, a sparkle of warm laughter. "My wife happens to prefer hot baths to gold."

Belle couldn't deny that. She would give up any amount of gold on the promise of a daily hot bath. And if she was going to continue emptying the chamberpot, she would need somewhere more suitable than a bucket outside the back door!

"Well," she said, "tonight I'll settle for a quick wash and warm feet."

Rumple nodded. The strain showed for a moment before he banished it again. Perhaps, like her, he understood that they could achieve nothing and solve nothing this side of a good night's rest?

"Your cat moved her kits," he observed, staring into his teacup.

"I think she found the room too cold and damp." Belle grimaced. The whole _castle_ was going to be cold and damp before very long. "And unlike your wife, she prefers to be fed by magic."

Nodding again, Rumple drained his tea and pushed himself to his feet. Tired as he was, he had grown steadier on his feet since last night. He took up his staff and went to build up the fire in the stove for the night.

Belle reddened when he returned holding her small cloths, dry and neatly folded. She had been unable to completely remove the stains. Standing over her, Rumple offered her the little pile.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked, leaving her ashamed of her blushes. It was her wellbeing that interested him. It had only ever been that; she ought not feel shame about the blood.

"No." Belle pushed the cloths into her lap and out of sight. "I meant to buy more today. They came with our wedding gifts. One of the women actually thought to... Nothing I had before was as good, and I brought nothing with me. It was so kind."

"You repaid the kindness today." Rumple leaned against the table, reaching to touch her hair where it tickled her neck. "Law for our little fiefdom."

"You said that their kindness would be repaid," she recalled, less flustered as her red cheeks cooled. "Is that what you meant?"

"My debt is... outstanding," said Rumple. The copper kettle began to rattle gently on the stove plate as the water approached a boil. He went and fetched it, the weight adding a new oddity to his gait. "Let's go to bed then." He raised the kettle slightly to show her, his lips almost smiling. "Warm feet."

Belle smiled, nodding. It had been in her mind to clear away the dishes, but that would keep for the morning. A lot of things would.

Rumple carried the kettle while Belle lit their way with a lantern. Smoke was still in her corner, apparently approving of Belle's old cloak as a bed; her kittens slept in a pile.

"We'd better keep this fire in," Belle said, absent-mindedly, then held her tongue when Rumple stopped and made a gesture towards the left-hand side of the hearth. A small basket of logs appeared there. It was not the moment to pick a quarrel about Rumple's methods, so she crouched to put logs onto the fire. There were splinters of kindling in the basket as well. It took Belle hardly any time at all to persuade the first of the new logs to catch from the old embers. "There." She clambered to her feet and picked up the lantern again.

There was a new stillness about Rumple. A new type of quietness. She couldn't fathom it yet, nor separate it from the black sadness that she could see was overcoming him. That was because of Baelfire, but the stillness was perhaps Rumpelstiltskin's own self. He moved without the crispness that she knew so well, but of course he was tired. _Mortal_ and tired. But he had fooled everyone who'd spotted him in Odstone, hadn't he?

Everyone but Wren.

Suddenly, she wanted to ask if Rumple had said goodbye.

Their rooms were in darkness, but Belle had been sparing with the candles that were left in there; she toured the room and lit several of them before leaving the lantern on the mantelpiece.

Rumple stood with the kettle in the doorway to the bathing room, uncertain. He started when Belle came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist.

"Remember our baths together?" she asked. Rumple nodded.

"I was going to conjure you a bathtub the size of a room," he recalled, easing free from her arms and going to place the kettle beside the wash basin. "And make you a queen."

"I never wanted either one," Belle reminded him, sad that he wasted time on _those_ regrets. "A tub big enough for two, and a husband I like well enough to share it with. That's all."

It earned her a smile, but a fleeting one.

"I can give you first use of the hot water, at any rate."

He left her there; went back to the bedroom and began to undress. Belle sighed and poured out some steaming water. It would have been nicer to wash in the warmth of the kitchen, but better this than no wash at all. She had come to like going to bed feeling fresh, and not only because she wanted Rumple to find her appealing. It was nice to push clean limbs between clean sheets. It was luxury.

As on her wedding night, Belle washed herself with a cloth dipped in the lovely hot water. She scrubbed as much of herself as she could while wrapped up in one of the big towels against the chill, then scurried out to the bedroom for her nightdress. Rumple had laid it out for her on the bed, next to the clean cloths that she had carried up from the kitchen. And they _were_ clean, she noted when she took one to tuck between her thighs. He had banished all traces of the stains she'd been unable to scrub out. More magic. She shouldn't have let him see how the marks embarrassed her.

"I've finished," she said, strangely nervous about this disruption of their familiar evening. 

Rumple had shed his shirt and stockings and put on his nightgown, sitting quite still with his back to her while she'd covered herself up. She trusted him to _see_ her, to restrain himself should he find the sight of her unbearably enticing, but his diplomacy charmed her. He nodded without turning, bending to tug at his trousers.

For a moment or two, Belle was amused by the sight of it. If a man _would_ wear skin tight leather for the sake of appearance... But it was more of a struggle than she liked, and Rumple was not in the mood for it. She hurried around the bed and knelt down to help him.

"There's no--" he began, but Belle tilted her head and looked at him askance until he gave in. It took her only a few moments to free him, and then she had her first good look at his troublesome injury.

Smoothing the black silk across his lap, Rumple allowed her to look. It was so much worse than when she'd seen it before, while he lay ill and without his magic. It was not so much unsightly to her eyes as horrifying to her conscience. The injury had healed badly, all those years ago, and that reminded her that Rumple had been _poor_. No doctor had tended him and he had not been allowed to rest and mend the bones.

The metal splints had left their marks today as well; they'd scraped away some skin and dug into his flesh. Belle touched his knee, glancing up for reassurance. When he shrugged and tried to smile, she let her fingers trail downwards to where the slim leg kinked horribly at the ankle, a mass of scars. Below it, his foot was wasted, twisted and misshapen.

"How did you _manage?_ " she breathed, her mind still on that hard and poor life of his. "Alone, with a small child? How did you..."

"It became easier," Rumple said, slightly hoarse. "Once Bae was old enough to understand. He was a good boy. Liked to help his papa."

To think of it made Belle feel guilty for worrying so much about candles and firewood. There was nothing to stop her from tearing down every curtain and shutter with her bare hands and enough persistence; from going into the forest herself to bring back wood. Surely she could find an axe? She had choices where others had not; she was capable. Her own papa said that hardship was relative to what one had always known. In Rumple's past, though, Belle could see the place where hardship was simply hardship - where children went hungry and people lived in fear of what tomorrow would bring.

"It's not too ugly, then?" Lifting her chin, Rumple looked shy. "Might you learn to love even this?" He nodded to his right leg, his thumb tickling her skin.

"I already love all of you," answered Belle at once. At least she had no doubts or worries there. "Every inch." To offer some proof of it, she bent and quickly kissed each of his knobbly knees. "But I hate to see you in such pain," she confessed, her cheeky grin fading. "I wish I could help."

Rumple leaned forward and wagged a finger in front of her face.

"No wishes, madam." He tapped her on the nose, a playful little chastisement. "Every inch, hmm?"

"Every last inch." Gazing up at him, Belle thought, _I didn't mean to flirt._ But there was that answering tenderness in Rumple's eyes, and it would be so easy to slide her hands up beneath the silk, wouldn't it? Her fingers all but itched with curiosity. How would he feel now - there between his legs? Wiry with hair, like hers? Would it feel strange to touch him and find something different?

Belle blinked. Rumple smiled - not his wicked, teasing grin but something warmer. He made no sport of her confusion this time; only gave her both hands to help her to rise. She helped him in turn, steadying him until he had his staff planted and his legs beneath him. He moved more easily with bare feet than he did in heavy boots, she noticed.

While he shut himself in the bathing room, Belle dug beneath the bedclothes for the hot water bottle. It was a lump of chilly stoneware now, and empty of whatever magic had kept it so snug for her. Full of water, it would probably weigh twice as much, but at least their feet would be warm.

Rumple brought the kettle back with him, but left it to Belle to carefully pour water into the stone bottle. If it leaked in the night, they would have quite the rude awakening! The big cork seemed sound enough, and there was a large and clumsy lid that screwed on atop the cork.

"Magic was better," said Rumple, sourly. In this instance, Belle was forced to concede the point.

"Lotte sometimes brought up a warming pan," she said, doubtfully. She wrapped up the bottle in the sheepskin and pushed it back beneath the bedclothes, right to the middle where their feet would be. "Oh well. We have each other."

Glancing at him, feeling silly for having said such a thing, Belle saw Rumple bow his head to hide a smile.

"Indeed we do."

Without mentioning her idea, Belle left it to Rumple to get into bed first. As she had suspected, he chose the side nearest the door to spare his bad leg the burden while working his way to the middle of the mattress. How strange it was that they had made a habit of arranging themselves the other way around, with Rumple to her left. They had never discussed it, never asked one another what they would prefer. While Belle had been the only one likely to require a chamberpot in the night, the arrangement had made sense, leaving her nearest to the bathing room, but still...

"Belle?"

She had been staring at the drapes, at nothing, lost in her vague thoughts about their habits. Blinking, smiling at him as she shook herself back to alertness, she closed the bed curtains and blew out all the candles. Satisfied that she had done all that she could for today, she wriggled her way to the middle of the bed to find her husband.

It took them a while to arrange themselves in comfort. Rumple shivered until Belle tucked herself up behind him, pressing as much of her body to his as she could while their feet nestled near the bottle.

"Castle's getting cold," he muttered. Belle rubbed at his arm to warm it. Her room caught the sun in the early afternoons and she'd kept a good fire - it was quite likely the warmest place in the castle.

"Did you not feel the cold before?"

"No." Rumple fidgeted again, pulling a pillow more firmly beneath his cheek then seeking her hand to lace their fingers together. "Yet everything else seems dull now. Lifeless. Without colour, taste or..." He sighed, shaking his head to dismiss the gloomy notion. Belle kissed the back of his head.

"Tell me," she urged. "I want to understand what it's like for you."

"As though I'd been wide awake all these years and now I'm sleepwalking. Blinded. Slow-witted. Everything moves so slowly. My _thoughts_ move too slowly." Rumple's body became tense as he spoke, his shivers turning to a shudder. "I'll never get used to it."

Belle smiled, wearily. She had wondered what it was like for him before - what he saw, how the world looked to him from the vantage point of so much power. In his grim description of mere mortality, perhaps she had her first true idea of what it had been to be the Dark One. No wonder he could never keep still!

"You're tired," she reminded him. "You were tired even before you used magic in town today. Sleep."

He made a contented little sound when she squeezed him, but still held himself taut beside her, refusing to allow his body to relax. He never had liked to sleep, had he? He'd always viewed it as either a waste of his valuable time or as an invitation to bad dreams. Until now, Rumple had gone to sleep out of courtesy to his wife more than anything else. Now he needed it for himself whether he wanted it or not. She thought a while, caressing his chest and arm while, together, they warmed up the middle of the bed.

"Did you shave your bristles?"

"Not yet." Rumple cleared his throat. "I'd better have good daylight and a mirror for that. I don't remember the last time I needed to shave."

"I'll stand by with bandages," Belle promised, straight-faced. "Kiss me, then. I should know what a kiss with whiskers feels like."

"Hardly whiskers," he muttered, feeling his own jaw as he shifted onto his back to oblige her.

Distract him, that was the thing. Keep his mind away from the fear of nightmares, the pain from his leg, the panic at his broken curse. Kiss him, and hope that she was as good a distraction for him as he was for her.

Rumple tasted again of salt, soot and sage. He must have used more of it than Belle did herself, or been less careful in rinsing it away, for his kiss was salty. That quite distracted her from his prickly chin for a few moments while they settled into their familiar welcome. He cupped her elbows while she leaned over him, pleased with herself for remembering that her husband no longer enjoyed uncrushable strength. The weight of her against his chest seemed not to concern him, however. He began to touch her back and her hair, while Belle closed her eyes and concentrated on their lips, and on the strange scratch of his chin and cheeks when their skin touched.

"Well?" He gathered up her hair - she had forgotten all about binding it neatly for the night - and held it in a thick bunch behind her shoulders. "Do you like bristles after all, my dear? Shall I clip instead of shaving? Should I grow you a beard worthy of a wizard in a book of children's stories?"

Shaking her head, Belle propped herself up and brought her free hand to his face. The growth along his jaw made a faint scratchy sound if she dragged her fingernails across it. 

"It's scratchy," she said. "I don't think I want scratchy kisses." She wrinkled her nose. "It's not like that when you kiss me _down there_ , is it? All prickly?"

Rumple laughed, pinching at her ribs. "No, love."

"Oh. Good." She gave him another kiss, working her fingertips beneath the opening of his nightgown. The distraction was working; she had Rumpelstiltskin's full attention. He played with her hair, soothing himself, while Belle explored the scattering of much shorter hair that now adorned his chest. It took no more than that to elevate Rumple's breathing and to put a hint of excitement into their next kiss. So he was still hers at a touch; hers for a kiss. Relieved, when she had not even known that she was anxious about it, Belle lingered against his lips and learned about the new sensation that came with kissing him, bristles and all. She could, she decided, get used to it.

Rumple didn't stop her from reaching down and drawing up his nightgown. Belle supposed that he knew her well enough, by now, to be resigned to her curiosity; he cleared his throat uncomfortably and tried not to twitch when her hand found the bare flesh just above his navel.

The hair was a narrow line there, widening as she went lower. She had expected... well, she had not known _what_ to expect. His hair was perhaps a little coarser than her own, but not so thick. Where hers made a dainty, dark triangle, his was scattered from hip to hip. His cock felt just as she remembered when she brushed across it with the heel of her hand. Rumple tensed himself and held his breath, his hand gone quite still at the back of her neck.

She heard him swallow, hard.

"Is... all to your liking, madam?" He made a poor job of concealing the strain in his voice. Belle smiled to herself, curling up to rest her head on his chest and reach further down.

"Everything seems to be where it was before," she allowed, doing her very best to sound matter of fact about it. She would have been quite upset to think that anything had really _changed_ about him when she'd only just become used to it.

Her knuckles brushed the inside of his right thigh and Rumple squirmed. "Does this feel dull and lifeless, though? I'm sure it didn't used to."

"No, no," he breathed. "That doesn't." Another noisy swallow, then he reached down and caught her hand before it could find more mischief. "My self-mastery is something we can test at another time."

His hand shook slightly, wrapped ever so gently around hers.

"I was trying to distract you," Belle confessed, but she could not deny that the curiosity had been entirely selfish. "I'm sorry."

"It was working." His left hand petted her hair, just as unsteady as his right. "Thank you, sweet."

"Well then." Belle gently twisted her hand free of his. He made no effort to stop her, and the restraining hand fell to his side when she cupped his cock. "If you've no objection..."

"None," said Rumple, far too quickly. Had he missed her touch, these past several days? She had been content with his arms about her. Still was. The familiar weight of him in her hand stirred nothing but an equally familiar fondness in her. Her husband had always considered it an imposition to seek his pleasure with her. How different things might have been, had Rumpelstiltskin been more certain of himself and his worthiness to be loved. Desired. She had no intention of allowing him to doubt it now.

Rumple groaned when she wriggled beneath the sheets, briefly hampered by the heavy stone bottle. It was wonderfully warm under the bedclothes, close to him. Belle stroked his belly then kissed there, finding out how the scattering of body hair felt to her lips. Odd, but really no more so than anything that had been odd to her two months ago when she was still a maiden. Different, but not unsavoury. She closed her eyes and listened to the way Rumple breathed in response to her kisses, her hands.

Belle recognised the sound of his anticipation; the way he held his breath for a few moments too long before sighing it out, forcing himself to be calm. He'd be wondering if she was going to use her mouth, wouldn't he? And probably he'd be worrying about whether or not to stop her, to remind her that he would never demand such favours at any time, let alone now.

She let her fingertips play between his legs while her mouth was busy at his belly. She barely touched him - just a nudge here, a graze of her fingernails there while she had her fill of the new sensations.

He tasted of soap. Belle smiled against his skin, wondering if he had forgotten how to wash all the suds off, having been so long without any need of humble cloth, soap and water. Belle might have forgotten herself, given a few years of that wonderful copper bathtub and its endless supply of hot water.

Whatever he said about his self-mastery, his body resisted her seduction until she touched his cock in earnest. Grasping it, stroking with a thumb and enjoying how it filled out and lengthened in her hand, Belle kissed her way to the base of it, exploring where the hair ran out and became familiar, tender skin. Rumple stifled a sound and gripped the sheet to either side of him. She could picture him biting his lip, his face contorted in the struggle of being still. Belatedly, as she slipped his half-hard cock into her mouth and urged it to grow with a long suck, Belle realised that she was grateful for her husband's restraint. She wanted to touch _him;_ she was content to pleasure _him_ if it gave him the rest he badly needed. She did not want to be touched in turn. Not even for his pleasure - not even her breasts, to which his mouth and hands always went the moment he had the opportunity. Not tonight.

The thought stilled her for a moment, too aware of all the unhappiness that lay behind it. But her mouth was full of him - hard now, just as it had been the last time - and there was a jealous pleasure in that. He felt the same as he had before, and he moaned even more readily when she moved her head or swirled her tongue, or withdrew to tend him for a while with her hand instead. Perhaps his self-mastery _was_ something that required exploration? As far as she knew, Rumple had never resorted to magic when he lay with her, but he had been tremendously strong. Powerful. Had he been better able to contain himself, or had his passions only burned the hotter for his curse? She certainly meant to find out.

Her smile undid him, quite unintentionally; it seemed to startle him almost as much as it did her when the hot, salty rush began. Belle rubbed and sucked and swallowed busily, sorry that she had allowed herself to be distracted at the height of his pleasure, but Rumple seemed not to mind. The sounds he made, up above the blankets, suggested extreme satisfaction on his part.

Belle resumed her kisses, exploring her way back upwards towards his chest and the cold air beyond the bedclothes. When she brought herself face to face with him, Belle touched her lips gently to Rumple's.

"Everything seems to be in order," she assured him, and received a feeble attempt at speech by way of an answer. Rumple offered an equally feeble kiss, not protesting when she wriggled about for a while to make herself comfortable. In the end, Belle settled with her back to him, his outstretched arm beneath her neck, and her feet pressed against the warmth of his leg.

By the time she stopped fidgeting, Rumple was already sound asleep.


	107. A New Man

The bleeding had stopped overnight.

Belle sat on the edge of the bathtub, trying to let herself feel... something. The loss, or a release, or... something. There was nothing, just an empty place where emotion ought to be. She couldn't even manage to feel ashamed at her lack of pain and sorrow.

It was early yet - barely sunrise. She took the lantern back to the bedroom and opened the curtains a crack, then blew out the candle and returned the lantern to the mantelpiece. She added wood to the fire and then scurried back to bed, back to her husband's sleeping warmth.

Rumple made a muffled sound of protest into his pillow at being disturbed by her returning weight, but he didn't awaken - not even when she pushed her chilled feet against him and kissed his shoulder before settling herself. His habit of sleeping on his stomach made it rather difficult to cuddle him in the mornings, but it seemed to be how he slept best. When she was sure that she hadn't awoken him, Belle reached up to toy with the ends of his hair. It hung longer without the curl to it and the cut was rather ragged across the back of his neck. She liked it.

She loved him.

It struck her anew, every now and then; it was always accompanied by a pang in her breast that tried to mix far too many emotions into one. It made her smile yet brought tears to her eyes. She loved him. And because she loved him so, now she needed to show him that the world was a better place than he gave it credit for. He would not lose his wife because he was mortal, nor because his leg was crooked and slowed him down, nor because he could no longer shower her with the gifts of his magic. And if his wife had anything to do with it, Rumple would not lose his chance to find Baelfire just because true love's kiss had done its work between them.

There had to be a way. It would be a magical way, that was the trouble. If there was any other way to cross between the different worlds that Rumple spoke of, people would be doing it all the time. Armies would be doing it, she thought, and curled closer to Rumple's side to comfort herself. One realm was not enough for some. Given the opportunity, one _world_ might not be enough. She thought of the ogres, always in search of territory when their numbers outgrew their resources. What would _they_ give for the means to give up on assaulting borders that had driven them back for centuries and turn, instead, to another world entirely? One unprepared for their coming?

Perhaps some things were best left to magic. For some things there _ought_ to be a price.

Rumpelstiltskin had spent centuries looking to magic for the way and found nothing. Nothing but this ghastly curse of his. But things had been hidden from him as the Dark One - they knew that now. He had been watched, his legend passed from father to son and accomplice to accomplice to make certain that the world did not forget what he was about. Those men had not wanted Rumple to succeed. Would they trouble with him now, if he was no longer cursed? No longer the Dark One?

Not that he was without power. Belle thought of how thoughtlessly he had conjured up a fresh basket of logs for her on their way to bed last night. Wren's death had temporarily overwhelmed his ability to maintain his disguise, but he had still been strong enough to whisk Belle home by magic afterwards. Rumpelstiltskin was _powerful_ , however lacking he felt by comparison with his cursed state.

Belle kissed his shoulder again, then settled herself next to him, trying to go back to sleep. She found herself thinking longingly of the inn where they passed their wedding night, instead. There had been no need of magic there. A locked door, a warm room and a well-paid innkeeper. In the chilly gloom, that modest accommodation seemed more enticing than a castle, however grand.

She must have dozed off again in spite of herself. It was fully light when she was awakened by Rumpelstiltskin getting out of bed. He did his best not to disturb her, moving with care, but her sleep had been too light. Belle watched him catch up his staff and hobble to the bathing room, moving stiffly.

He wasn't a young man. It only struck her then, seeing how he moved when he thought nobody watched him. Rumpelstiltskin had the kind of face that made it difficult to guess at his age. Weathered lines but young skin. Belle had read that somewhere, about people who worked all their lives with sheep, with fleeces and with wool; something in the fleece kept their skin supple.

How many years had Rumple lived before the curse? How many years had he left to him? Belle's heart clenched at the very thought of it. Their positions were reversed now. It was she who must fear the loss - fear a life that must continue after his ended.

 _And him such an old man._ Wren had laughed about it, shameless in her delight that one centuries old could win the heart of a mere girl, and she his. She had seen something saucy in it. Belle saw a bleak and frightening future when she might be alone, as Wren had been alone.

She turned over and pulled the blankets over her head, hoping that for once the childish gesture would work and make her feel safe again. But Rumpelstiltskin's son had been only a handful of years younger than Belle was now, hundreds of years ago. How old was Rumple in the flesh, now? And now he could become ill. Now he could be wounded. _Now_ she understood his terror of allowing her to step beyond the safety of this castle without his magical protection. It was a horrible feeling!

It was because of Wren, of course, that her thoughts had taken this morbid turn. Wren, who'd been afraid of dying in pain, but not of death itself. Not at the end of a life well-lived. She had the right of it, and Belle would always thank her memory for the lesson.

To her surprise, Rumple moved towards the door when he emerged from the bathing room. He tried to lift the latch quietly, thinking her still asleep.

"Rumple?" Belle sat up, peering at him through the gap he'd left in the drapes. He wore only his nightshirt; his clothing was still piled atop the trunk at the foot of the bed. He turned back with a guilty look, smiling hesitantly. "It's so early," Belle protested, drowsiness deepening her voice. Braving the chill, she dropped the covers and held out her arms. "Come back to bed for a while."

He hesitated, drawn by whatever had prompted him to think of leaving the room wearing nothing but a thin nightshirt. Then he returned to the bed, carefully propped his staff against the headboard, and got back in beside her. Belle felt a quiet relief when he began to gather up every pillow he could find, save the one she was using, and build a slope of them to rest against. Something familiar was most welcome.

Adding her own pillow to the hoard, Belle joined him there, sinking into his outstretched arms to rest her head on his chest. She felt better at once with Rumple's arms about her. She always did.

"Where were you going in such a hurry?"

"I have a great deal to do." Rumple began untangling her hair. His patience for the task had not changed, nor the gentle care he took about it. "Where better to test the limits of my magic than my own castle?"

Belle nodded. She had feared it was something of that nature. But he sounded so much better than he had yesterday; he sounded _himself_ again.

"If you must be a wizard," she said, fingering the cord of his gown, "then might you see about feeding Smoke as you did before? Is that enough of a magical challenge to be worthy of your time?"

"Finest meat on demand." She could hear the smile changing his voice. "I accept the challenge."

"I'm sure she moved the kittens because she felt we were forgetting about her."

"Quite probably."

Belle raised herself up, wanting to see his smile. She had not had enough opportunity to see what a true smile did to his altered face. Rumple's smile became shy when their eyes met. Last night, of course; it was in his thoughts. He wasn't used to her being _quite_ so shameless as that.

She stopped herself just short of telling him that she no longer bled. It was... No, it was not a lie if she kept silent. Wren had been firm about this as well; when she was ready and not before, and if her husband became ill-mannered about it he should be left to fend for himself.

The thought of _that_ made her blush. Not that Rumple seemed likely to begin disrespecting her wishes now, but Belle had occasionally wondered what she would see if he allowed her to watch... _that_.

They came together for a brief, soft kiss. What had been stiff bristles on his chin last night was now something softer. It was becoming tickly. If he left it for very much longer then it would become a beard. Already she could see the colours growing in. Like his hair, his beard would run through the quieter autumn colours; brown to grey to white, with hints of darker and lighter hues. She could look at it all day in the right light, she thought, and realised that she was touching his hair and being dreamy. She hadn't meant to be.

"Can magic shave your chin?"

"Probably." Brown eyes gleamed with amusement and Rumple wrinkled up his nose, playful. "Or scorch the hair clean off. Shall I try it?" He lifted a hand towards his face and laughed as Belle caught it.

"No!"

"No," he agreed, tucking her back against his chest and kissing the top of her head. "Best not."

 _Let each day start and end like this,_ thought Belle, _and everything will be all right._

"Can you do anything for your leg?"

"Yes." Rumple became diffident. His hand went still in her hair. "We'll see."

He wasn't ashamed of _that_ , was he? Of being lame? Belle squeezed him as tightly as she could.

"I only meant for the pain."

"I know." Rumple fanned out his fingers and combed them through her hair. "You're too kind to an old man."

What he meant as an expression of gratitude touched the rawest of nerves in her this morning. She did not want to think of him as an old man. Belle shut her eyes, squeezing them tight while the sharp retorts tried to worm their way from her brain to her tongue. _No. None of that._

"Then you're too kind to a silly little girl," she said, when she was sure that her words would be her own.

"Woman." Rumple brought his fingers free at the ends of her hair, then dug them back in to find more knots. How he loved her hair. "Definitely a woman."

Belle felt oddly proud of that, even if the challenges she faced as a woman seemed no different at all to the ones she had faced as a girl. Coming from a man to whom words - names, titles - _mattered_ so... yes, she liked the sound of _woman_.

"I'll see to breakfast," she said, patting him on the chest and reluctantly pulling away from him.

"Porridge?" There was no smirk. No flash of teeth. Not so much as a twinkle in Rumple's eye and yet she _knew_ he was teasing her.

"I _like_ porridge," Belle said, with dignity. "It's nourishing, it doesn't burn--"

"Not easily."

"--And it was Wren's idea."

 _That_ trumped him. Rumple nodded his approval and said nothing as she got out of bed and looked for her hairbrush.

Her bathing room now sported a sparkling clean chamber pot and - Belle's jaw dropped very slightly - a steaming hot bath full of water.

When she opened the door to ask Rumple about it, he'd already gone. She could hear his staff on the stairs above, moving quickly. He still hadn't taken his clothing. Perhaps he had decided to go up and choose something a bit more practical?

Indignation gave way quickly to gratitude when she sank into the hot water. Besides, she could not argue with him about one thing; if he wanted to test the limits of his new magic, better that he do so in the safety of his own castle. Better conjuring hot water than... than...

Relaxing in her bath, Belle was quite unable to think of anything horrible that Rumple might be conjuring instead. Better a bath than anything horrible, anyway. She nodded firmly, then slipped beneath the surface of the water and stayed until she could hold her breath no longer.

Revived, and vowing never again to take the luxury of hot water for granted, Belle washed her hair with care before soaping and scrubbing every inch of her flesh.

Downstairs was cold and quiet. Belle shivered while she crouched and made up the fire in the great room, Smoke rubbing against her with generous purrs the whole while. The kittens were busy in their new nest, crawling about and grappling inexpertly with one another in play. She was already giving thought to what the cat might eat for breakfast when she spotted the golden dishes - one piled high with glistening meat and the other a still pool of fresh water.

Rumpelstiltskin did not appear to be short of magic.

"He spoils us," she confided to the cat, stroking its velvet-soft head. Doing so caused Smoke to purr so hard that she almost choked. "But we must look after him now."

Smoke dribbled and went back to her kits. They all scrambled for milk when she lay down, climbing over one another in their eagerness.

Even with the stove lit overnight, it felt chilly down in the kitchen. There was no glass in the little barred window, and today Belle could smell the rain. There was an unpleasant dampness to the chill. She grimaced, putting on her apron and clearing away last night's dishes. Wren ought to be buried on a warm day, so that people could gather and remember her without hurrying away to escape the weather. Belle didn't think that Wren would want it to be a sorrowful occasion.

She built a fire in the hearth and lit it with a taper lit from her lantern. It might be an extravagance to keep both hearth and stove in fuel, but Rumple had gold enough for logs.

And for servants to tend the fires?

He wouldn't want to be seen. That would be the reason he refused her servants now. If she argued well for it, he might allow a groom and a stable hand, a groundsman, even a gardener. He might allow their laundry to be taken out and returned, and for their food to be delivered to the castle by cart but he would _not_ allow servants inside his home. Belle was completely sure of it, and not at all sure that she could fault him for it.

Now that the Dark Castle was as much fortress as it was palace, there ought to be enough outer buildings to accommodate any number of hands. And Belle would be sure that they lived well; she had been impressed by the short row of cottages at the side of Randall's large farmhouse, cramped as they were. Gold might not persuade people to live within the castle grounds, but comfortable living might. Good food, warm accommodations with all comforts, and a wage as well. Someone would be willing, wouldn't they?

Belle made the porridge, thoughtful. There was no fresh milk, but she added the very last of the thick yellow cream when the porridge had cooked. She chose a blend of rose hip and hibiscus for their tea, and had just finished bringing everything to the table when she heard Rumple coming down the stairs. Had he been watching her somehow, trying out that magic hand mirror of his? She shook her head and put it down to coincidence, then forgot the notion entirely when Rumple came up behind her and caught her about the waist with his left arm, giving the back of her neck a slow kiss.

"I'll drop the cups!" she laughed, squirming. She had braided her hair tightly - Rumple had no difficulty at all in applying his moist lips and his hairy chin to her bare flesh. "I thought you were going to remember how to shave?"

"I did find a razor." Rumple gave her a squeeze. "And sharpen it. It's not a thing to be undertaken lightly, a man's first shave."

Jabbing backwards with her elbow, just gently, Belle dislodged him and managed to put down the cups she'd been holding on to.

"Hardly your _first_ shave."

"Feels like it." Feeling his chin, Rumple eased himself into his chair. He rested the staff carefully against the table before relaxing. "It's no joke, a razor at your throat. It needs to be done properly."

"Of course." Belle took her own seat, spreading out her skirts. "Most things do."

She caught his eye, or he caught hers, and she knew that they had shared one thought; how very like Wren she had sounded when she said that.

Rumple looked down at his porridge, quickly.

"You made her very happy," he said, stiff and stilted as he always had been when he spoke of Wren. "Not just that last day. You made her happy." He nodded and picked up his spoon.

"Our love made her happy too. She wanted to see you loved. To see you _know_ love."

Another stiff nod, with Rumple's brows knitted together as he bent to his meal.

"Yes."

Unable to bring herself to trouble him further with talk of servants, Belle made a start on her porridge. It was bland and watery when she had grown accustomed to the richness of all the milk and cream she wanted. She grimaced, but noted that Rumpelstiltskin ate as though he found it more palatable than that which she'd served yesterday. That surprised her, but less so than when he emptied his dish and stood up to pull the copper pan towards him to take a second helping.

Belle managed to hold her tongue. She had nagged and cajoled and enticed him to eat properly all these weeks. It would be unkind to question him about it now that he had found his appetite!

While he was on his feet, Rumple poured their tea. It was a vibrant red in the cup, like wine, and filled the air with an aroma that was almost _taste_ instead. It drowned the blandness of the porridge, both sharp and sweet and extremely welcome.

"Thank you for the bath," she said, when Rumple had once more emptied his bowl.

He sat back, teacup between his hands, with a smile in his eyes.

"Hot water won't come when you call any more," he said, modestly. "But you've only to ask."

"Thank you," she said again, and thought of the laundry that would pile up now that their huge bed did not return every morning to its pristine state. "I don't mind the chores, truly I don't, but..."

"You're no servant. I want to see you lost in my library and laying down the law in Odstone, not scrubbing pisspots and peeling vegetables. I want a better life for you than that, treasure. Magic or not." He laid his hand over his heart, gazing at her with those bottomless brown eyes of his. "If that means doing everything with my bare hands, I'll do it." His grin escaped, like the sun from behind dark clouds. "But I prefer magic."

Belle could only smile.

He spoke differently. It was not the pitch of his voice, nor that he bore a heavy accent that marked his birthplace, just... something in the sound of his words that was not the same as before. It was as though the words tasted different for him. Intrigued by that, and thinking with happy longing of when he had read aloud to her, Belle gave him her hand across the corner of the table.

"Will you turn your magic to the supplies, then? I haven't the first idea who you have arrangements with, but I expect they'll be very surprised when it all stops working."

"Yes." Rumple played with her fingers - weaving his between hers, lifting them, turning her hand over, stroking his fingertips against her palm. "I don't know how long I can deceive them. But the presence of my opinionated new wife should explain away a few changes. After the way you spoke to the town, they'll be ready to believe that you have me completely under your thumb as well."

"Oh, really?" Laughing, Belle sat back. "Next you'll be henpecked, I suppose?"

"Dreadfully."

_"Opinionated?"_

"You just ordered that men and women are equal under your new law, meaning that a firstborn girl takes precedence over any younger brother to inherit," Rumple reminded her. "That a wife cruelly treated should not be tied to her husband against her will. That a tenant can lose his home for conduct that displeases you."

Belle blinked at him.

"When you put it like that," she said, rather weakly. "Never mind opinionated, I sound like a tyrant!"

"Better it be you than me," Rumple said, easily. "You'll serve them. Listen to them. Let them sway your opinions. I can do none of that."

"But you can protect them." Belle frowned down at her tea, then took a sip. "I can't do that."

"We'll see." Suddenly serious, Rumple extended his hand over the table. Nothing happened for a moment or two, and then the porridge things vanished. He sat back again with a look of grim satisfaction. "We'll see."

She took note of his clothing when he stood up; she recognised none of it, and supposed that it must have been among the piles of things that found their way to Rumple's little room when the curse broke. He still chose a silk shirt to lie next to his skin, but this one was black or a very deep grey. His waistcoat had the familiar high collar, but the brocade at the front was silvery-grey in a pattern of fans or feathers; the back of it was black leather, perfectly plain. Rumple had refused to compromise on the awkwardly tight-fitting breeches, but his boots stopped below the knee and were of the sort that pulled on and off without buckles or lacing. Those were also black.

Rumple caught her staring. He gave a lopsided smile, undecided between being flattered or unsettled by the close scrutiny.

"Is... all to your liking, madam?"

"Black does suit you very well," Belle said, flustered. She stood up, pushed in her chair and went to stand in front of him. Rumple had dressed with care but his hair wanted for a comb. How many habits had he forgotten over these long years? "You'd better use the mirror in our bedroom for your shave." She touched his cheek, still curious about the sensation of the growing beard against her fingers. "I don't think we want Regina spying on you while you attempt that."

"Indeed not," Rumple agreed, wincing a little. "It would be better for us all if Her Majesty didn't find out about my reduced circumstances, I think." Belle could see the fear in his eyes, though he filled his words with dark humour in his attempt to hide it.

"I don't want Regina anywhere near either one of us," she said, no better at hiding her resentment than Rumple had been at hiding his fear. She took his hand and drew him towards the kitchen steps. "I don't know what you've done to upset her, probably something horrible, but I'm sure that _I've_ done nothing to deserve her spite."

Rumple said nothing. When Belle glanced at him, his eyes were closed.

Well, they couldn't go on without reminders of that awful day when she'd lost the baby, could they? Regina had enjoyed twisting the knife in Rumple's heart with the news of Belle's pregnancy; enjoyed it purely for spite's sake. Belle had become the pawn that she had never wanted to be in the war between the two of them.

"Did Regina know?" she asked quietly, matching her pace to his so that she could keep hold of his hand while they climbed the stairs. "That you thought you couldn't father children?"

"I hope not." Rumple gave her hand a squeeze. "She was fishing for mischief. It's what she _thinks_ I do. And now she thinks she's my equal at at."

"Isn't it what you do?"

"Certainly not!" He sounded genuinely affronted. "But it makes my work easier if people believe that mischief is what motivates me."

They broke apart at the top of the stairs, Rumple leaning heavily on his staff. He faced her, but avoided her eyes. "It suited my purposes to have Regina as she is," he said. "I should have kept her far away from you, my love."

"With all your other secrets?" Belle found that she could not accept the almost-apology. She shook her head. "No. You shouldn't."

Rumple flinched, though neither her tone nor her words were harsh. Belle hadn't known, until that moment, that she was still so _angry_. Not at Rumpelstiltskin, nor particularly at the Queen. At herself, somewhat, but mostly just... _angry._ It had been buried beneath layer upon layer of more pressing concerns, but there it was. It wasn't a quarrelsome sort of anger; she had no urge to vent it upon her husband. It just sat there in her, hot and ugly and more honest than she liked.

He must have seen the heat of it in her eyes.

"I know," he said, and perhaps _his_ tone was sharper than he meant it to be. Belle felt that she owed him the benefit of the doubt. "You want none of my protection, only truth. Well, you have it mistress. And what sort of husband am I now, eh? What sort of a husband leads his wife into danger and then leaves her unprotected?"

Belle wanted at once to reassure him; to speak of how safe she felt the moment his arms closed about her. Rumple was already walking away, holding his right leg stiffly to allow him speed over his usual grace. She watched him stride down the length of the great room, Smoke in eager pursuit, her tail held high. Husband and cat disappeared through the far door. Belle heard the fading, rhythmical _knock_ of his staff upon the marble.

She reminded herself of this morning's sudden fear; her horror of Rumpelstiltskin's mortality. _That_ was why he wished to protect her, why he felt that his love was not protection enough by itself. But Belle felt no shame for not knowing how to wield a sword or cast a curse to protect _him_. It wasn't fair that Rumple felt less of a husband now that he possessed less power to keep his wife safe!

The kittens were protesting at their sudden abandonment, tumbling over and around one another and crying for their mother. Torn, anxious to go to Rumple, Belle looked to see if Smoke showed any sign of returning to heed the tiny cries. She had never followed Rumple before!

"Oh..." The largest of the kittens flopped from the folded cloak onto the slippery polished floorboards and pushed its way upright. It turned blue eyes upwards and cried. Without their mother to keep order, the kittens could wander anywhere, and they would be so cold...

Belle scooped up the escaped one, putting it back among its littermates, then lifted the cloak and used it to cradle all of the kittens against her body. She had wanted to take them to a warmer room in any case; they would all do better upstairs in the warm bedroom, if Smoke rejected the kitchen. "Let's see where your mama went," she said to the squirming bundle. "And find a box where you can all sleep safely."

All too used to Rumple's habit of avoiding her when he was upset, expecting that he would be in his turret, Belle jumped half out of her skin when, partway up the stairs, she heard a clatter and swearing coming from their bedroom. Clutching the kittens in the cloak, she ran as best she could the rest of the way up to the little half-landing and the bedroom door.

Rumple was by the window, dripping from chest to knees. The copper basin from the bathing room had been upended and water had gone everywhere, even running down the window beside Rumpelstiltskin. He held a lethal looking razor in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. He had placed a chair before the tall mirror and must have sat there with the basin upon his knees.

"What--" she began, and realised that Smoke was crouched in shadow just inside the bathing room, her fur wet and her eyes wide, wide open. Rumple put his finger to his lips, their heated exchange plainly the last thing on his mind now. When Belle nodded her understanding, Rumple beckoned her into the room.

Setting down her bundle of kittens in the middle of the bed where they could come to little harm, Belle went to her husband's side. He placed the soap and the razor on the seat of the chair then drew her to his side, pointing down at the foot of the mirror.

Expecting a venomous snake or something worse, Belle looked. The exotic brass lamp lay on its side in the puddle, beside the upturned copper basin.

It rocked.

_Oh, no..._

Rumple attracted her attention with a prod to the arm, then mouthed _guard your words_ to her. Again he waited for her to nod her understanding.

The change came over Rumpelstiltskin smoothly. A ripple of magic, a gesture of the hand and he had his disguise again, if not all of the power that it threatened. Belle couldn't help noticing that the stubble remained across his jaw, but it was well hidden by the greenish-grey colouring and the texture of the flesh. A person would need to look closely - or kiss him - to notice the aberration.

He gave Belle his staff, nodding for her to place it out of sight behind the wardrobe, then stood with his hand resting on the back of the vacated chair to keep himself steady. Even to Belle, who knew better, he appeared relaxed to the point of insouciance.

"I fear there's been a mishap in your chambers, my dear," he said, his voice rich with the relish of his pantomime. She couldn't tell whether that relish was feigned or real, either. "Our friend the genie seems to have lost his way."

"Oh, dear," Belle said, returning to his side. "He's inside the lamp?"

"Oh, yes." Rumple made a flicking gesture and the lamp rocked on its rounded side, just as if he had prodded it with a toe. "If he's lucky, everything fitted," he said, nastily.

_"Release me, Dark One!"_

It was such a _small_ voice to sound so terribly angry and imperious. The lamp rocked again with increased urgency and the lid fell off.

Belle couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing.


	108. Wishes

"I _demand_ that you release me!"

There had been a story about a genie in the book that Rumple had read to her on their travels. Nothing had been mentioned about them having such fierce tempers!

"Do we have to rub his lamp?" Belle asked, trying not to giggle.

"I'll thank you not to rub anything of his, wife," Rumple shot back, grinning at her. His grin only widened when it took Belle a moment or two to catch his saucy implication. "You were warned, genie. Spy on my wife's bedroom and..."

"I obey my Queen!" shrieked the occupant of the lamp. Belle saw a tiny figure attempt to run at the hole where the lid had fallen away, only to bounce back into the depths of the lamp with a cry of frustration. A flicker of blue light covered the gap for a moment or two before it faded. It reminded Belle of the barrier that had occasionally kept her from ascending the stairs to Rumpelstiltskin's workroom.

 _"Regina_ sent you?" Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin was intrigued. He nodded to Belle to pick up the fallen lamp. Nervously, holding it as lightly as she could by the handle, Belle lifted it and held it at arm's length. She felt the genie tumble inside when she righted the lamp, but it sounded as though his fall had been cushioned by something soft.

"Did she know what would happen to you?" she asked, tilting the lamp slowly so that she could see inside. She could see only the suggestion of a tiny human figure, and cloth of gold where his outfit caught the light.

There was no reply. Belle tilted the lamp still further, and saw the little man land neatly on his feet just in front of the invisible barrier at the hole. He put his hands on his hips and glared up at Rumpelstiltskin.

_We must look like giants._

"You aren't from one of those places where women are seen and not heard, are you?" Belle asked.

The genie turned his head and gave her a cool look.

"If he was, my dear," Rumple interjected, "I'm sure that Regina has cured him of it."

"You are unfit to speak her _name_ , Dark One," complained the genie, but with dwindling fire. He appeared to be realising the enormity of his situation. So to speak. Belle felt her lips trying to twitch back towards a grin and schooled her expression fiercely.

"Well, it's not the name I'd have given her," Rumple said, easily. "Charming little thing she was. 'Regina'. Rather a lot to live up to, isn't it? How's she doing? Kingdom in ruins yet?"

"My Queen rules with strength and wisdom," declared the genie.

"Really? Where did she find those?"

The more Rumpelstiltskin provoked the genie, the less the tactic succeeded. Belle heard a soft grunt of disappointment as her husband realised the same thing. "No matter," he said. "I believe a cat was mentioned."

"You're not feeding him to Smoke," Belle said. She had seen the genie's slight flinch away from the hole - he was ready to hide in the depths of his lamp at the first sign of danger.

"Yes, yes, you're right. Who knows what it would do to her kittens." Rumple pointed a black-nailed finger at the lamp. "Do you still have the power of wishes, genie?"

For an answer, his expression mocking, the tiny figure held up both arms, flexed, fists clenched. "Ah," Rumple said. "Pity."

"I don't understand." Less cautious now that it seemed the genie could not leave the lamp, Belle placed it in the palm of her left hand. It didn't seem polite to wobble the genie about at arm's length.

"A genie is slave to his lamp, my dear." Rumple tapped his fingernail against the brass, causing the genie to wince. "His bondage is signified by a cuff around each wrist. Our intruder seems to have lost his."

"Good," said Belle. "We have more than enough magic around here."

"Yes, but..." Rumple tailed off into thoughtful silence. "Only a wish could have freed him." They watched the genie draw himself up proudly, defiant. "Ahhh." Rumple nodded, as though he had solved some great and satisfying puzzle. "I know this tale. A customer wished you free and then used their second wish to give you the use of the third and final wish. Yes?"

The genie scowled, but Belle could see that Rumple had hit the mark. "That never ends well," Rumple said, satisfaction becoming a crowing smugness. "I wondered how you ended up trapped in the mirrors, genie." He giggled. It was somewhat less grating than the old giggle, but every bit as cold. "That must have been a _very_ foolish wish you made."

"Do you have a name?" Belle asked. The genie shrugged.

"I had one once. Does it matter now?"

"Names always matter," Rumple said, smoothly. "How about we just give him to the kittens, my dear? It takes practice to become a skilled mouser. He's about the right size."

Belle turned to look at the bed. Smoke, the fur of her head and left flank soaked and matted, had found her kittens there and was anxiously collecting them into a group near the pillows. Every time she put one down, another was already halfway down the bed.

"No," Belle said, very firmly.

Rumple shrugged. He addressed the genie almost apologetically.

"My wife is a gentle soul." He reached over and gave the lamp a resounding flick. "Consider yourself fortunate that I find you in her quarters and not mine."

 _Her quarters and not mine._ She forced herself not to look at Rumple. He always chose his words with care, and had warned her to guard her own words in the presence of this... man.

"Why _did_ you come?" Belle demanded, not liking the thought that she might have been scantily clad before her mirror when the genie arrived. "You knew what would happen to you."

"Yes." Rumple drummed his fingers on the back of the chair, thoughtful. "You said that you obey your Queen. Would you obey her if she commanded that you set yourself on fire? Gnaw off your own leg?"

The genie did not answer, but his openly defiant glare was gone. He folded his arms and stared sulkily into the middle distance. Belle recognised something in the angry stance; it was almost pride.

"He loves her," she said, and the sentence began triumphantly and ended sadly. "That's why he made a foolish wish. Who wouldn't?"

"You, for one," Rumple snapped, and it was no pretence. "Nor I. Put his lid on tightly and leave him with the cats a while. He'll talk when he gets seasick enough."

"No! What if he still has some magic?" Belle turned the lamp back the right way up, careful to give the occupant an easy landing from his tumble. She stooped to retrieve the lid and pressed it back into place. "He might hurt the kittens." Smoke seemed happier now that she had her kittens close to her. She had both her front paws around the neck of one and was licking it. "Can't we just send him back to Regina?"

"Possibly." Rumple gave another shrug when Belle pulled the lamp protectively against her body. "Once he's told us why she sent him. I'm more interested in how my little spell to guard your mirror broke _his_ wish magic."

"That's impossible!" came the muffled cry from inside the lamp. "Not even the Dark One has that power!"

"I know." Stretching out his hand, concentrating a moment, Rumple conjured... a large, round birdcage. Its decorations rather resembled those of the lamp, brass and foreign-looking. There was a swing suspended from the top. Belle stared at it.

"You can't put a man in a--"

"Tiny man, tiny prison." Opening the small door, Rumple indicated that she should put the lamp inside. "I can't lock him in the cells, my dear," he said, exasperated. "He'd fit through the bars." When Belle continued to stare, he sighed and waggled his fingertips over the cage. Several miniature silken cushions appeared, almost covering the floor of the cage. There was also a low table, complete with pewter plate, jug and goblet.

Reluctant, but not wanting the genie running loose in her home, Belle removed the lamp's lid again and inserted the lamp itself into the cage. She laid it on its side with great care, next to the cushions.

"You can come out now," Rumple called, enjoying himself. "I'm sure my wife will remember to feed you, if you require food. Do you?"

Emerging warily, stepping over the lip of brass and keeping one hand on the lamp, the genie looked around his prison. He appeared resigned upon seeing silken luxury surrounded by brass bars. Belle supposed it was more or less what he was used to. But the little man became incandescent with fury when he glanced up and saw the quaint little swing.

"A birdcage?!" he yelled. "This is intolerable, Dark One!"

"It's better than the inside of a cat," Rumple snapped. "Particularly if you're still immortal."

"I'll... put him in the kitchen," Belle said, resigned to the situation for now and keen to remove the genie from her husband's sight. Rumpelstiltskin shut the little door and conjured an unnecessarily large padlock to secure it, dangled the key on one of Belle's ribbons before pocketing it, and smirked at the genie.

Belle took the cage from him by its brass hook. "You'd better finish what you were doing, husband," she said, tartly, nodding to the razor and the soap. Rumple was far too puffed up with his own clever cruelty. Beard or no, she had no intention of kissing him again until he stopped being insufferable.

"Free me," the genie urged the moment they were out of earshot. Belle glanced down to see him gripping the bars to steady himself as the cage swung in her hand.

"You can go back to Regina for all I care," she said, even more annoyed with the intruder than she was with her husband. "But you'll have to tell us why she sent you."

"Would you ask a man of honour to betray his mistress?" the genie asked, his false sincerity so syrupy that she almost laughed again.

"Mistress, or lover?" Belle glanced down again. If lover, then both the genie and Regina were now _seriously_ inconvenienced. "You do love her, don't you? I was right?"

"She sets the stars in their courses," the genie sighed, shamelessly playing to what he perceived as an opening in her defences. "And her beauty is like no other. I would cross a desert without water just to kiss the hem of her garment." He rested his head against the bars, his expression dreamy.

"Don't talk nonsense," Belle said. "If you're immortal it wouldn't mean anything, and if you aren't you'd die."

The genie feigned a pout. "I took you for a romantic, my Lady."

"Oh yes." Belle nudged open the door of the great room with her elbow, careful not to bang the cage on her way through. "But I'm not a fool. Regina seems to think otherwise."

"On the contrary!" Sensing that he would not win her over by tugging at her heartstrings, the genie gave up the wistful tone of voice. "Her Majesty thinks most highly of you. It astonishes her that the heart of the Dark One could be won by one so..." he hesitated, and Belle tried to guess which word he would opt for. "Pure," he said, graciously.

Belle kept one hand on the wall while she descended the dark stairs to the kitchen.

"Who says that I've won his heart?" she asked, distractedly, while she looked around the room for a place to put the cage.

"Her Majesty!"

"Ah." Belle nodded, placing the cage carefully in the middle of the kitchen table. She did not want him there while she ate her meals, but it would do for now. "Her Majesty who murdered her husband. I'm sure she's an expert on love."

Where did _that_ bitterness come from? Irritated at herself, now, Belle turned her back on the cage and made a show of adding wood to the fire. If she had a prisoner - _another_ prisoner - then she would keep him comfortable.

"Her Majesty's hands are unsullied," the genie said after a while. He spoke so quietly, so soberly, that Belle paid attention. She stood up and turned to look at him. He remained at the bars, watching her.

He was quite a handsome man, she realised. A neat, dark beard made his slim face seem more severe than he might have looked without it. His skin was of a shade that Belle had never seen before, a warm and sun-kissed shade of light brown that had, just perhaps, a sheen of greenish gold to it. She could believe that, slave to his lamp or not, the genie retained some of his magic.

"It was the Princess Snow then?" she asked, planting her hands on her hips. "She murdered her father to obtain the throne, when everyone in the world knows that he would have made her Regent and stepped aside in another few years, for Snow to learn how to rule before he passed on and left her as Queen?"

The genie looked startled. Even disturbed. He hadn't known that at all. Why not? Belle had not exaggerated; everyone in the world knew that Leopold groomed his only child to rule after him.

"It was he who freed me," said the genie, avoiding her question. He let go of the bars and glanced in turn at each of his wrists. "He who surrendered his wishes so that the third might be mine."

"King Leopold?"

"I thought no man capable of the sacrifice. None."

"They say he was a wise king."

"And a foolish husband." The genie turned to regard his new living quarters. "But they say that no man can serve two mistresses, don't they? The King served his kingdom. Not his wife. Both, of course, are beautiful."

"Is that why Regina is so unhappy?" Curious in spite of herself, Belle returned to the table and drew out a chair. She sat down, studying the genie as he picked his way among the silk cushions, moving one or two of them. He dressed like royalty himself, but the royalty of a faraway land. He showed more skin than was common in the lands that Belle knew, but he did not appear to be cold. "She speaks of marriage..." Belle paused, remembering and smiling wryly to herself. "As you speak of being the slave of the lamp."

"Your marriage fascinates her."

"Yes, I know."

Sighing, the genie sprawled amongst the cushions. He moved with such lightness and grace. It reminded Belle of Rumpelstiltskin.

"If you must know, she found herself able to see through the other mirrors here when everything in this place has long been clouded for her. Yesterday."

"They're covered," Belle pointed out, quickly.

" _Hear_ , then." The genie gave her a dark look. "But she couldn't see through yours and so--"

"So she ordered you to peek and you did." Belle rolled her eyes. "Because you're in love with her." She placed both hands on the table, palms down. They were trembling, though whether with excitement at this small mystery or some other emotion she could not decide. "You know, I'm beginning to think that when a person gains magic, they lose a proportionate amount of good judgement and clear thinking."

"It's certainly true of wishes," agreed the genie, airily. "She won't be pleased that he trapped me."

"I imagine not. Do you spy on many women's bedchambers for her?"

Amazed at herself again, Belle made a face. Was this her anger taking hold of her words in subtle ways, since she had denied it the direct path? A different thought distracted her and she narrowed her eyes. "You lived inside the mirrors?"

"Existed would be a better word." The genie sounded bored now. Glum.

"All mirrors?"

"All are... were... within my reach, yes." Without any warning at all, the tiny man kicked a cushion clear across the cage.

"Regina's mirrors?"

"What?" Impatient, he sat up and shot her a dark look.

"Did you see what happened when Sir Gaston came to Regina's chamber a few nights ago?"

The genie hesitated, a resentful scowl turning his handsome features quite harsh. He did not want to confess to spying upon his own mistress as she slept, but...

"I warned her before he could strike," he said, with grudging pride. "An assassin in her very chambers! The guards were whipped before they were executed." He spat. Or pretended to. Either way, Belle disapproved of his manners.

"What does she want so badly in _my_ bedchamber, then?" Belle returned his scowl. "The business of marriage is hardly a secret, is it? What's she expecting?" She leaned forward to whisper, loudly, worried at how much she was enjoying this. "That the Dark One tells his blackest secrets to me when he's had his wicked way? Or is she _still_ fishing to find out if I'm with child yet?"

That was it. The genie looked away too fast, adopting a pose far too casual - chin on his hand as he sprawled in the silks.

"Well," Belle said, her dark humour deserting her for something much colder. "When we send you back - _if_ my husband will send you back, because he likes to keep his word and he _did_ promise you the cat - you can tell Regina to mind her own business."

"If the Dark One gets a child on you," said the genie, "it's everyone's business."

Belle's eyes widened. She was insulted and surprised at once. Gaston had said much the same thing to her, albeit with more gentlemanly language.

"Why do men always make it sound as if the husband does all the work?" she wondered, then held up a hand. She definitely did not wish to hear the genie's reply. "Why would it matter? The Dark One's child?"

"You can't be so naïve. A child born with his power? Even the possibility is... alarming. A family, a _dynasty_ of Dark Ones. He's but one. How many would his descendents be?"

Belle stared at him. Rumpelstiltskin was several hundred years old. If a _dynasty_ was what he desired, he surely would have begun long ago. Had many wives! Concubines! Bedded the weeping maids! He had not done any of those things and Baelfire, born before he was ever cursed, was his only child. The only child he wanted, here and now.

This genie was intelligent enough to work most of that out for himself, even if Baelfire's existence remained a secret. Was he only repeating Regina's excuse for sending him on this foolish mission? Was he trying to frighten Belle into... something?

No. Regina's interest in Belle's womb was not about Dark Ones and dynasties - it was about Rumpelstiltskin himself, and the strange dance in which he and Regina were neither allies nor enemies. And in which Regina had no idea that she was being used.

"Does she know?" Belle asked, quietly. "That you love her so recklessly?"

The genie laughed, bitterly.

"Oh yes. She knows."

 _He killed the King for her._ Belle knew it then, when she caught his dark eyes. He had murdered Leopold to free Regina. And he had never been her lover. That was only his deepest wish, unfulfilled.

But you couldn't wish for love, could you? Not for love, not for eternal life, not to bring back the dead and never for more wishes. That made sense, in a way that only stories sometimes did. What _had_ the genie wished for, with the gift of the man he'd murdered?

Just as Belle had seen the truth in his eyes, the genie could see that she knew it. He looked away.

"Do you want to go back to her?"

The genie sat with crossed legs and folded arms, and gave her no answer.

Shaking her head, her spirits low with thoughts of murder and love scorned, Belle climbed to her feet.

"Do you eat? Drink?"

He graced her with a reluctant, resentful nod. Belle searched the larder for something that could be cut up small enough for him, and came out with half a small cheese and a carrot. Taking the smallest and sharpest knife she could find, and noting that the genie had a knife of his own at his belt, she cut a slice from each, wrapped them in slivers of waxed paper torn from about the cheese, and offered them at the foot of the bars.

Grim-faced, but showing a shred of humility, the genie came and took them from her, carrying them in turn to his low table and propping them beside it. They came up to his thighs, like wagon wheels to a full sized person. At least he would not go hungry!

"Bring me your jug," she said, pointing to the table with the pewter things that were fit for dolls. "There's water, wine or mead." If Rumpelstiltskin wanted the intruder's secrets, it might not hurt to make him a little drunk. It wouldn't take very much wine or mead to make a man no taller than her hand very drunk indeed!

"Water, thank you." The jug, hardly as tall as the first joint of Belle's little finger, was thrust between the bars. She needed to take care not to wash it away when she filled it at the pump. The genie had to use both hands to carry it to his table. This done, he turned back and bowed to her without a trace of sarcasm. "Thank you, my hostess."

Belle tried to smile. It was in her nature to try to see the best in people, but the genie _had_ tried to spy upon her bedchamber! She was certain that he had killed King Leopold. She was far from certain that she ought to trust anything he said, and yet she wanted to. His voice, his manner... they were compelling.

"What did you do with the third wish? What was it you wished for?"

Straightening, his hand remaining over his heart, the genie barely hesitated.

"The next best thing to love."

It was plain that she was not going to receive a better answer. He gave her a small, polite smile and went to unwrap the top of the slice of cheese. "Now, if you'll excuse me... I haven't eaten in what seems like forever."

Belle nodded. She still wasn't sure of the etiquette when speaking to her prisoner. It made her feel awkward.

She sighed, remembering Gaston and the sleeping medicine. He looked peaceful enough, but was his sleep really any better a prison than a birdcage?

"Oh," the genie called, his knife in one hand and a hunk of cheese in the other. "There's something in that magic box there." He gestured with the knife to Belle's letter box. "A summoning spell? A portal? May I see?" The genie's eyes gleamed with interest, just as Rumple's did when he spoke of magic. Belle said nothing, giving him a polite nod and taking the box with her when she left.

Not until she was well out of earshot of the kitchen, almost at the top of the stairs, did she pull the box open with trembling hands and take out her father's letter. Why had she not checked this morning at breakfast?!

Busy trying to break the seal on the folded letter without dropping the box, Belle almost walked into her husband. Rumple took the box from her, beaming.

At least he had shaved. A thick scarf of cream-coloured silk tied too closely beneath his chin suggested that he had not managed it without mishap.

"Well done, my love," he crooned. "Well done!"

Belle looked at him, not understanding, the precious letter half open in her hand. "People speak their hearts to you with such ease," explained Rumpelstiltskin, still full of approval.

"You were listening?" And that reminded her - Regina might not be able to _see_ anything through a covered mirror, but the genie had said that she was now able to hear. Belle cast a hasty, distracted look around the great room in case a mirror had arrived among Rumple's magpie hoard. She couldn't see one.

"Of course. I wouldn't leave you alone and unguarded with a _genie_." Now Rumple's expression was of mock-hurt. He was pleased with her, still more pleased with himself, and Belle felt nothing but irritation at his game.

"You used me, then," she said, flatly and without accusation.

The bright pantomime fell away at once, leaving Rumple uncertain as to how to respond. Belle shook her head and moved past him to spread her letter open on the table. She wasn't angry enough about it to pick a quarrel; she only wished to be spared his glee at learning the genie's secrets.

"Your father," Rumple said, his voice reedy with nervousness. "He's well?"

"I hope so." Belle ran her finger along the lines, fancying that she could touch her father in his penmanship. "He invites us to his wedding."

She had turned Rumple wretched with a hint of her disapproval and snappishness. That was a power that she had never sought - to chide her husband, to secure her own way in so very many things. And so easily. Yet she no longer sensed that he allowed it for fear of losing her. That would be terrible, but he was as certain of her now as one person could be of another. A loving wife did not need to _like_ everything about her husband, Belle thought. She thought of her father and the Lady Marcelle, knowing the journey that they were about to begin together. Belle and Rumple were only a little further down the road themselves.

"I don't mind playing my part," she said, turning back to him and speaking with a bright cheer that she did not feel. But she wanted to. "Helping you. Just not without knowing. There's no need to trick me, too."

He nodded, big-eyed and quietly anxious. It had become so ordinary for him, hadn't it? Using the entire world as his game board and the people as his pieces? And he enjoyed it. Perhaps it did not occur to him to behave otherwise, until she objected?

She sought for an easier topic.

"What's under the scarf?"

Rumple's hand went to his throat faster than comprehension reached his face.

"It might have been worse," he mumbled, allowing Belle to move his hand, then to untie the decorative knot in the silk and reveal what lay beneath.

He was right. It might have been worse. A nick or two, the blood already dried, and the flesh beneath his chin raw, red and bumpy. Belle touched it, wincing in sympathy.

"That's what you get for not paying attention to what you're doing, and for spying on me," she said, and rose on her tiptoes to give him a brisk kiss on the lips. "But you didn't feed him to the cat. Thank you."

Rumple blinked, still looking hunted. He was hardly keeping up with her moods. Belle could hardly keep up herself!

"I quite like the cat," he said, with a weak effort at one of his childish voices and the slight wrinkling of his nose. "Wouldn't want to give her indigestion."

They stood and looked at one another, neither in any hurry to speak. At last, Belle tore her gaze from his and cleared her throat, pointing down at his boots.

"How are you walking without your staff?"

Rumple gave an almost apologetic shrug. "Magic." He shifted his feet with no sign of pain. "I must give them a good show in town today."

Belle nodded. She took him by the hands, one and then the other, and let herself be comforted by his touch.

"I wish that there was no need to deceive them." She snorted, shaking her head quickly. "I _know,"_ she stressed, rolling her eyes. "No wishes. But I do wish that it could be that way. Open and honest."

He brought her hands up to his face and kissed them.

"If my enemies see weakness they will come, just as Regina tested the weakness in the mirrors," he said, his breath warm against her knuckles. "I can't keep her or anyone else from spying on us out there." Rumple nodded to the window and the world beyond the castle. "Not now. I'll not give up my hope of finding Bae, sweetheart. Not even for you." The sadness in his eyes could have drowned her. "Know that."

"I do," Belle whispered, not knowing whether it was his warning or his pain that made her throat hurt and her eyes sting. His sorrow tore at her in ways that sorrow of her own never could. "I'd never ask you to."

Quickly, afraid that she would shed real tears if she went on gazing at him, Belle turned back to the letter on the table. "We'll go to the wedding as the Dark One and his Lady, and keep all your secrets. But if you're unkind to the bride, I'll... I'll kick you, Rumpelstiltskin!"

It was such a silly, childish threat; Belle laughed at herself at once, and heard Rumple laugh too as he embraced her from behind.

"Well, you know the monster's weaknesses," he said, touching his lips to the back of her neck. It was much nicer without the bristles. "The Dark One will be gracious." He kissed her neck again, slowly this time. "I promise."

Belle nodded, feeling goosebumps all over when his warm lips brushed her skin. The embrace was otherwise chaste, his hands clasped beneath her ribs and perfectly still. He did not press himself against her back, yet she recognised a husband's sweet desire for affection. For more. She folded her arms over his, straightening her back. 

"Wren, um..." She had to stop - to discover for herself where the thought was going before she tried to share it with him. Their secrets were to be kept from the world, not from each other. Even ones that she found so, so difficult to speak of. She should tell him of her intentions, her wishes, so that he did not wonder and worry. "She showed me how to make a medicine. So that no child starts."

Rumple tensed, the topic quenching his ardour as easily as it did hers. "Yes?"

"I'll begin to take it when... when I'm ready." The hint of a question crept in at the end of her statement. Slowly, Rumple let her go and moved his hands to her shoulders.

"When you're ready." With the same exaggerated care and slowness, he kissed the back of her head. "Always, my darling." Another kiss, this one lingering with gentle reverence. "As it should have been from the beginning."

Surprised out of her uncertainty, Belle turned around and tilted back her head to look up at him. She could see the strain again. His changed eyes left him nowhere to hide his pain. The furrows in his brow were so deep.

"I thought we'd forgiven each other for that." She took him by the waist, trying to coax a little smile from him with one of her own. "I think we made the best of it, don't you?"

Rumple shook his head.

"I've done so much wrong. From the beginning. You've deserved so much more, Belle." While Belle watched him with aching compassion, Rumple's lips moved slightly in the struggle for words. "I don't... I must be your husband, but I'm still..." He tailed off, shoulders drooping. He pointed to his own chest, sighed, then let the hand fall.

Belle almost laughed with sheer relief. He felt it too! That pull, that _conflict_ that had nagged at her since the moment of her wedding! How to be Rumpelstiltskin's wife and yet be _Belle_ as well. As his less pleasant habits distressed and irritated her, her naivete and obstinate trust in everything frustrated and frightened him. It was who they were, each of them, and there was that _conflict_ between their nature and their role. Their wishes and their duty. Their lonely selves and their true love!

Why had she thought that it was she alone who felt it? Surely every husband and every wife had known it, whether thrown together as strangers or come together gladly after a courtship.

Standing on her tiptoes, Belle kissed Rumple's freshly shaven cheek. He smelled of olive soap and, very very faintly, of blood.

"We've both done things wrong." She kissed the other cheek, feeling him catch lightly at her waist as she did so. "And not done things that we should have. We're learning." Overcome with some tearful emotion, brittle but not painful, Belle put her arms around her husband's neck and hung there until he embraced her, stooping a little to accommodate the determined hug. "It's an adventure, isn't it?"

To Belle's relief, Rumple chuckled in her ear and pulled her more tightly against him.

"It is that, treasure," he said, still laughing. He sounded relieved. "It is that."


	109. Wren

The rain stopped before they left the castle.

Belle had been expecting to go out to the carriage, but Rumple merely took her by the arm and whisked them from the marble hall to the well at the crossroads. He gave her a smile, reaching inside the wide sleeve of her velvet cloak to put his arm across her back. She didn't have the strength to scold him for startling her. Not now. She wondered if Rumple had meant to bring her to the very spot where she had first met Wren.

"They'll gather at the tavern when it's time," he said, gesturing vaguely up the road. "Why don't you go and look for your dressmakers?"

"I don't think I can face talking about dresses today. I've never wanted to run away from a duty before in my life."

Rumple tightened his arm. "Lucky for me."

She had to smile. Though she felt full up to the brim with sadness, she had to smile at the warmth in Rumple's voice. Yes, marrying him had been a duty. It had never once occurred to her to run away from it. Belle would have run home now, were it not that she wanted to pay her respects to Wren.

"The tavern will suit my purposes," Rumple announced. "I can speak with the traders there, and leave messages for others. My contracts were made with their fathers and grandfathers."

"Do you even know their names? Whose hens lay our eggs?" The teasing distracted her as they began to walk up the street towards the tavern.

"I have no idea. But Janek does." The idea appeared not to trouble Rumple one bit. Shrugging, Belle leaned in closer to him. They were both wrapped up against the cold, but she shivered anyway and was glad of his arm about her.

Rumple wore no hood about his face, today. He was stronger now - confident of his magic holding up under scrutiny. Did he perhaps walk with just the trace of a limp? Belle hadn't been able to decide before they stopped outside the tavern, where the door was hastily opened for them.

"My wife is cold," was all Rumple needed to say; Belle was ushered inside at once by the woman she'd seen behind the bar in the past, and space made for her beside the fire. A number of other women were already there, occupying a haphazard semicircle of wooden benches, and she was relieved to see the familiar faces of Elsa Fitchett and Martha Carter among them. There was a sense of welcome by the fire, where the rest of the tavern seemed full of a nervous respect from the menfolk.

Rumple spoke quietly with Janek, who nodded gravely. Belle turned to face the welcome fire, hoping that her husband's discussions would result in food and firewood that arrived at the castle by cart instead of by magic.

"My Lady?" Elsa sounded uncertain - she had said something while Belle was distracted. Oh dear!

"I'm sorry, Elsa." She gave the circle of watchful women a nervous smile. "What was it you said?"

"A drink, my Lady?" Elsa proffered an empty cup and a ladle. Belle realised that there was a pot of mulled wine on the hearthstone and that the women had been sharing it before she joined them.

"Thank you," she said, and watched the relieved girl fill the cup. When Belle took it, it warmed her hands beautifully.

"To Wren, then," Martha said, raising her own cup. Half a dozen voices echoed the toast and everyone drank, their smiles as unsure as Belle's own. "I never knew the master come to a funeral," Martha observed in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning across the others. Belle hadn't the heart to tell her that, as quietly as she had spoken, Rumple at the height of his powers would have been able to hear her perfectly well. "But he brought her here, of course. A babe in arms, still bloody and wrapped in his very own cloak. Hard to think of Wren as a babe, ain't it?"

Nervous grins of agreement replaced the brave smiles around the fire. Belle looked from face to face. She had seen most of these women before, behind a market stall or going about their business in the town.

"Would you tell me your names?" Belle heard the apologetic note in her voice as she asked. Rumple would scold her; she was mistress here and need not apologise for anything.

She did her best to remember the names, but knew that she would need to ask Martha to remind her at some later time; too much of her mind was full of Wren to do more than nod at the women as they introduced themselves. They seemed pleasant company, and welcoming enough in spite of their caution.

"We were just talking about what you said at the town hall," Martha put in, perhaps seeing Belle's discomfort at being the outsider among them. "About the law being the same for us as for men."

"Yes?" Belle looked from face to face, seeking some clue about her feelings. After all, she hadn't asked them what they wanted, had she?

"Can you really do that?"

"I think I already have," she admitted, and was relieved when her sheepishness earned giggles among the group.

"And he doesn't mind?" Martha made the smallest of gestures in the direction of Rumpelstiltskin's voice.

"I don't think so. But he enjoys mischief," Belle conceded, carefully. "And that isn't what I have in mind."

"Wren said you knew your own mind." Laughing, Martha emptied her cup and sat back as far as the bench would allow. "We lost too many of our lads." Her voice became quiet and serious, all at once. Belle thought of the little boy she'd once seen outside Martha's cottage and her insides twisted. "Time the lasses could speak up for themselves."

"We've always spoken up for ourselves," Elsa muttered. "It didn't do any good, that was all."

The circle of women seemed to agree with her, exchanging nods and dark looks.

"It did for Lulie," someone said. Belle turned her gaze to a dark-skinned woman whose salt-and-pepper hair made it impossible to guess at her age. She had called herself Aubrey, hadn't she? "She told the mistress her troubles and now her troubles are gone." She gave Belle a proud nod.

"Her troubles are locked up behind the town hall," Martha said, sounding bossy and disapproving. "Can you really take his land, my Lady?"

In every practical sense, Belle knew that she could. Imprisoned, Dacey Tavish would not pay whatever rent was due this month and she could simply order Janek to evict him because of it. It wasn't fair. It probably wasn't right, but it _would_ work.

"I don't want his land," she explained, uncomfortably. "But I will act fairly if his wife does want to stay. It's her home - the rent has come from her livelihood and her labour as well as her husband's. She should have the choice and still be kept safe."

"The land wouldn't go to waste if they left," Elsa put in. "There's farmers on three sides who'd fight for just a share of it. Fine grazing, and a good pure spring."

Belle sat, still and silent, and listened while the women discussed the practicalities of it. The rights and wrongs of it they were content to leave to her and to Janek, it seemed, but they were agreed that good grazing land mustn't go to waste, and that if the Tavish family weren't to occupy the buildings there then someone else would be thankful for the use of them. Engrossed, the conversation only just short of becoming an argument thanks to bossy Martha, the women seemed to forget about their awe of Belle.

She was glad of it. It was the people of Odstone who knew best what their town needed. Not their master, who held himself so remote, and certainly not the mistress who had come among them only a few short weeks ago. Janek might be able to guide her with his knowledge of the place and its traditions, but it was to the local families that she must listen before she made decisions.

"I reckon one of his sons would've done him in, sooner rather than later," Martha said, and Belle blinked herself back to concentrating on the others. "Jules was all but ready to swing for him, and a more level-headed lad you never met."

"If there are more like Tavish, I must be told of it," Belle said, and surprised herself by saying it. She had intended to leave all of this for a better time. But what better time? Wren had wanted her to think of such things - to see what might be done. Wren had died smiling, approving, having witnessed Belle's first real effort to set the world to rights. "I'll have no-one trapped in silence for fear of losing their livelihood or being unable to feed their children if they speak out. Odstone can afford better justice than that."

"I heard they want maids and all sorts down at the Apiary," offered Aubrey. "All the servants and half the hands fled when they learned of the Rot. Rosie Tavish used to be a maid, didn't she?"

The Apiary. Belle wondered how long _that_ secret could fester before it came to a head. Could Randall live with the silent shame of it? Seeing his little Edward each day and knowing that his selfishness had led to such horrors in Odstone? And if Odstone discovered Randall's unwitting folly, what would the people do to him? To Flora, and even to the baby? Revenge knew no reason. Not before it was too late.

All seemed to agree that Rosemary had been a housemaid to a wealthy family before she wed Dacey Tavish, and that the indoor work suited her nature better than a farm could.

"You've too much lip on you to be a maid, Aubrey," one of the others laughed, and the explosion of laughter among their group silenced the background conversation of the men. Belle turned, seeking Rumple's eyes among all those that were trying not to give the women a worried stare. Rumple was the only man among them who was grinning and looking directly at the group, although Hadley looked as if he was trying very hard not to.

"They're as nervous as a flock that's seen a wolf," Martha laughed, as everyone relaxed and the men went back to their various conversations. "Most of 'em have daughters your age, my Lady. Daughters suddenly wondering if they get a say in what happens here."

There was the faintest of questions there. Belle smiled, holding up her hand to refuse another helping of the hot wine.

"They certainly need no man to obtain justice for them if they're wronged."

More nods of approval. Belle wondered if Lulie's brother Jules would have sought justice for his mother and sisters, had he lived to come of age, or if Martha was right and he would have resorted to violence.

"Will the new law deal more leniently with women than with men, wife?" Rumple startled her - startled them all - by suddenly placing his hands upon her shoulders.

"Of course not," she answered primly. "That would be silly."

"Almost sunset," Rumple declared. The women, frozen in their apprehension, all looked towards the small windows to see that their master was right. "Who bears Wren to her grave?"

"Us," Martha said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. It was not quite defiance that she displayed, but it was the carefully tempered disapproval of a woman who knew what had befallen Belle's unborn child a week ago. "Off we go then."

Belle rose, leaving her cup on the bench, but the other women were suddenly full of purpose and it did not involve her. They wove their way through the menfolk, some of whom were finishing their drinks and their conversations to follow. Others stayed where they were, but tipped their cups in acknowledgement to those leaving.

How many here had known Wren? How many would stand beside her grave today?

"I should... help." Her shoulder sank beneath Rumple's hand as she was left behind, so clearly not a part of them.

"They will offer you the wine to pour," he said, gently, his fingers tightening among the thick folds of her cloak. "The place of honour."

She nodded, trying not to resent being suddenly on the outside of that circle of female companionship. But there would be time enough later to make friends. Today she had come for Wren's sake - for Wren who had been her first friend here, and friend to Rumple as well, in her strange way.

"Will you be there?"

"Yes." Rumple spoke stiffly. "Come."

There was a loose gathering of perhaps thirty people on the cobbles between the tavern and Wren's cottage. The door of the cottage stood open and it was possible to see figures moving within, busy at something.

Rumple halted at the back of the small crowd, his hand falling from Belle's shoulder. She glanced up at his face and saw the chilly mask that hid away his hurts.

It was a shrouded body that the women carried from Wren's cottage, on a flat litter made of sturdy branches that had each been wrapped with some care in lengths of bright cloth. Later in the spring, perhaps they would have surrounded Wren with flowers, but today they had used evergreen boughs, some of them bright with berries that had held on through the winter.

Belle's people conducted sombre burials, the body encased in a plain wooden box that was taken to the place of burial on a cart. Here, the women bore the litter at shoulder height, so that streamers of its decorative cloth fluttered behind as they began to process towards the burial ground. The rest of the gathering followed the bearers, while Rumple remained still and allowed all to go ahead of them. Whatever the local etiquette in such matters, no-one questioned his choice.

She could feel Rumple's glances as they walked, arm in arm and at a pace that allowed him to conceal whatever trace of his limp remained. No-one hurried, but the two of them fell a short way behind, until Belle could no longer hear the flapping of the cloth streamers in the breeze. She swallowed hard to loosen her throat, wishing that she had accepted a little more wine. That was the whole point of the wine, wasn't it? To free the knots of the living and incline them towards glad memories of the dead?

Did they carry the children to their rest this way? Had Wren helped to carry a litter for one of the boys, or only trudged behind in this heavy silence?

The next time she felt Rumple glance at her, Belle looked up at him.

"You worry too much."

"Do I?" His expression suggested that he felt he ought to worry more about her, not less.

"Yes."

Although the party arrived at the graveside before they did, space had been left for Belle and Rumpelstiltskin to stand with an unobstructed view of the proceedings. It seemed too narrow a grave, to Belle, until she remembered what Rumple had said; that people here were laid to rest facing the sunset.

Wren's grave had been dug beside those of the murdered boys, with those plots between hers and the sunset on the far horizon - as though she were to watch over the children in death.

There was a timid tap on Belle's elbow. She turned, startled, and saw Tullia looking up at her, red-eyed but not crying at the moment.

"Anyone can speak of her if they want to," she said, in an uncertain half-whisper. Belle managed to nod her thanks before her eyes filled with tears and her throat with dread, and she had to look straight ahead of her lest anyone see.

The women who had carried the litter were busy with the cloth that bound it, now. It took Belle a long time to realise that they were untying various parts of the construction from the boughs of wood to enable them to roll the shrouded body onto its side before lowering it, in a hammock of calico, into the waiting grave. Ten women bore the weight easily as they lifted Wren and stood ready, the streamers of cloth trailing over their shoulders and occasionally catching the breeze. Did the menfolk do this same last service for the men?

There were a few whispers and nudges, but only Hadley stepped forward, propelled by a woman Belle took to be his wife. He went to stand at the head of the grave, nodded to the waiting women, and spoke.

"Wren was a healer," he said, his voice steady and calm. "She gave freely of her skill, and of her heart. And which of us can say better than that?"

Belle's fingers had gone stiff and sore, digging into Rumple's arm. She wanted to speak, she did, but her words with Wren had always been so private. And she would cry. If she spoke up then she would cry, smother her own words and be a disgrace to both her husband and to her friend.

Hadley remained where he was and no-one came to take his place, to speak. His question had brought nods and a low murmur of assent. It was enough.

Catching each other's eyes and nods, the ten women paid out the long streamers of cloth and gently lowered the hammock into the grave. They each released the ends of their piece at once, the reds and blues and strips of patchwork homespun fluttering down into the blackness.

Belle admired the simplicity of the ceremony - the very lack of ceremony - even as she realised that it gave her more time to remember Wren than she wanted, here and now. Later, alone, yes. But here she fought every breath to keep it from becoming a sob, and the sob she fought was one of anger and self-pity as much as sadness.

Men came with shovels and began to return the piles of earth to the grave. Belle felt Rumple take her hand, but it was no gesture of comfort. He lifted their joined hands to the height of her breast, and Belle looked at him through swimming eyes, bemused as he let her go again. Sniffing, blinking until her eyes cleared, she realised that he had left something in her upturned hand - crumbs of something soft.

"What is it?" she asked, trying guiltily to remember if she had been told of anything more than the pouring of a cup of wine. What was she to do with crumbs at a burial?

Rumple's expression was like stone in the reddening light.

"Payment," he said, shortly.

And a bird began to sing. It was the clearest of sounds; a song of such liquid loveliness, and from so near, that everyone began to look around them for the source.

Fingers pointed a way behind the grave, to the marker raised to the child, Yrsa Littlehip. A wren perched atop the stone, fat and fearless, piping his heart out to the sunset as though in recognition of his namesake.

Even the six men with their shovels stopped to listen, to watch, unwilling to move in case they startled the owner of the perfect and timely song.

It seemed to last for long minutes, even when the men returned to shovelling soil, quietly so as not to disturb the song. The bird bobbed and hopped occasionally, announcing his song this way and that way, sometimes pausing, but always turning back towards the grave and its mourners, fat little breast thrust forward in boastful pride.

Belle wondered how a creature so tiny could be so loud, and how a bird knew such pure music.

She almost jumped out of her skin when the fluting song stopped at the same time that Rumple leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Pay him for his services."

Uncertainly, Belle stepped forward, the handful of crumbs held out before her.

To the gasps of the assembled, the bird darted across the distance to hover at Belle's fingertips a moment before landing there. His spindly feet were cold, his beak needle sharp as he jabbed it amongst the crumbs in the cup of her palm. Fascinated, not even wanting to blink lest she miss something, nor breathe lest the bird take fright, Belle dimly realised that she held tiny pieces of some hard cheese, and dry breadcrumbs. The wren unerringly selected the cheese with each peck, leaving the breadcrumbs untouched.

Everyone there seemed to hold their breath until, with no warning at all, the wren took flight and vanished into the gathering gloom.

Whispers began. Feeling suddenly lost, Belle allowed her hand to fall, spilling the last crumbs, and turned to look for Rumple. Instead she saw the woman from the tavern, fast approaching her with a silver cup in hand. Leather cups were being passed among the mourners and a light passed from lantern to lantern. They would not return home in darkness.

"My lady." The innkeeper proffered the cup. "Will you take the cup, for Wren's sake?"

Belle swallowed hard, understanding that something more than a mute nod was called for.

"I will," she said, as clearly as she could. While everyone was nodding their approval of this, Belle accepted the cup and leaned nearer to the big woman to whisper, "What must I do?"

"Oh!" It had not occurred to the woman that Belle might be ignorant of the custom. "You stand where Hadley stood, mistress, and lead a toast. Then you take a sip and pour the rest down where the marker will lie. It's easy."

Belle made her way around the fresh mound of soil. She felt her feet settle into the impressions left in the wet mud by Hadley's much larger ones.

Rumple had fallen back, into shadow behind the warming lantern light, but he had not done enough to be forgotten. Most had one cup to share between two or three people, but Janek sought out his master and went to him, passing over his own cup. Rumple nodded curtly, then stood holding the cup and watching Belle until all the activity settled down.

The twilight was almost complete. Belle thought that Wren would have chided her to get on with it so that everybody could go home and be warm.

Raising the cup to the height of her head, held out in front of her, Belle hoped that she would not choke on her own words.

"To Wren," she said, and took a sip from the silver cup while, among the mourners, cups were passed from hand to hand and generous draughts of the wine swallowed. Rumple, like Belle, took the barest of sips. When all were still again, Belle leaned forward over the head of the grave and, as slowly as she could, let the wine trickle into the dirt.

It was a strange farewell.

People were already breaking away from the group and leaving by the time Belle looked up. The innkeeper came over and, smiling as though Belle had made her proud, took back the empty cup.

Rumple remained where he was, a little way from the path, until everyone else had gone back to the track. Belle heard their voices, once they were outside the burial ground. There was even laughter. As it faded, Rumple came to join her, his hand seeking hers in the folds of her cloak.

There seemed no hurry to speak.

"Wren would scold you," she said, after a while. "For the magic."

He shrugged, reaching into his cloak and withdrawing a twisted stick. No... no, that was a wand. A magic wand! Belle only realised what it must be when Rumple gestured with it towards the head of the grave and a stone marker appeared there. It seemed to form out of the very air, to be drawn upward out of the ground, as though the magic had taken countless fragments from countless other places to build this simple rock with its polished facet bearing - yes, she could see it if she bent a little - Wren's name, chiselled deep. Beneath that there was a small shelf cut into the stone. Rumple placed the wand there in silence.

"That's a strange offering to leave with her." Belle drew herself closer to Rumple's side, her eyes still on the gravestone. "Magic?"

"The magic is all but gone now." Taking a deep breath, Rumple sighed it out again. It was almost too dark to see more than dull shapes in the landscape, and her husband beside her was a grey shadow. "Besides," he added, drawing Belle gently away from the edge of the grave. "It belonged to her mother."


	110. Frozen

The marble hall offered a chilly welcome, feeling somewhat less warm than the outside air. Rumple felt it too, hunching his shoulders and grimacing as he pulled his cloak about him. Belle took his hand and coaxed him towards the great room, hoping that the fire had lasted. She was not entirely surprised to find it cheerfully ablaze and ready to warm them both, nor that there were candles enough alight for them to see their way. She didn't mind a little extra magic. Not today.

Had they ever sat here together? Falling gratefully onto one of the chairs and holding out her hands towards the fire, Belle found that she could not recall. Such cosy evenings as they had enjoyed together had been in their bed, for the most part.

Rumple seated himself with more care, stretching out his bad leg in front of him. Even as Belle watched, he made a gesture with his right hand and the glamour faded, leaving him pale-skinned and haggard, his lips a thin, tight line that spoke of intense discomfort.

"You look as weary as I feel," Belle said, absurdly nervous about breaking the silence that had held between them since they left Wren's graveside. "Shall we have an early night?"

She would not have dared suggest that so directly, she realised, had her intentions been less than pure. Rumple smirked anyway, his head still bowed over his folded hands. 

"Eager for warm feet?"

"Warm everything," Belle admitted, and saw the smirk creep a little wider at the suggestion she wasn't making. "You look frozen, too."

He nodded, but vaguely, as if he could not understand why the subject held any importance. Belle felt as if her chatter was a distraction that was not entirely welcome.

"Go on without me."

That wasn't at all what Belle had in mind - that huge bed, all by herself and chilly. It was not her bed she wanted, nor even the warmth, but the comfort that could only be found in a restful embrace. As wretched as she felt herself, Belle was more distressed by her husband's grim-faced sorrow; by this air of distraction about him where his burning sense of purpose had been.

She cleared her throat, fidgeting a little.

"What happened to Wren's mother?"

Rumple glanced up, blinking and straightening in the chair, as though her presence in the chair to his left startled him.

"She died." He shrugged. "They were far from anywhere, in the trees beside a deserted road. She bled to death."

"But she had a wand." Belle recalled the simple, twisted branch that Rumple had left at the grave. "She had magic."

"Very little. And despair enough that her last thought was of _me_."

"But she must have been a fair--"

Rumple stood, quickly, then snatched for the mantelpiece when his leg buckled beneath him.

"She was mortal enough when I found her," he said through clenched teeth. His temper always became short when fairies were the subject of conversation. 

Belle subsided, doing her best not to show her hurt at his behaviour. Grief took people differently - she knew that. Some people wept, others threw themselves into a consuming task and still others made a battle of it, holding out against the pain for just as long as they were able. Anger and solitude had been Rumpelstiltskin's refuge for so long. Perhaps they helped him more, here and now, than a wife's waiting arms?

He was barely putting any weight on that bad leg of his. The pain that he had masked in Odstone now had him firmly in its grasp. Before she could offer to fetch it for him, Rumple's staff appeared in his right hand and he gave it his weight.

"I must work," he said, grimly, but something softer in him compelled him to hesitate as he passed her chair, and to do his very best to offer her a smile. "I'll see you later, yes?"

Nodding, not wanting to speak at all in case she said the wrong thing, Belle sat still and listened until his heavy steps reached the stairs. Then she got up, knowing that if she sat there and allowed it to, that small rejection would unravel her, today. 

The kitchen enveloped her in warmth and light - so much so that Belle had barely reached the table before she was loosening the clasp of her velvet cloak.

At first she was unable to see the genie in his birdcage and feared that he might have escaped, but when she stooped, Belle could make him out inside the lamp, apparently asleep among his silk cushions. He still had plenty of food, but Belle placed a beaker of water against the bars of the cage so that he could reach through and dip his jug or cup for more.

Gaston wasn't so easy on her conscience. She had visited just before they left for Wren's burial, to give Gaston the potion and to see that all was well with him. He seemed snug enough beneath the blankets, completely untroubled by the growing chill and damp in the air, but it troubled Belle. She would have to ask Rumple about moving Gaston yet again, this time to a room that had a fireplace.

Belle heated a small pan of her stew, stirring it rather more than she needed to in order to keep herself occupied. While she had something to do, she need not be thinking about Wren, or about her husband's taut mood, or any of it. Rumple's thoughts had turned from the past to the future, she suspected; to his own mortality, and with it the renewed urgency of finding Baelfire. What comfort could she offer in the face of _that?_

She wished that her kiss had not broken his curse. Gulping, Belle dropped her wooden spoon into the pan and stepped back, bringing up her hands to cover her mouth.

She did wish it. She really did! But _why?_ Because Rumple was miserable with his new limitations? Because he was afraid? Because he was _mortal_ now and would die, as Wren had died, and Belle would likely taste many years of widowhood? Because there might never be enough time to reunite Rumple with his son, now?

All of it. Yes, all of that, and yet none of it was _the_ reason.

What was? Really, if she faced herself honestly and held nothing back - what _was_ the reason for such a hateful wish? That he'd... changed?

Of course he had changed! The curse which had gripped him all these years had been so dark and all-consuming. Yet he did not seem like a man freed of a terrible burden, but like a man trying - with as much grace as he could muster for Belle's sake - to come to terms with his worst nightmare.

She couldn't eat. She choked down a few unwanted mouthfuls of hot stew, each swallow sticking on the sob that wanted to escape her throat. How could the breaking of a curse be anything but a blessing? Yet she could not escape the feeling that she had failed Rumple by being the one to break that curse, and it made no difference that it had been a kiss like any other between them, given and received in mutual affection. _She_ had been the means, and now her husband was struggling with the consequences.

Blame was a fool's game when there was nothing to be done. Belle's father had always said that, and she tried never to place blame before she had a full understanding. But reason went only so far when the heart was hurting. She knew that Rumple had not caused her to lose the child, either by his accusation or with his magic. She _knew_ it, and yet there was the hateful need to _blame_ someone for her misfortune, and the memory of that dreadful and lonely walk to Odstone seemed to urge her to place the blame at Rumple's feet. Because she was angry; because he had hurt her so very much with his distrust. It would be so easy to let that fester in her heart, blackening and boiling until it etched its ugly traces into her reason and there was _blame_ in the tears that overcame her just from thinking about it.

When her tears should have been for Wren, they were for herself instead. Belle smothered them with a hand until she had left the kitchen behind her - she would not allow the genie to witness her self-pity. She hurried on through the great room, the sobs turning each breath to a noisy struggle, then up the stairs and into the soothing welcome of her own room, with every intention of throwing herself face-down on the bed for a proper cry.

But the bed was covered in sleeping cats, a sight which brought Belle up short, spluttering wetly as her sobs met laughter and mild indignation. Quickly fetching a handkerchief from her trunk and blowing her nose, she watched the kittens stir at the sound of her intrusion. Smoke had stretched herself out to what seemed an impossible length for a small cat, as though to occupy as much of the available space as she could manage. All of them were gathered around the large lump made by the stone hot water bottle.

Belle put her hand over it and found that it was indeed hot. Then other details began to register as her blinding misery ebbed; many of the candles were alight, the fire made up and roaring and the curtains closed against the chill of the window. Rumple had thought of her as he passed by. And not only of her! Turning around, trying not to miss anything, Belle saw fresh food and water for Smoke by the door, and a large wooden box containing sand in the dark corner just beyond. To the other side of the hearth, also in the shadow of a corner, a wide and shallow wicker basket had been lined with a plush red cushion.

"There is your bed," Belle said, leaning over to stroke Smoke's flank. The cat stretched herself yet further and purred. "This is mine."

She knew she hadn't the heart to move the sleeping kittens to their basket, and especially not when they were a sight to soothe her. Even Smoke's purr seemed like a balm for her sorrows; steady and deep and so calming. Instead, she sat down and stroked the kittens one by one. Smoke rose, arched her back luxuriously, then threaded herself beneath Belle's arm to rub against the hand that was disturbing her kittens.

"Have you many husbands?" Belle laughed at the watery, wobbly sound of her own voice; laughed at herself for talking to a cat. "I suppose it's rather different for cats." She laughed again, a little more steadily. "I hope that I never have four babies all at once."

Smoke purred, padding slowly at the bedclothes with her forepaws and watching her with unblinking fascination.

Wiping her cheeks on her sleeve, then blowing her nose again on the damp handkerchief, Belle sniffed back fresh tears..

"Do you know where your master went?" To her delight, Smoke responded to the question with one of her loud meows, as though she understood. "Oh good." Belle scratched lightly beneath the cat's chin. "As long as one of us knows where he's got to."

At a loss, Belle made herself ready for bed and fetched a book in the hope of distracting herself. She was careful not to disturb the kittens as she slipped between the sheets, but they seemed not to mind the arrival of her feet beside the lump of the hot water bottle. Smoke followed her everywhere while she washed, changed her clothing and brushed her hair, walking across the bed several times before coming to rest beside Belle's legs and watching her leaf through the book in her lap.

It was one of the few that she had brought with her - tales of adventure and heroism. Settling on the second story, her feet toasty-warm, Belle was able to lose herself for a little while in the familiar words.

By the time Rumple came to her, the candles had burned down to stubs. Belle had finished the book and begun it again, her eyes dragging heavily along the lines of the first story. She heard Rumple on the stairs long before he arrived and felt her heart lift immediately but the warning of his approach only gave her time to fret her way out of her fragile composure.

She greeted his arrival with a weak smile, some of her upset evaporating when she saw how heavily Rumple leaned on the staff.

Belle wriggled out of bed, leaving cats protesting at the sudden disturbance, and met Rumple as he reached the bed. He looked cold, and a peck on his chilly lips confirmed it; he must have been up in that icy turret, without sparing a thought for his new susceptibility to the elements.

"You're frozen through!" Before he could deny it, Belle slipped her arms around his neck and pressed herself close. Rumple resisted barely a moment before returning the embrace, gathering her against him with his free hand at the small of her back and bowing his head to bury his face in her hair. Rather than making Rumple any warmer, the embrace only made Belle shiver in her thin silk. "Come to bed," she urged, careful not to unbalance him when she stepped back. "I'll make up the fire."

"No need."

No need? His teeth were almost chattering! Belle wondered if there would be any point in searching amongst his piles of clothing for a warm vest. Then she followed his glance towards the fireplace and saw the flames leap higher.

Of course.

"You haven't eaten. You need something hot inside you."

She could not mistake his sharp little sigh as he sat down on the edge of the mattress and propped the staff beside him.

"I'm not hungry." For all his impatience with her fussing, Rumple spoke mildly; carefully.

Since she had been unable to eat a proper meal herself, Belle left it alone. She ferried the drowsy kittens, two by two, to their basket in the corner. Smoke was already rubbing herself happily against Rumple's back and purring by the time Belle returned.

It seemed to take him a painfully long while to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt - his fingers seemed clumsy at the task. Was that only because he was so cold? Belle hesitated; she felt that she had never been less sure of what to do. Of how to _be_ in her husband's company. Not certain that she would be welcome, she sat down to Rumple's right and gave his thigh a light squeeze.

The touch seemed more eloquent than anything she felt capable of saying. It brought her Rumple's undivided attention at last, and the softening of his severe expression into a more familiar, tender one.

"I think you'd be unbearable if you caught a chill," she confided, leaning in closer and fingering his silk shirt. "You need warmer clothing."

His snort of laughter reassured her, for all that it lacked true mirth.

"I didn't feel the cold." The reluctance to speak of it, to acknowledge the change, was written in every strained syllable. "Before. Hot, cold... it didn't matter."

"I know." Belle would never forget the sight of him plunging his arm into a roaring blaze and bringing out that red-hot knife, without his _sleeve_ charring, let alone his flesh. She knew that he was reeling, and struggling, and that nothing she said or did could be enough to comfort him. Instead, closing her eyes, Belle rested her forehead against his shoulder. "I know."

Relaxing slightly, Rumple put his arm across her shoulders and squeezed her closer.

"Janek is seeing to what we need."

"Good." Belle unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way. "We should save your magic for when it's needed. For finding your son."

"I need my magic more than ever," Rumple said, evenly. "To protect you. Us."

"You say that all magic comes with a price. Perhaps you could ignore that when you were immortal and cursed - what had you to lose? But now..."

"Belle. Please." He set her away from him and unbuckled his belt. "I know the danger better than anyone. I have no choice, now."

She bit back the argument and sat still while he undressed. 

As before, Rumple had used the peculiar metal strips as a splint. This time, he had first wrapped them each in cloth before binding them tightly to his lower leg and ankle, but as they came away in her hand Belle could see the deep red marks left behind, threatening to become bruises. His foot was too pale and cold - the binding had been far too tight.

"Can't your magic heal this?" she asked, her voice reedy with fright. She held his foot as gently as she could, trying to will warmth and colour back into it. Rumple looked away.

"Apparently not."

"It's worse, isn't it?" she demanded. "Worse than before you tried?"

"So it seems." He allowed her to untangle his other foot from leather and stocking, then shrugged off his shirt and dragged on his nightgown in self-conscious haste. Belle, who had not given his brief nakedness so much as a thought, sat back on her heels and regarded her husband. He still had knobbly knees.

As though overhearing her thought, Rumple smoothed out the silk that had bunched up about his thighs, covering his lap and his knees.

"How can I do my work if I have to hide away here because of this?" He gestured in disgust to his misshapen leg. "How can I do what needs to be done?"

Satisfied that blood was returning to the pale foot, Belle pushed herself up and then sat beside him once more. She took a steadying breath before she spoke.

"What does need to be done?"

Rumple didn't answer. He kept his face turned away when she tried to catch his eye, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "Come and get warm," Belle urged, hiding her disappointment by crawling back beneath the bedclothes herself. Rumple went into the bathing room; she heard him prop the staff against the wall before he closed the door behind him.

Smoke had curled up beside the hot water bottle. Making a face, Belle climbed back out of bed, lifted the cat and carried her to the basket where her kittens were stirring.

"There is your bed," she said, firmly. "That one is mine."

The cat flopped down on the fat cushion to nurse her kittens, but she watched Belle with reproachful and unblinking eyes until Belle got back into bed and pulled the drapes shut to block her view. When her own husband was so irritated with her, it was more than she could bear to be disapproved of by a _cat_.

Before he joined her, Rumple went around the room snuffing candles. He did so by pinching the wicks, and Belle breathed a little more easily. At least he didn't mean to go back to doing _everything_ with magic.

She allowed Rumple to make himself comfortable before trying to lie close beside him. He propped his bad foot on the hot water bottle, sighing out the breath he had been holding while he worked his way towards the middle of the bed.

Rumple had only to stretch out his arm and Belle went to him, closing her eyes against the sting of tears when he squeezed her close and kissed her temple. It was not as though he had neglected her - not today, and not since he came to understand that his new wife desired a companion in her husband. But Belle felt the sense of abandonment fading as they lay together, and only then recognised it for what it had been. Even beside her, even speaking with her, Rumpelstiltskin could seem so distant. 

"It hurts," she said, her voice so small. Words were inadequate for the task, for the sheer confusion of emotion that knotted and twisted inside her, but she had to try. She had to let some of the bitterness escape. "I'll miss her so much."

She felt Rumple nod. He took a hank of her hair and began to coil it around his hand. He sighed. 

"I can make a person forget they ever loved; take their love and shut it away where it can never trouble them again, but I cannot banish grief without also banishing love."

"Would you, if you could?" The thought made Belle's skin creep. Grief was... it was _necessary_. Unpalatable, unwelcome, unwanted, but unavoidable if life was go to on without shattering. "Never grieve and never heal?"

"No." His body relaxing somewhat beneath her cheek, Rumple stroked his palm down her arm, slowly. "If I could put away loss there'd be nothing left of me."

 _A heavy life,_ Belle thought, biting her lip.

"Wren was ready," she said, after a while. "But she wept for our child. For us." Growing timid when Rumple gave no answer - not even any sign that he had heard her - Belle plucked at the cord that tied his nightgown. "It was a sweet thing you did. The bird. The song was beautiful."

"She should be remembered," he said, fidgeting. "People will tell that story."

They would, Belle thought. And no-one would take the wand from its place on the gravestone. They would point it out to their children and tell the story of the tiny bird that had flown to Belle's hand to receive payment for his funeral song.

"Did Wren know? About the wand, about her mother?"

"No." Belle heard the sneer creep in; felt him tense. "I didn't dislike her _that_ much."

She rubbed Rumple's chest, frowning to herself as she tried to understand his mood. Even now, he had not admitted to grieving for Wren. And he had shown her nothing more than discontent and frustration at the breaking of the curse. Belle _knew_ that there must be more beneath the surface when it came to Wren. She was afraid to so much as _imagine_ what more he might be hiding when it came to his diminished power.

"It must be frightening," she tried, raising herself on her elbow so that she could watch him. In the firelight, his expression was impossible to make out, but even like this, Belle liked to _look_ at him. "To be mortal. To feel pain again."

Rumple's only response was to close his eyes so that she could not even see the glimmer from the flames. Belle felt closed out, pushed away, even as he held her close. "I'll be here," she said, all too aware of the inadequacy of words and promises. "Whatever happens."

"And whatever I do?" There was a hardness to his voice that Belle had seldom heard. Rumple's fingers dug into her back. "I no longer have the luxury of time. The curse must _happen_. Soon."

Belle shook her head, trying to soothe with her voice and her hands.

"There must be another way to..."

He didn't push her away. Not quite. Rumple set her aside with firm hands and turned his back to her, pulling pillows about with more force than necessary. Belle found that her heart was racing; guilt and alarm met and became a feeling of sick dread. "Rumple..."

"It's late," he said, and Belle could hear his struggle with anger. Perhaps it was not directed at her - not all of it - but it was an unwelcome presence in their bed.

Belle lay on her back beside her husband and fumed in silence. Wouldn't he even _argue_ the matter with her?

But... why should he? She did not know Baelfire, beyond what Rumple himself had confided. He had left her with the impression that the boy had wanted nothing more or less than an end to the magic - that he would have welcomed the breaking of the curse that turned his father into the Dark One. And how could you argue with the conviction of a father's love? Rumpelstiltskin would do anything - anything - to reach Baelfire's side; no cost seemed too great to him.

No, Belle reminded herself, feeling the stinging marks left by her fingernails when she managed to unclench her fists. There _was_ one thing - Belle herself. Rumple spoke of protecting _her_ from this curse that he meant to unleash on the world itself. But if she forced a choice upon him, if she refused to be a party to his plans, he would surely choose his child over his wife of a few short weeks!

There did have to be another way. Possibilities that Rumpelstiltskin had eliminated as the Dark One might no longer be closed to him now that he was mortal again. Anything might have changed over the course of _centuries_ to make something he'd long ago discounted a fresh possibility now.

Had Rumple even considered that, somewhere, Baelfire himself might be searching for a way home?

 _I would be,_ Belle thought, and with her heart already full to bursting with sorrow and hurt, she hurt a little more to think of that boy all alone. Did he long for his father, or was he thankful to be free of the Dark One?

And what would he _do_ if Rumple found him, greeted him, with the bloody tatters of _their world_ trailing in his wake?

No. She could not stand by and allow that to happen!

When she could no longer lie so rigidly still, Belle turned over, her back to her husband, and pulled a fresh pillow beneath her overheated face. Rumple shifted as well, their ankles brushing near the hot water bottle before each of them snatched their foot away.

 _Stupid to quarrel,_ thought Belle, but she was too irritated by his mood to be the first to make amends. Why couldn't he trust in her goodwill? Why did he fear her disapproval? If she was sure of nothing else, Belle was sure that she could not stop _loving_ him simply because she disagreed with his plans.

And if he carried out those plans? She shivered, pulling the covers up to her ear. Whatever else happened, Belle knew that she did not want to be set apart in Rumpelstiltskin's mind. She did not want to be spared if no-one else was to be spared - that was just _wrong_. The whole notion of the curse was _wrong_ , and yet her husband spoke of it as a thing already done. Inevitable.

What was she going to do if Rumple pressed ahead?

What _could_ she do? Whatever it was, Belle could see that it would set her at odds with her husband, and that would take a strength that she wasn't sure she possessed. He would not listen unless she could offer him a better way to find Baelfire, and what did _she_ know of magic, of portals and of strange lands beyond this one? Rumple had not sat idle these hundreds of years. Supposing he was right and there _was_ no other way? How could she ever ask him to give up his quest? His son?

No. Belle turned over again, earning a drowsy grunt from Rumple beside her. There simply had to be another way - some other way to pass between worlds, harming no-one. She could not afford to believe otherwise.

There _had_ to be a way.


	111. Give and Take

She had been drowsing, half aware of the kittens as they moved about beneath the bed. Belle had slept poorly, too aware of her husband tossing and turning beside her. Now that it was becoming light, she finally felt that she could sleep for hours.

Half expecting to find herself alone, Belle turned over and opened her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin had not deserted her. He was too slow to pretend that he had not been lying there watching her.

Belle snuggled down so that the covers came up to her ears and reached out for him. It was not in her nature to nurse a grudge; she hardly even knew how. The aching sadness still had hold of her heart and Rumple was there beside her - there was nothing to do but offer her arms and hope that he would come to her.

He did, shuffling closer until he could rest his head on Belle's pillow, his eyes closing as he let out a long and weary sigh. It was a sound that echoed the night that Belle had just endured - the half dreams and the twisted nightclothes, the sleep broken and unrefreshing. They were both too tired to be quarrelsome, and where they would once have shared sleepy kisses they could find only yawns.

After a while, as the sunlight began to frame the bed curtains with the promise of a bright day, Rumpelstiltskin began to stroke her hair. He did it quite absentmindedly, Belle realised - just as his hands fidgeted all by themselves, or with whatever he happened to be holding, he touched her hair. Thinking back to the day of the wedding, the stiff silence between them during the long carriage ride to the inn, Belle marvelled all over again at how far they had come together. At first, he had hardly dared to touch her at all, or even to look at her for too long.

Rumpelstiltskin had never meant to let her close. Oh, not the physical thing; he had been willing enough to give Belle her rights there, and to enjoy his own; he had never meant to show her his heart or to love her. But... how could that be true? He had been lonely, hadn't he? He hadn't bargained for the first pretty girl to catch his eye - he had _chosen_ her, he said. _Watched_ her. If not for her ability to see beyond the surface of things then for what? And now she was an obstacle to him. A problem.

She turned over again to face the window, pressing back against Rumple and closing her eyes when he tucked himself in behind her. They fitted together so well that way, his knees behind hers and her back to his chest; it came so naturally that Belle didn't think at all, and gasped like a fool when her backside made contact with his stiffened cock. Trying to snatch herself clear of it, to apologise to him and to be careful of his leg all at once, Belle ended up on her face with her foot caught in the bedclothes and her ears burning with blushes. It helped not one bit that she could hear Rumpelstiltskin laughing behind her.

"It's not funny," she protested, but weakly. Pushing herself away from the mattress, Belle scraped the hair out of her face and then made to throw back the covers. Rumple grasped her shoulder, stilling her.

"It won't bite," he said, uncertainty taking the warmth out of his amusement.

"Of course not." Propped up awkwardly on one arm, Belle wondered if he still enjoyed it - her innocence. Apparently she still retained a little of it. "But I shouldn't... I didn't mean to..."

Hushing her, Rumple drew her back down, though not quite so tightly against his body this time.

"Neither did I," he said, answering an accusation that she had not even made. Not even _thought_ , but... yes, she would have, wouldn't she? She would have thought him selfish for it, for desiring her so soon and without... well... without _provocation_. "He'll settle down."

"...He?" Belle blinked, staring straight ahead. Rumple's arm held her fast, tucked beneath her breasts, and everything about the embrace seemed innocent except for knowing that he lay there, _ready._

"Well, it isn't a _she._ " Carefully - very carefully - Rumple kissed the back of her head. "Stay for a while?"

Belle didn't understand, and her lack of understanding brought back all the uncertainty that she had thought left behind weeks ago. Her heart raced, and not because she was afraid but because she had no idea what was expected of her. She was his wife; he surely expected her to do _something_ about his condition? Yet the way he held her, the way he spoke and the way he tried to snuggle back down with his face buried in her hair, said otherwise.

"He?" she repeated, her mind seizing upon the trivial strangeness of that. "Do you really call it _he?_."

"Only when he misbehaves." At least he wasn't laughing at her again. He raised himself on his elbow and peered over her shoulder. "I'm sorry if he frightened you."

He was playing a game, Belle decided. But not a cruel one. Perhaps a rather self-deprecating one, at that.

"Is mine a _she?_ " she asked, small voiced in her embarrassment. Rumple gave her shoulder a light and lingering kiss.

"Well, it isn't a _he_."

Belle turned over to face him, looking for any trace of teasing in his eyes. There was amusement there, but she did not feel that it was at her expense. A... she groped for the right word... A _sharpness_ had gone out of Rumpelstiltskin along with the power of the curse. A little of the brilliance was dulled, and something of the brittleness with it. He wasn't truly worried that he'd frightened her just now; he was merely looking for the correct apology to suit her mood. Belle would be the first to admit that her mood was an odd and unflattering one.

He was not the only one being difficult to love.

Giving in, Belle laid her head beside his on the pillow and watched his eyes while they sorted out knees and elbows. She knew what lust looked like on Rumple - the fire in those eyes that had changed so much yet not changed. It wasn't there now; just that drowsy warmth that had been so entirely missing last night when her questions had annoyed him. But there were questions and there were questions.

"Why does it get big if you don't want to..." She barely faltered, but Rumple seized the hesitation, flashing her a grin.

"Fuck?"

She gave him a halfhearted shove in the chest and countered with, "Spoon. Why?"

Rumple shrugged and quipped, "Optimism?" She could tell that his heart wasn't really in it. "It happens in a man's sleep." Belle nodded, flinching slightly as he tapped her on the end of the nose with one fingertip. "Whether or not he has company." His expression shifted into one of concern, the fingertip finding a stray lock of hair to chase back behind her ear. "I won't trouble you for that. Never."

She nodded, ashamed of her fleeting doubt. He had promised her that, the moment she had the courage to raise the subject, and Rumpelstiltskin was truly a man of his word.

He wanted to say more, Belle could see; she could _feel_ it there in the air between them, the frustration of words that escaped him.

"I'm sorry for badgering you," she offered, nose to nose with him on the pillow. "About your leg, and magic." She could not face a day full of taut misunderstandings - she just couldn't. Not even if it meant letting him shut her out.

She kissed his lips, quickly, squashing their noses together in the process. Rumple gave her a weak smile in return and touched his brow to hers, closing his eyes.

A moment later, Rumple was all movement, working his way to the edge of the mattress and pulling back the bed drapes. She couldn't help noticing that his cock had quieted itself by the time he stood up; it would have made an unmistakable shape beneath the black silk had it not.

Belle lay and puzzled over it while Rumple was in the bathing room. Smoke jumped lightly onto the mattress and approached, purring, rubbing her face against the hand that Belle offered in greeting.

"Were your husbands very strange?" Belle asked her, and the purring redoubled at the sound of her voice. "Did they do strange things and confuse you?" She found a spot beneath Smoke's ear that appeared to render her helpless when scratched; the cat sprawled, head on Belle's hand, purring so hard that it was a wonder she could catch her breath.

She remembered being mildly offended the first time she discovered that Rumple's manhood required nothing from her to become hard; now it seemed that it didn't even require its owner to be awake, let alone in a state of desire. Belle endured a milder echo of her original blush, remembering how she had snatched away - as though she had not courted and loved the changeable thing, finding every way she could think of to fit herself around it and give her husband pleasure, and delighting in all of it.

Belle moved her hand from beneath Smoke's head and stroked the silken flank instead. She gave a mock pout as Smoke stared at her.

"There should be a book," she said, exaggerating her tiny seed of genuine petulance in the face of a willing audience. "Everything about men. In a book."

She was half dressed before Rumpelstiltskin emerged, his hair in wet rat-tails about his face and fully dressed. They were not the clothes he had taken off last night; those were still in a heap beside the bed. Belle said nothing, seeing that Rumple had left off his boots and had made no attempt to bind or splint his leg, let alone to subdue his limp with magic. He merely put as little weight onto his right foot as possible, expert with the staff.

"Would you mind fastening my dress?" she asked, the words emerging all timid and wobbly when the thought had not been. "I don't get any use out of these." She ran her fingers across the pieces of hanging cloth in her wardrobe; the dresses she had first brought with her, only to realise that she had no way to put them on and off all by herself because they laced at the back.

Rumpelstiltskin came and stood beside her, regarding the dresses. Belle suddenly remembered that she had hidden away the bolt of black silk behind her skirts; she would like to surprise him again, as she had with the gift of the handkerchief.

"This one," she said, too briskly, and took down what had been her best gown until her betrothal to the son of a duke. It was a quiet blue, a shade that reminded her of the sea on a dull day. She stepped quickly into the heavy wool skirt and pulled it up over her petticoats while Rumple waited, watching her intently. "You don't mind?"

Rather than answer, he gave a bemused little shake of his head.

The gown took its shape from a corset - old and well-worn so that nothing prodded her or creaked as she moved about. His back to the bedpost to keep him steady, Rumple laced her up at the back as though he did this every day - but then, his hands knew all about ribbons, strings, cords, threads and yarns. They probably worked at such a task with barely a conscious thought from him.

The dress took longer to manage; it had never seemed to take so long when Lotte did it, but when Lotte did it, Belle was never aware of how she breathed. Rumple breathed rather louder and faster than he normally did, and Belle hoped that he didn't think she'd meant to tease him. She would need his help to take off the dress later, and they both knew where _that_ game would have led them, not so very long ago.

"Very pretty," he said, when he fastened the bow at the small of her back and tucked it out of sight.

"It was made for me. Most of the others belonged to my mother." Belle glanced at herself in the mirror before turning to face Rumple, who still watched her. She could not decipher his expression. That distance was back; that reserve. "What's for breakfast?"

He had forgotten; Belle saw it plainly before Rumpelstiltskin looked away. And she did not suspect that he had forgotten about _her_ , or about his promise, so much as about the meal itself - about the time of day and the things people did of a morning.

"Whatever you'd like."

Belle took his hands, waiting until he met her gaze; waiting to see what she found in his eyes. Confusion, irritation, doubt, but all of it fleeting. He seemed so... lost. She recognised it because she felt the same way.

"I'd like to understand," she said, as gently as she could. "What it is you're trying to do. Regina and this curse. I want to know how I can _help_ you instead of... of being in your way. Don't deny it," she went on, quickly, when he drew breath to protest. "That's exactly what I am. It's what you've been afraid of from the moment you began to care for me. That I'll be in your way when the time comes to find your son."

The words came out of her all in a rush, unplanned, yet with a certainty to them that she could not have manufactured in an hour of rehearsing and steeling her nerve.

Rumple looked down at his bare feet, his hands unresisting in her grasp.

"Yes."

Tilting her head to better see his eyes, Belle noticed the new colour of them all over again. The colour and texture of his flesh... she had grown used to that change, more or less, while he lay ill weeks ago. Changing eyes were more difficult to accept, and they were _so_ different now. A warm brown that came alive in the morning sunshine. They left Rumple even less ability to hide his feelings than before.

"If I don't like your plan to find Baelfire," she said, careful with each word now, "Then I'll find a better plan. I won't stand between you and your son."

Rumple's hands tightened in hers, a convulsive little movement just before he twisted his free. He was studying the sleeves of her dress now, as though he meant to learn every seam and thread, and his voice was soft from shortness of breath.

"No matter what I must do?"

"I know how much Baelfire means to you." But of course she couldn't know. She had no child of her own; she could only see what the memory of Baelfire changed in Rumpelstiltskin. How his whole existence, his entire being, had come to centre around that one thing - that reunion with his lost boy. "I'm not your enemy. I don't ever want to be. You're afraid of what I might not forgive. Have you asked yourself the same about your son?"

He glared, riled enough to brave meeting her eyes. Belle hoped that her own wouldn't fill up with tears. They did that so easily, lately.

"I know what this may cost me," he said, controlling his temper with an effort. "And what it'll gain me. To look my boy in the eye and tell him that I'm sorry." Rumple put his palm over his heart, agony etched into the careworn lines of his face. "I can't do anything else."

"Let me help," Belle whispered, although she could feel any hope of that slipping away from her. "We can do this together."

There it was again - that gulf of understanding that had haunted their marriage. He would spare her this curse of his, if he could; she would spare the world as well as his soul. Rumple shook his head, his expression growing bleak.

"Leave me to my work," he begged. "Leave it _be_."

Belle closed her eyes before the tears could fill them up. She bowed her head. What was _she_ to do if he made _her_ choose? And she loved him. Either path might destroy her because of that. If he made her choose between their love and doing the right thing, what would _she_ do?

"Breakfast," Rumple said, his voice hoarse. "You need to build your strength."

When Belle opened her eyes, Rumple was gesturing to his left, to the sitting room and its tiny table. She turned. The meal was laid for one.

"Rumple..." she began, but before she could catch his eye, Rumple had caught up his staff and rounded the bed, hurrying for the door.

Belle turned and looked without enthusiasm at a plate of glistening sausages and steaming eggs. Then she sat and ate them anyway because Rumple was right; she did need to build her strength. She was going to need all of her strength to face the future. _Their_ future.

Smoke made her jump, nudging against her shoes. She must have been beneath the bed with her kittens, for Belle had almost forgotten about her.

"Did he feed you too?" She went to look, finding Smoke's golden dishes full. One of the kittens had reached them and was sniffing suspiciously at the meat. "I think he meant to keep me as a sort of pet," Belle confided, stroking mother and kitten before returning to her sitting room, to the table and to the pot of tea that awaited her. She had saved it as a sort of reward to herself for so dutifully finishing the meal.

As disheartened as she felt, Belle refused to spend the day moping. Wren's chest awaited her, full of new books and who knew what other treasures. She would think properly about the dresses she wished to have made, and about how best to govern Odstone - or to allow it to govern itself. She would write to her father to accept the wedding invitation and to congratulate him.

She would give Rumpelstiltskin room to breathe, and she would trust in his love even if she could not trust in his plans.

But where could she begin if Rumple refused to tell her about the magic necessary to reach Baelfire? She could not begin to search for her better way if she knew so little of his way. His curse.

What seemed like the only way forward when she confronted Rumple seemed an impossibility once she was all alone. If Rumple said there was no other way...

It was no reason not to try.

Belle peered beneath the bed to make sure that the other three kittens were content and could just make out their still figures at the centre, piled up together in sleep. She closed the door carefully behind her before heading upstairs to the library in search of Wren's things.

She had forgotten all about the windfall of books. So many of them; if Rumple had read every one of them then he ought to know everything about everything! There was no space for them on the library shelves, but Belle could not bear to leave them heaped on the floor. Not _books_. She began to gather a pile, with the aim of clearing a path into the library first of all. Any thought of organising the books would have to come later, even if it was all she could do not to stop and open every one of them to discover what lay inside.

It was hard and hot work, making trip after trip to bend and collect up a stack of books, then carry them into the library. Belle relished the slightly out of breath feeling, the sweat on her brow. Being busy meant being _useful_ , and that was something that she had lacked since her marriage. The satisfaction filled a little of the void in her and left a little less space for grief and worry.

The trunks containing Wren's legacy were at the back of the library, near to the window and the small lectern. When a path was clear and Belle's arms were trembling from the repeated effort of carrying books and placing them carefully in short stacks around the library floor, she went over to do what she had come for. Kneeling, she undid the leather clasps that secured the larger trunk - the one that had sat beneath Wren's work table.

It was the strangest feeling to look at all that remained of a person's life. Books and trinkets, papers, jars, bottles, small rolls of cloth. Wren had owned very little besides that which earned her a living.

What first caught Belle's eye was that the binding of the topmost four books matched various of the sets on the shelves around her. Had Rumple given them to Wren from his own library? One was full of hand-coloured woodcuts of flowering plants and their roots, the pages rich with description of their habitat, their properties and the manner of their use. The others were a matched set in their chestnut brown binding and concerned the human body; one dealt with diseases of the skin, one with diseases of the inner body and the third with the propagation of human and beast alike. Belle stared at the pages of that one for a good while, noting that its diagrams and descriptions were more plausible than the other book that she had found here in the library.

Curiosity and unanswered questions would have kept her glued to _those_ pages for the rest of the day if she let them, particularly the ones pertaining to the male, but Belle made herself set the book aside. No doubt Wren had known that she would appreciate the volume, but she had charged Belle to read her own writings and to find a use for her lifetime of learning.

The second trunk was smaller than the first. It was locked, but the small key hung on a length of yarn from one of the leather handles at the side. Excitement shortening her breath, Belle turned the key in the lock and lifted the lid.

Belle hadn't known what she was expecting to find. A stack of bound books, perhaps, some almost as old as Wren had been and others recent. What she found instead was... paper. Paper, parchment and and what looked like anything else that Wren could persuade to take a mark. Bundles and rolls of it were bound with short lengths of ribbon or string. Piles were stacked crosswise with other piles, some of them carefully stitched together into crude books. Belle wondered if she would know enough to fill this much paper before she passed from the world.

Tucked into the gaps or kept carefully between the stacks of parchment were other items. A rolled up piece of fine silk proved to be a head-covering, edged and weighted with tiny clear beads of glass; a crumbling circlet of dried flowers and leaves had been pressed between thick and expensive sheets of paper. Belle could bring to mind the image of Wren as a young bride, smiling, the cloth of pale silk covering her hair and topped by a simple crown of bright flowers.

What had become of him, Wren's husband? Belle had gathered that the man had left her, just as her children had left her, and that made Belle saddest of all. How bittersweet it must be to see your children grown and gone on to make their own lives, their own children. Had Wren seen in Belle the daughter or granddaughter who might have sat beside her in those last days, comforting and... and still _needing_ her, right up to the very last breath.

And beyond. Belle had no illusions about that; she had need of Wren, of that friendship. Of the things a mother had never given her. The need had not ended when Wren did.

Still the tears and sobs wouldn't come - the ones for Wren's sake and her own that she knew would ease her pain. They seemed to be stuck somewhere below her ribs, dull and dry. Perhaps she had cried all she could already - for herself and for Rumple and for their child who might have been.

That brought her thoughts back to the book from the other chest, with its diagrams and its doctoring. She sighed and pulled it out, then chose the topmost stack of ribbon-tied papers. It was as thick as her thumb and she could see at a glance that Wren had not wasted any space. Paper and parchment were a luxury even to one of Belle's station.

Tucking the bundle between the pages of the book, she clambered to her feet. She almost tore her petticoat, catching it with her foot; she was used to her shorter dresses now, and was too aware of how this one restricted her movement.

Rumple had not laced her tightly, but Belle felt confined and awkward inside clothing that had, not so long ago, been her everyday wear. Her governess would be shocked at how easily their lessons in how to be a proper lady wore off, once Belle found herself free to ignore them. After all, she had her _husband's_ blessing to wear whatever she liked, and who could argue with that?

Belle stood and looked at the books yet to be retrieved from the floor. Most were in a large pile; all she had done was to collect a few of the books that had spilled over and slid away. Somewhere in that pile might be everything she needed to know about moving between worlds and dreadful curses. Rumple had not brought all these books together and kept them in some magical place merely for his leisure. The library around her was a trophy, like his formal gardens or his horrible staring puppets, a thing just for having, but _these_ books were the ones that he had _used_.

On her way out of the library, Belle collected the topmost book from the pile without looking to see what it contained. She had to start somewhere.

The breakfast things had vanished from the table in her tiny, chilly sitting room. Belle would have liked to sit downstairs at the large table, near to the roaring fire in the great room, but she needed the good light. She could tell from the first lines that Wren had been comfortable with written words but not with the pen itself; her curled old hands would have made even a few lines a struggle to write. They were not easy to read.

Fetching her shawl, Belle installed herself on the wooden seat beneath the window and drew up her feet, spreading the shawl across herself from breasts to knees.

She realised that Wren had, naming no names, kept a record of the people who came to her for herbs and for doctoring - of what was given and done, and often of the outcome. No wonder she had wanted the contents of her chests kept from Martha! With her knowledge of Odstone and the people in it, she would surely be able to guess at the identity of the man suffering _'three gross warts beneath his member, which pains him when it did not before'_ , or the _'girl not yet a woman who wishes not to conceive a child but will not be left alone in her bed'_. Martha was a _gossip_.

And Wren had been trusted. Belle could see that plainly as she read on. She had wondered if even Wren's distant association with Rumpelstiltskin had set her apart from the others in town. If it had, then it had not stopped them seeking her out when they needed medicine that worked.

 _'The pains in the widow's legs are born from grief and not the body,'_ Wren had written, halfway down the third side of paper. _'Company soothes as medicine does not.'_

_'Strong woman has no children though she is three years wed. Her unborn perish while nothing but a speck. Wren has tried all to no avail.'_

Belle looked away from the page at that one, her throat tightening. Neither Wren nor Martha had been shaken when Belle came to them bleeding; they had seen it before, and seen it often enough that they needn't think about what to do. They had seen far worse, and worse again with the Rot claiming even the unborn boys of Odstone. Belle could hardly imagine the misery of a woman who prayed every time she lay with her husband that a child would come, only to suffer that again and again. It was tragic enough without that hope and yearning.

What lessons she might learn from these pages, Belle could not yet imagine. Something about herself, she hoped, just as it had always been when she met with Wren and listened to her speak aloud. Something of what Odstone required of her, all unspoken? How to give back to the world more than she took? Something more of how to be a wife?

She turned a few more of the loose pages, but her eyes had begun to skim the words. They were Wren's words, Wren's legacy, and the understanding of that washed over Belle in a wave of smothering pain.

There below the window, the sobs finally shook their way loose. They were horribly loud in the tiny room and each one hurt her, heavy with a lonely finality.

Wren had gone forever, and the empty, hurtful weeping carried Belle away at last to somewhere beyond grieving.


	112. Arrangements

Routine. It had been all Belle knew until her marriage - the comfort of a daily routine, of tasks that she could begin and finish; a life well within the scope of her capabilities. Dull, oh yes, but safe because it was nothing remarkable.

Belle thought about how easily new things came to seem ordinary, when she ventured out of her room to visit Gaston. Already it was becoming a routine to dose him with the sleeping medicine; even routine to sit beside him and fret that he might be too cold, or in pain, and unable to tell her so.

Her other prisoner was more of a trial. She found herself wishing that she could dose _him_ into unconsciousness as well, seeing how he grinned at her when she came into the kitchen.

"I missed your conversation, beautiful lady," called the genie. Belle rolled her eyes. He played at sincerity and at humility, but insofar as she could tell he possessed neither one.

"Do you have enough water and food?" Belle made herself busy with wood for the stove, nodding when the genie replied that he was quite comfortable.

Without looking at him, Belle tied on her apron and looked about for another chore that needed attention. Rumple's magic was creeping back into the everyday matters as he settled into his new capabilities, but the castle no longer pre-empted Belle's wishes or obeyed her every whim. She had been allowing the chores to pile up.

Dirty dishes at the sink were easily dealt with. Belle turned up her sleeves to her elbows and scrubbed away, the water lukewarm with the addition of a splash of boiled from the kettle.

"The Dark One makes his lady wife wash the pots and pans?" The genie used that solicitous tone again, all honey and falsehood. Belle shook her head.

"Why should I tell Regina's spy anything she might want to hear?"

"You wound me, lady."

Belle doubted that. It had not been wise to bring him into her kitchen; her sanctuary. Her only thought at the time had been to put the prisoner beyond Rumple's sight and sense of mischief, but the genie could not stay there on her kitchen table, watching her take her meals and go about her business.

"Do you feel the cold, genie?"

"It seems not." When Belle turned, the tiny man was standing with his bare arms spread and another beaming smile across his face. "Impressive for my size, wouldn't you say?"

"Impressive," Belle agreed, tonelessly. "Well then, let's find you a spot more appropriate for a prisoner." Lifting the brass cage by its ring, Belle carried it out into the maze of rooms and passages behind the kitchen. There was the room of straw where Smoke had nursed her kittens, and the room of gold where Gaston had been housed, and the laundry...

She did not want to put him too far away from the kitchen; whether he was magical or not, she would not allow a prisoner to starve or suffer neglect while in her charge.

"Where are we going?" The genie stood at the bars, gripping with both hands to keep his balance as the cage swung from Belle's hand.

"Since you don't need the warmth of the fire," she said, pushing open the next door along from the laundry room, "We'll make this your cell."

There were a few wooden crates containing bottles of wine, and a small barred window high up in the wall.

"But I can be of service to you," protested the genie. "I may be without power but I have such knowledge as you could not imagine. Ask me," he urged, his sweet tone becoming more honest and more urgent as Belle stacked up three of the wine crates. She placed the cage on top of them and stood back, watching him in the faint light. "Ask me anything."

"All right. Why did Regina send you to spy on me?" Planting her hands on her hips, Belle held his gaze. She nodded when he grimaced and made no answer. "I'll bring you some food and fresh water later. A lantern as well."

"Thank you," the prisoner said, gloomily, and sat down on the small table, resting his chin in his hands with a theatrical little sigh.

Belle returned to the kitchen with a sense of relief. The prisoner seemed so... sly. Underhanded. Like Rumpelstiltskin when the mischief came upon him, but disarming rather than with that feeling of danger that accompanied Rumple's moods. She would not have been surprised to see the genie walk through those bars as though they weren't even there. He was no defeated and subdued prisoner. He was a _problem_ , and Belle wished heartily that the problem was not hers. Perhaps Rumple would agree to send the creature back to Regina? No real harm had been done, and whatever else the tiny man was, he was no longer a prisoner of the mirrors. As a spy, he had become a good deal less useful.

It was a feeling that drew Belle back upstairs; not a sound so much as an awareness that something in her home had suddenly changed. She felt no alarm but made her way through the great room in silence, tilting her head and stilling her breathing so that she could listen out. _Then_ it became a sound; a distant and rhythmic ringing sound with which she had grown rather familiar at her father's castle during the war.

Belle went to the outer doors and pulled them open. She was so unused to the view that greeted her beyond those doors, now; she had so looked forward to seeing Rumple's formal garden turn green with the spring. Now it was only a cobbled courtyard, ordinary and utilitarian, and at the far side of it there were men at work.

To the best of Belle's knowledge, no-one but Queen Regina had set foot inside the castle grounds in all these weeks. The people of Odstone came only as far as the gates.

In fairness, no-one had ventured beyond what was, now, the outer gate. Men were building a scaffold of sturdy wooden poles while another chipped away at stone with a mason's chisel - the familiar sound that had drawn Belle outside.

The fallen portcullis had been hoisted and tied off with thick rope. At a signal from the one man to have stepped within the walls of the castle proper, two women pushed a handcart through the gate arch and onto the cobbles of the courtyard.

Belle hurried out to meet them, so unused to visitors that she felt nervous! To her relief, Tullia Tavish entered behind the two older women with the cart - she seemed to be chivvying them along, and she beamed when she caught sight of Belle. It was the sort of smile that transformed a person's entire being - full of energy and spirit and, in this case, not a little mischief at the expense of the two nervous women in front.

"We brought your supplies, my Lady," called Tullia. "But they were afraid to come in."

"I'm not surprised," Belle laughed, meeting up with the two women and touching each of them lightly on the arm in thanks. And what arms they were! Even through layers of clothing, her touch found solid muscle. "I'd be afraid of that great thing falling on me."

Their relief at being offered a way to avoid seeming foolish made Belle ashamed of herself. She never used to twist truth around like that until it fitted the moment. She had caught it from her husband.

"This is Annie and Frannie." Tullia pointed to each of the large women in turn. "And outside is their donkey, Princess. She wouldn't come in, neither, so we unhitched the cart."

"Did... did you want this all taken inside, mistress?" Frannie wore a white scarf knotted unceremoniously beneath her chin and concealing her hair. Without it, Belle guessed that she would be the spitting image of the fair-haired Annie. More than that - the large build and round faces put her strongly in mind of the tavern keepers, who she was sure must be twins.

"Inside the door," she said, seeing how nervous they would be of venturing deeper into the castle. "It won't take very long if we all help. Bring the cart closer." And, to the slack-jawed astonishment of the probable twin sisters, and to Lulie's grinning delight, Belle selected a sack from the cart, hefted it over her shoulder and marched back with it towards the open doors. It was not a particularly heavy load; it felt like splinters of dry kindling, prickly and hard inside the sack.

It took very little time for the four of them to unload the small cart.

"Is Janek seeing that everyone is paid for their work here?" she asked, helping Tullia up the steps with a large box of candles.

"Yes. They say he has a box of the master's coin and it never gets empty."

It was probably true. The heavens help anyone fool enough to become tempted by such an easy prize.

"And he's seen to it that you and your family have a living?"

Flushing, though it looked more like elation than embarrassment, Tullia nodded.

"Yes, my Lady. Thank you. I got my ma to write to her sisters to see if there's a place for us."

"That's what you want?" Belle drew the young woman a little further into the hall to be out of the other women's way. "To go away?"

"Ma never wanted to leave her family and come here. She came because it was Pa's home. She's never thought before that we could just go and never mind him. And she says we'll pay you back every coin, my Lady. In time. She can hardly understand such kindness. I think it half scares her to think of it."

Belle nodded, marvelling at the change in the girl. No longer in fear, Tullia Tavish had opened her eyes to what the world could hold for her, far away from her brute of a father. She spoke with a strong voice; with respect that had nothing to do with terror.

"If that's what your mother prefers," Belle said. "Or she could help another with the money and I would consider it repayment doubled." She looked down at her shoes. "Your mother will recognise the need when she sees it, better than I can."

Misreading her unhappy expression, Tullia touched her elbow.

"One of the Carter girls would be your maidservant here, I'll bet." She giggled. "'Specially if you promise them a new dress."

Flinching inwardly, remembering that she had made that offer to Tullia without the least understanding of her situation, Belle nodded. Rumpelstiltskin had warned her to tread with care; to realise what power she held over these people.

"I shall miss your butter and cheese," was all that she could find to say, in her shame.

The two older women had finished their work and were already retreating with their cart, back towards the gate. Belle shook her head and sighed. "Please thank them for me," she said, hopelessly. "I won't give chase in case I frighten them to death."

"It's not you they fear, my Lady." Tullia dropped her voice to a whisper. "None of us ever set foot here until you came. Now he wants things brought in on the cart, wants his gate mended. There'll be a cart with your firewood, later. It's never happened before."

"I prefer not to live by magic," Belle said, briskly. Everyone must know that to be the reason for the changes. Nobody could be allowed to suspect that Rumpelstiltskin was no longer as powerful as he had once been. "Wren said that you wanted to learn to read and write," she said, just as Tullia turned to follow the others. "Are there many here who do?"

"Not many," the girl said, becoming shy. "Farm hands and tenants mostly - too busy to learn in the day and can't afford the candles at night. Pa just thought girls shouldn't read."

"Is there anyone in Odstone good at teaching others? Does anyone teach the children?"

"Annie and Frannie's ma used to. Their sister Pearl does, sometimes. With the little'uns." Seeing Belle's blank expression, Tullia nodded towards the departing women. "Their brother and sister keep the tavern. Pearl and Pearson."

"Two sets of twins," Belle marvelled. To think that she had blanched at the thought of birthing just one child!

"Three," laughed Tullia. "There was Rose and Robert, too. The eldest. They both went away to get married. Caused such a stink when Pearson and Pearl got the tavern, when their ma died! I heard all of Rose's are twins, too. The whole family's built like carthorses, save their pa who was a tiny thing."

Belle laughed with her, grateful for the conversation. For Tullia herself, so ready to forgive Belle's missteps and seize this opportunity to better herself as a welcome gift, not resent it as charity.

"Thank you, Tullia," she said. "My regards to your mother."

Tullia nodded. The young woman turned and gave her a shy wave as she crossed the cobbles towards the gate.

Belle watched a while longer, impressed by the efficiency of the scaffold builders. There seemed to be six men at work, none of them coming a step further into the courtyard than was strictly necessary to complete their work.

Closing the doors, she turned her attention to the numerous crates, sacks and baskets. Rumpelstiltskin - or possibly Janek - had thought of everything.

Thoughtful, she took the fresh foods to the kitchen and unpacked them on the table, setting the baskets aside to be returned. Belle assumed that to be the custom; she had known of traders who drove a cart around the farm tracks between market days, collecting or delivering all manner of things along with their own wares. Baskets or boxes were to be unpacked and returned to the carrier so that they might be used again. Belle doubted that Annie and Frannie were expecting to see their baskets again, having brought them inside the Dark Castle.

It was a good start. They might only have set foot just inside the main doors, but from there they might be coaxed into the kitchen. There would be a way around to the kitchen door, wouldn't there? If Rumple's whimsical gardens had blocked the way then it would be open again now; grand houses did not expect food and firewood to be delivered at the main door. And once there, perhaps people would be willing to enter Belle's kitchen so that she could give them a hot drink before they left, as she knew the cook had done at her father's home.

Sir Maurice would remind her that it was not her place to entertain the townsfolk to tea, but Belle had no servants to see that deliveries ran smoothly; she would have to see to it herself. She could not bring herself to do that without offering at least as much courtesy as could be expected from a castle's kitchen!

There were winter vegetables and a generous joint of lamb; two loaves of bread; two small cheeses and a pat of fresh butter; a large flagon of milk and a smaller jug of cream. Belle stood and looked at it all, not sure where to begin now that she could not keep food fresh merely by leaving it upon a larder shelf. She had not yet dared to attempt to roast a cut of meat, feeling too conscious of the waste if she did things wrong. But that was foolish, wasn't it? They wouldn't starve if she ruined the meat. There was always porridge - there was always the market. There was always magic.

Belle strove to keep her unhappiness from colouring the words she wrote to her father. With any luck, he would be too distracted by the prospect of his own new bride to worry too much about his daughter, and at least Belle could promise that she would see him at the wedding.

Would Rumpelstiltskin spare the time to make that journey by road? It was not lost on Belle that she had been so badly affected by the road, in part, because of her condition. She might manage the coach travel better now. But she might also be able to cope with being transported in a puff of smoke. Magic was less of a stranger to her now; she noticed the little shocks of it less and less.

And what of Rumple? Protected by his curse, he had thought nothing of travelling the roads; he might be more cautious now.

Unable even to hint at a plan for travelling there, Belle assured her father of her own and her husband's best wishes for the marriage. She wrote that she looked forward to seeing him again and to welcoming Lady Marcelle and all her children into their family. What else could she say?

Next, Belle wrote a letter to Sara Fitchett to apologise for not having called on her. She assured the woman that she still required the dresses they had discussed, and spent a while detailing what she might like, promising Sara that any expenditure would be met. She would need something nice to wear to a wedding, for one thing, if for no other reason than to show her respect for the bride and for the occasion.

Her mind already running ahead to the wedding, to a reunion with her father, Belle went back outside. The men working at the gates lowered their tools at her approach and stood sheepishly.

"You've done so much, so fast," Belle said, indicating the sturdy scaffold. "He'll be pleased." She spared them Rumpelstiltskin's name and was rewarded with relieved nods and smiles among the dusty men. One approached her, the quality of his clothing suggesting that he was the senior among them. He had the most startling blue eyes beneath a mop of black hair turned almost grey with stone dust.

"There's plenty of disrepair to these walls," he said, pointing back through the gate. "A summer's work if he wants the whole of it made sound."

"My husband made the arrangements with Janek," Belle explained. "I'm sorry. But the gatehouse will take some time, won't it?"

"It's the winding mechanism more than the stone. We'll want the blacksmith and his boys to come out." Again, he made it a question, watching her hopefully for permission to act.

"Whatever is required," Belle nodded, hoping that she spoke with authority even if she felt utterly at sea. Did Rumple want her to manage these matters or to leave them to him? "I'll let you know our decision about the repair of the walls."

The mason smiled, then, and showed bright white teeth with gaps where some had been knocked out. Belle felt almost overwhelmed by this display of goodwill, so soon after her meeting with the happy Tullia!

"Um..." She remembered herself and held out the folded letter. "Would you please see that this reaches Sara Fitchett? I'm afraid I don't know where she lives."

"Certainly." The letter was tucked carefully away beneath a leather apron. "Best get these scoundrels back to work, then."

There was a good-natured grumble from the other men, who resumed what they had been doing. The gap-toothed man continued to smile.

He wasn't so afraid as the others. Belle had been trying to understand his manner, which was confident without seeming in any way cocksure or disrespectful. Neither was this man about to flee if she said 'boo' to him. He did not avert his eyes as the others did - as Annie and Frannie had done. Tullia she had won over by her actions; the girl's smiles and growing confidence were a natural progression. But what of this man?

"Thank you," Belle said, letting the worlds trail away into an unspoken question of her own.

"Harper," he said, without hesitation. "Follet Harper."

Belle smiled rather awkwardly as she nodded at him and turned to go. Without looking back, she could _feel_ that Harper watched her. It made her want to hurry her step - made her feel flustered and slightly annoyed, and it was only as she turned to close the castle door and saw him turn away that Belle understood. He watched her _that_ way - the way Rumpelstiltskin did when she teased him with a promise of 'later'. He liked... no he _wanted_ her.

_Oh, goodness!_

There had been similar encounters in her past, of course; young men had looked at her with yearning, and even with hope if she caught their eye and smiled. While any overt attentions would have been firmly discouraged by her father, no boy had cause to fear just _looking_ as Sir Maurice's daughter went by. Belle just hadn't understood the implications of such a lingering look; the thoughts that would lie behind it, unspoken and alive with temptation.

She wanted to feel flattered, but instead felt intruded-upon. Vulnerable. She was glad to close the thick doors between herself and that admiring gaze.

Thoroughly flustered, Belle gathered up two sacks of kindling on her way past the deliveries. She really would need to ask the carters to bring their cart around to the kitchen door on the next visit. Carrots enough ought to persuade the reluctant donkey, who had probably been more alarmed by the fuss and noise at the gatehouse than by the prospect of entering Rumpelstiltskin's castle. That would be the story of the day in Odstone, though; Belle just knew it. Princess the donkey, digging in her heels rather than enter the master's lair.

Leaving one sack beside the log basket in the great room, Belle tucked the other securely beneath her arm and descended to the kitchen. A wave of dizziness took her as she bent to leave this sack beside the wood pile; Belle straightened slowly, her hand to the sooty wall beside the hearth, and blew out her cheeks as it passed.

Resentfully, she sat down in the rocking chair to wait for her strength to return. She could ill afford to be so weak now. Now that she no longer bled and was free of pain, it was too easy to forget her recent misfortune until the fatigue caught up with her. Red meat and plenty to drink, Wren had insisted. Well, there it was: Belle had drunk nothing at all since the tea with her breakfast. A cup of milk and then she could... what? Return to overexerting herself, driven by the awareness that there was simply too much to do? Where was she going to find the time or the strength to persuade Rumple away from his dark path if she did that?

Belle let her head fall back against the chair and closed her eyes. It was all a question of priorities, of course. Rumpelstiltskin had, long ago, made his quest for Baelfire the only priority. He had not dwelt here in a castle laced with magic because he was idle by nature or because he was incapable, but because to do otherwise would have taken time away from his work. His mission. His very reason for living and breathing.

She had her cup of milk, leaning against the kitchen table, and felt small - lost in a situation that dwarfed her understanding. For a few, treacherous moments, Belle would have traded her new life for the old; adventure for dull, dull routine and comfortable certainty.

_And what does Belle want for Belle's sake, when all's said and done?_

Belle closed her eyes, remembering Wren's words so clearly that it was as if the old woman was there beside her. What did she want, truly? Not to be parted from Rumpelstiltskin. To have him with her in that other life, then? That wouldn't fit together no matter which way she tried it in her mind. The scale of it was all wrong. Rumpelstiltskin was a man larger than life - than any dull and ordinary life. He wouldn't fit. That left Belle occupying his life, and wondering if she could ever be equal to it. In knowledge, in experience, in wisdom, in strength - could she grow herself and truly _fit_ this life of his, with its black secrets and its magical prices?

Since coming to the Dark Castle - no, since the war threatened her father's lands - she had been trying to break her new life down into pieces of manageable size. Never look too far ahead and become daunted; look to the now and do what must be done, trusting in small progress. She had won her husband's respect, his ear, his passion and finally his trust and his love; she had set out to conquer his doubts and demons as mere obstacles on the path towards a successful marriage.

What did Rumple want, when all was said and done?

Belle wondered if Wren had ever asked him. If anybody had.

She felt rather better after the milk, the cloud lifting from her thoughts, and cut herself a wedge of cheese to nibble while she decided what to do next. Cook a meal? The stew that she had made several days ago was past its best and spoiling. Return to Wren's books and papers? She had promised, after all. She had promised Odstone new laws; promised to visit Flora at the Apiary; promised to attend her father's wedding. Why was it only _now_ that she suspected there might not be enough of her to go around?

Her promise to Rumpelstiltskin must come first; the promise to be a good wife to him. Her new life was built upon that promise, after all. It was just so difficult to know what he wanted of her!

It had been easy when their eyes only had to meet for him to look at her like _that_ \- the way Harper had looked at her today. Uncomplicated desire, and so easily fulfilled. Even Rumpelstiltskin could lose himself in that. Was he sorry for it now?

Would a better wife than she simply go away and leave her husband free of distractions? Some part of Rumple wanted that, just as he always had. Part of him railed against the stubborn creature who'd stayed to be a wife to him. If Belle returned to her father or lost herself in the world, the husband who loved her would hurt and rage. The husband who had worked lifetimes to find Baelfire would breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

Well, she'd married all of him and he'd married all of her. Every bit, even the obstinacy.

Belle drew strength from her stubbornness and went back to the hall to collect candles, as many as she could carry. She had to light the larger ones before placing them into their candelabra, and more than once felt wax drip onto her head when she stretched up on her tiptoes to lodge the candles into place. These would last perhaps a day before the whole performance began again, and she was out of breath by the tenth candle. It gave her another reminder of why Rumpelstiltskin had enchanted his castle, and of how _spoiled_ she had been since she arrived here.

Rumple had never wanted her to take on the chores. He had not foreseen that she would object to his casual use of magic, and therefore not imagined that she would be troubled by a lack of servants. He himself had no use for the company that a bustling household offered; he could not fully understand why Belle would wish such a thing upon them.

In many ways, she did not. Their privacy had become precious to her long before the breaking of Rumple's curse. Isolation had been difficult for her to accept - perhaps more difficult than any other aspect of her unexpected marriage - but it had its rewards. Nothing would have prevented her from dragging a chair or even a mattress into that library and indulging herself with books for the rest of her days. She could have chosen to lock her bedroom door and to leave things with Rumpelstiltskin as they had been on the day they arrived at the Dark Castle. In isolation that had felt, sometimes, like a prison, Belle had found freedoms that she could not have dreamed of.

She lit the way between her kitchen and the foot of the stairs to Rumple's turret before admitting defeat. That corridor had been lit by torches rather than candles; the best she could manage was to hang a candle lantern from two of the sconces, and to leave the doors to both Rumple's room and Gaston's open so that the light from the candles she lit there would spill out.

Satisfied with her efforts, and out of candles, Belle hesitated at the foot of the turret steps. Was he up there? Should she visit?

Belle wanted to go to her husband - to satisfy herself that all was well with him. But she remembered how quietly he had spoken when he asked to be left to his work - his patience strained to breaking point by her desire to intervene in his work. As much as she missed him and as anxious as she was to help him, Belle knew that she could not.

Not now.

Not _yet_. She would have to find her own reserves of patience; to wait for Rumpelstiltskin to come to her, willing.

Quietly, Belle went back to her own room to read more of Wren's papers, and to wait.


	113. Sleepwalking

It wasn't that she didn't see him. Rumpelstiltskin would slip into bed with her in the small hours, chilled and exhausted. He would sit with her at breakfast, restless while he picked over the food he'd provided for her sake. He would answer questions, and smile at her, and kiss her cheek before he left her for the day to go about his work.

It was a truce, Belle thought, on the fourth day. A careful truce between their conflicting wills, with she too weary and he too preoccupied to make a battle of it. And for all that she saw him every day, felt the brush of his lips against her cheek, and heard his voice... Belle missed him.

The castle kept her busy enough, and when the chores ran out she lost herself in reading as she had not done since before her marriage. It was a blessed release from everything; a pleasure remembered. Belle lost herself in any book that came to hand and burned for more, just as she always had.

The kittens were another pleasant distraction, their play becoming more vigorous day by day. Curious about Belle, they would sniff at her feet or battle with her wiggling fingers, and they brought her laughter where there might have been none. Smoke watched with calm approval as her young conquered Belle's heart with their innocent foolery, and they all slept beside Belle while she read her books and Wren's papers.

Things began to become... routine.

After breakfast, Belle would take food and water to the genie. She would supply him with a fresh candle, ask him again if there was more he wished to tell her about his arrival, then leave him. The morning was all chores, done cheerfully enough with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows and her hair tied back out of harm's way. She roasted a the leg of lamb, which fed them for several days with only the daily addition of vegetables or buttered bread.

Rumpelstiltskin did eat, when it occurred to him to do so. Venturing into the kitchen one afternoon for a warm drink after visiting Gaston in his chilly room, Belle found Rumple busy with the plate of cold meat and potato that she had left for him. In the days that followed, the set-aside meals vanished from her larder, and it was only when she began to run short of clean plates that Belle squared her shoulders and ventured up to the laboratory in the turret.

The room was a chaos of cluttered surfaces and overcrowded furniture. It took Belle several moments to spot Rumple in the gloom, seated on a high stool at one of the tables and bent over a book.

"Rumple?" Picking her way around a pile of open crates packed with straw, Belle spotted the first of her missing plates on the low stool beside them.

"My dear." He eased himself from the stool, bare feet silent upon the boards, and caught up his staff. "Is something wrong?"

 _Everything,_ Belle thought, easing her way around the end of the long work table to join him. _And nothing._

She felt a little better for their soft kiss of greeting. Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes when their lips met.

"I, um, need my plates back," she explained, awkwardly. Rumple looked blank for a long moment, then looked about him. It was as if he noticed the claustrophobic mess for the first time; he frowned as though its presence baffled him.

"...Forgive me. I've been..."

He was so exhausted that he could barely remember how to speak to her. Belle's resolve to let him be was flimsy enough; it could not withstand the sight of him bewildered with fatigue.

"Rumple," she said, taking his hand. His skin felt too dry, and he was _cold_. The turret was always cold, and Rumple's only concession to his mortality was to close the windows. "How can you think properly when you're so tired? You've been up here for days."

To Belle's mild surprise, her tone lacked any hint of accusation. If she felt any resentment then it was easily drowned by her concern at seeing Rumple's sleepy eyes and pale face.

"There's too much to do," he explained, but with a look almost of despair as he gestured to the clutter. "Not enough time."

Making up her mind, Belle drew him with her towards the staircase. It only took two gentle tugs on his hand to persuade him to move with her.

"I may not know about magic but I know about sleep, and regular meals, and reading for so long that the words become a meaningless blur. You can't help your son this way." She had to release his hand to negotiate the winding stairs, but Rumpelstiltskin followed her, his staff scraping awkwardly on the stone as he propped himself in the tight space. "Your leg is much better." Waiting for him at the bottom, Belle tried to be encouraged by that. "For going barefoot?"

He nodded, joining her at the foot of the staircase.

"And no magic." It was a gruff admission, but not a particularly grudging one. It lightened Belle's heart to hear it, in any case, and she took Rumple's arm to lead him onwards. Left to himself, he looked as though he might pitch face-down on the little bed in his old room and sleep the clock around. "Where are we going?"

"To rest."

Rumpelstiltskin stopped in his tracks, his face creasing with a deep frown.

"I ca... Belle, I can't _rest_." He turned and tried to go back the way they had just come. Belle only needed to tighten her fingers at his elbow to keep him from going.

"You're all but asleep on your feet. If you don't look after yourself, I'll end up fetching the men from the gatehouse to carry you unconscious to your sickbed. I don't think you'd like that." When he didn't turn back to face her, Belle went to him instead. She stood in front of him and rested her hands against his chest, gazing up into his eyes. "You're exhausted," she pressed, gently.

Rumple's frown deepened.

"Why do you have wax on your head?"

Belle's hand flew to the top of her head, where her fingers discovered that he was quite right. She sagged, sighing.

"From reaching up with the candles," she said. "It's easier than lighting them once they're up there."

It took several, long moments for Rumpelstiltskin's bafflement to clear and understanding to take its place. He nodded, and some last reserve of determination appeared to desert him. His shoulders sagged too and he caught her up with his left arm, giving her a clumsy squeeze and kissing the top of her head.

"Oh, I didn't bring you here to fetch and carry," he said, almost a moan.

"I know." Belle squeezed him as hard as she dared, not wanting to overbalance him and end the welcome hug too soon. "Come on. You weren't even _seeing_ that book, your eyes are so tired. I know _that_ look when I see it," she added with a wry smile.

It was lost on Rumpelstiltskin, who followed after her to the doorway of their bedroom. With the benefit of generous daylight, Belle could see the worst of it; the crumpled shirt, the darkness beneath Rumple's bloodshot eyes and dry lips that would crack if he didn't take care. He wore a grim and defeated expression as he crossed the threshold, so unlike himself that it alarmed her. Belle hurried to close the drapes on the window side of the bed, then returned to pull back the bedclothes and plump up pillows, all too aware that she was fussing because she didn't know what she could do that would actually _help_.

"Rest for a little while," she begged, and Rumple nodded once, grunting his assent. He allowed her to take his staff from him and prop it against the wall beside the bed. Belle knew that he would be asleep almost the moment that his head touched the pillow - he was simply that tired, and she had no idea how he had managed to be awake at all, let alone staring at the pages of a dusty old book.

Drawing the bedclothes up to Rumple's shoulder, Belle waited for him to lie still and then bent to kiss his cheek.

Rumple closed his eyes and did not open them again.

She sat there with him until his breathing began to slow and the tension of wakefulness drained out of him. There was no fear of waking him with a gentle touch; now that he had succumbed to sleep, Belle doubted that shaking him would do it.

_I missed you, Rumpelstiltskin._

_I miss you._

Belle sighed, watching his hair slide through her careful fingers. That sleepwalker was hardly her husband at all. Her Rumple.

She left him sleeping, closing the curtains and making up the fire before she left. Smoke and her kittens were somewhere beneath the bed, the only evidence of their presence a slow and contented purr. Belle doubted that even being walked over by a cat would disturb Rumpelstiltskin now.

The tears that she sniffed back as she closed the door were born more of tenderness towards him than unhappiness. Returning to the turret, Belle collected up all the plates and cups that she could spot amongst the busy debris. Rumpelstiltskin seemed to have been doing everything at once, as he sometimes had before when consumed by a task, but without his casual use of magic to keep his workplace orderly. Papers were strewn across the floor and many of the crates looked as though the contents had been impatiently pulled about in search of something.

Carelessness was so unlike him. Even when his workbenches were cluttered, there had always been a sense of order and purpose there. This... this was as though Rumple had thrown himself at every idea that entered his head, throwing things aside when he moved on.

Belle bit her lip with worry, carrying the things downstairs. She tiptoed past the bedroom door, careful not to let the cups rattle against the plates until she was well out of earshot. The best thing that she could do for Rumpelstiltskin was _nothing_ \- to let him be and to do nothing that woke him up before he had slept himself out.

She had begun to lose track of the days, to the point where she had drawn herself out a crude calendar and propped it up against her letter box on the kitchen table. Each sundown she crossed through a square before retiring to her room. It had been only a week since Rumpelstiltskin retired to his turret, asking to be left alone with his work. Any time Belle wasn't able to keep herself busy, each of those days weighed upon her like a _month_ of days.

What should she have done differently, done better, to earn her husband's trust? That was the question that haunted her while she lay alone, half sleeping, to wait for him to join her for an hour or two before dawn. Belle recalled all her tears, all her bitter honesty, all her demands and her defiance; she remembered telling him that their barely-begun child was gone, in a tone that must have sounded like an accusation; most of all she remembered that kiss, and Rumpelstiltskin's horror as the curse melted away. True love's kiss. The words had begun to sound hateful to her. She had freed a loving husband from a monstrous curse with her ability to love him - simply to _love_ him - and he was _miserable_ now!

He'd told her, hadn't he, that what seemed a blessing to one could seem a curse to another? That was magic, cruel and implacable. It could bring you any _thing_ you desired, but not happiness. Not love. Not peace.

She had mastered dish washing quickly once it occurred to her to use hot water from her kettle. Belle clung to the small satisfaction of seeing the plates gleam as she laid them aside to drain; a thing that needed doing, and she had done it.

Once it was done, Belle was at a loss once more. Wandering upstairs to the great room, she spent a while at one of the windows, watching the work at the gatehouse. The scaffolding had spread to the left and the right now, with perhaps a dozen men working. The masons looked to Harper for their instructions, while the labourers followed an elderly man who Belle had never seen in Odstone. Bent like Wren and just as tanned, he directed the comings and goings of men and supplies, recording everything in a small book. She supposed that he reported to Janek, and that Janek was anxious to have proof of how Rumpelstiltskin's coin was being spent.

The men had plainly been ordered not to trouble their master or mistress with anything concerning the work. Belle would not have minded taking the workers a tray of refreshments at midday, or being asked to bandage a bloodied finger, but it was out of the question. Of course it was. At least that meant that she need not speak again with Follet Harper. She had never been pursued by a man who desired her. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do or say if he should press the issue, except to remind him that she was married. And to whom.

Loneliness drew her back to the bedroom, for all that she had meant to let Rumpelstiltskin sleep undisturbed. Belle found that she craved even that much of his company - the awareness of him in the same room with her and the sound of his breathing.

Smoke met her at the bedroom door with a strident meow, ducking out between Belle's ankles and onto the draughty half-landing. She gave another meow, wound herself once more between and around Belle's feet, then trotted off up the stairs.

Day by day, the mother cat spent a little longer away from her kits. She was never far away; she would return immediately at the sound of a squabble gone too far among the litter. Belle didn't mind being left to mind them; she only wished that Smoke did not fuss if she closed the door to keep out the cold. While the cat still seemed able to pass through any other door she liked within the castle, the door to Belle's chambers was as solid to her as... well, wood. If Smoke was on the wrong side of it when her kittens were upset or she wished to nurse them, Smoke would shamelessly claw at the carvings and _yowl_ until Belle did something about it.

Compromising by leaving the door open a crack - enough for a paw - Belle looked under the bed for the kittens. They were sleeping in their customary heap, one grey body indistinguishable from another in the gloom.

Rumpelstiltskin had not moved since Belle left his side. She watched him for a little while, leaning against the bedpost and folding her arms to keep herself from reaching out to touch. There had been too little time with her newly transformed husband, and too little desire in her to explore all that she wished about his changed form. She could feel it as she stood there; the slight tug within her that responded to her tender feelings towards him, calling up memories that were so sweet she hardly dared believe them.

For a while, Belle had wondered if something had broken in her when the child left her; if the ready hunger for touch that had made her marriage joyful had simply gone as well, never to return. Perhaps it had only been waiting to be caught up in a different pang of longing, like this; for Belle to look at her husband and think only of him, and of how she loved him and longed to wrap herself around him. So tightly. It wasn't lust but it _was_ a desire, and it tugged at her in a similar way.

She missed his curls most of all, since the transformation. That made a different shape of his face entirely, even though his features were just as they had been before. Belle knew that it was the comfortable familiarity that she missed; the first that she had known of him and had grown to love so dearly and desire so much. Rumple was still Rumple in every way that ought to matter to her, yet she mourned for the soft curls that bounced when he made a sudden flash of movement or a showy gesture, baring his awful teeth in that wonderful grin of his.

Belle had planned to sit by the fire and read by candlelight. Instead, she toed off her shoes and knelt beside the bed, beside Rumple, folding her arms against the mattress and resting her chin on her forearm while she watched him sleep.

 _Tell me that I disgust you and I will leave our contract unfulfilled, my Lady._ She had never forgotten the words, nor the hollow effort at disdain. Even in her terror, she had known that he was hollow and haunted. How carefully had Rumpelstiltskin chosen those words? He had not said that she would remain untouched if she refused him, nor if she feared him, but if he _disgusted_ her...

 _Only when you hate the world and me with it,_ she thought, the words at her lips and wanting to be a whisper. Hate was always ugly, polluting that which it touched. A man with green-grey skin that glittered oddly, as though he'd borrowed a disguise from both a toad and a lizard at once... A man who was the eye at the centre of his own storm... no. There hadn't been a moment of disgust towards him until the next morning when he teased her with the stained nightdress.

While he took her, that night, there hadn't even been doubt or reluctance.

As though disturbed by her scrutiny, Rumple shifted in his sleep, turning face down and sliding one arm beneath the pillow as he did so. Belle kept still until she was quite sure that he was asleep, then pushed herself to her feet.

One of the kittens had crept out unnoticed to sit beside her. It watched her with unblinking fascination until she bent down to scoop it up, bringing the soft body near to her face for a moment. Two of the kittens were bold and two were wary, the traits bearing no relation to their size. The smallest was the boldest and would spit at Belle's hand if she startled him, or wrestle her fingers if she tickled him. The middle two were matched in size and nervous temperament; even their white markings were so similar that Belle needed to see them side by side before she could tell one from the other. The largest was the one that approached her and watched her with an intensity that rivalled Smoke's own stare.

She held him at the level of her eyes, now, and touched her nose to his. He objected the least of all of them to being held in her hands, but he still squirmed and made it clear that he would prefer to be set down. Belle tucked him gently back beneath the bed, where a number of balls knotted from rags had begun to accumulate.

Wren's books occupied her for the rest of the afternoon. Belle could have gazed forever at the little drawings with which Wren punctuated her writings. Fewer of them as her handwriting grew less steady, so that as Belle worked her way back in time through the stacks of notes, they came more and more alive to her. Further back still, before Wren's fingers had stiffened, she had coloured her plant sketches with vibrant inks, so that poisonous berries and luscious fruits leapt out from amongst the thicket of heavy, black words.

If Wren had been born a man, she would have been recognised the world over for her meticulous investigations of plants and their properties. Scholars would have collected her works into a library and referred to it every day. Wren had documented not only the medicinal uses of plants, roots and minerals, but their uses in the kitchen, where they were to be found or how they could best be cultivated.

Belle was currently reading a sheaf of loose papers that had been tucked inside a bound ledger. There had been a wet summer - in parts, the writings were as much a chronicle as anything else - and Wren had meticulously drawn the various kinds of rot to affect the food crops. It was not that Wren was greatly skilled at capturing beauty in a drawing, not that what she set down pleased the eye with an artist's skill, but that she somehow caught the _life_ of a thing with her lines and colours. Even the mildew in an ear of wheat and the blight on a tomato plant were a captured moment; it was shrewd _understanding_ of a thing, pinned to the page.

Smoke returned as dusk became darkness, threading herself between Belle's ankles again before hunkering down over her food bowl. Belle had lost track of the time, relying on a single candle to let her read; she blinked and stretched, and wondered whether or not she should wake Rumpelstiltskin and offer him food.

She thought better of it when she raised her lantern over the bed and saw how still he was.

For her own supper, Belle picked the last of the lamb from the bone and finished the dish of cold potatoes she'd set aside two days ago. Seeing to the logs in the stove and the fireplace in the great room had become part of her routine as well. Belle carried a large bucket of logs with her as she went, extinguishing all but the occasional candle, until she arrived at her own door with enough logs to last until morning and just enough candles left alight behind her to light the way safely for a few hours yet.

Rumple had not moved at all - not even when Smoke curled up beside his hip and went to sleep herself. The cat's choice reminded Belle to go back downstairs for a kettle with which to fill her hot water bottle. Whenever it was hot, Smoke was eager to nestle beside the bottle rather than to seek human warmth. Belle didn't know what she would have done without the big stone bottle wrapped in its sheepskin, these past lonely nights; the bed seemed so large and too cold without Rumpelstiltskin there. She couldn't help feel that he was cheating by joining her in the small hours, when she had already soaked up all the cold.

At least there was no need to worry about that tonight. Belle turned back the covers on the window side of the bed, slowly and carefully in her effort not to awaken Rumple. Easing out the hot water bottle with equal care, she emptied it into her bathtub then filled it from the steaming kettle before returning it to the bed, wrapped up snugly in the sheepskin.

The last of the hot water served her for a wash, then she put on a clean nightgown and hurried to join her husband in bed. Perhaps it was too early yet; perhaps she ought to spend longer reading, or planning out how she would spend the morning tomorrow, but Rumpelstiltskin was there. Even if he remained sound asleep, Belle wanted to lie beside him.

 _You're here and I'm going to make the most of you, Rumpelstiltskin._ She almost said it aloud, smiling to herself as she burrowed beneath the sheets and worked her way over to lie beside him. _Even if you are sound asleep._

Belle's arrival did cause Rumpelstiltskin to stir slightly. He turned over, reaching down to support his leg, and made a surprised sound in his throat when he met her coming the other way.

"Belle?"

"I hope so!" Belle tried to insinuate herself into his arms, but they were at cross purposes. Rumple sat up, pushing back his hair with both hands and looking about in sleepy confusion. Smoke jumped down from the bed, indignant at all the disturbance, and her arrival beneath the bed caused her kittens to cry for attention.

Rumple got out of bed, and Belle squeezed her eyes shut while she tried to master her disappointment - her frustration. But he didn't even take up his staff - merely made his way to the bath room with one hand against the wall for support. Belle bit her lip and waited, plumping up the pillows.

It was a drowsy and stumbling husband who returned to her, his day clothes exchanged for a nightshirt. A white one; Belle could feel his black one there beneath the pillows with the book that she had left there. Rumpelstiltskin was as good as sleepwalking, and Belle kept her relief to herself when he eased his way back beneath the bedclothes beside her. He gave a grunt of pain as he eased his leg nearer to the warmth of the stone bottle, then a much softer one when Belle draped her arm over him and kissed his brow.

"Rest," she whispered, shivering as she let his hair slide between her fingers again. It did that so much more easily now. The shiver came easily, too.

Without ever having been quite awake, Rumpelstiltskin returned to sleep. This time it was with his face tucked awkwardly against Belle's shoulder and his feet entangled with hers where the bottle offered the most warmth.

Belle lay there, sleepless, her fingers in his hair, and treasured every moment of it.


	114. A Difficult Man to Love

For a few moments, Belle feared that Rumpelstiltskin had slipped away from her in the night. Her hand found only a cold mattress beside her, but when she lifted her head, she saw him sitting in the fireside chair. Belle let out the breath that she had been holding and sat up, pushing tangled hair away from her face. It was early, barely light beyond the curtains, and the crackle of new logs on the fire seemed loud in the room.

Belle's toes encountered soft fur when she swung her legs out of bed and tried to stand up; three of Smoke's kittens were asleep where Belle's spider silk robe had fallen. She hadn't the heart to reclaim it, instead hugging herself against the chill and hurrying to the fireside. Smoke and the fourth kitten were lounging there, purring a few inches from Rumpelstiltskin's bare feet. He had exchanged his clothes for a nightgown during the night, and the loose shape seemed to swamp him as it had not done before the breaking of the curse. Belle offered an uncertain smile of greeting, not sure what to make of her husband's flat expression. He returned the smile, weakly.

"May I share your fire?" Belle saw that he had piled up the last of the logs from the basket, creating a tremendous blaze. No wonder the cats had been drawn to the hearth. Rumple patted his left thigh and offered his hands, steadying her as she sat and keeping her weight from his weak leg. Belle shivered at the touch of his hands through insubstantial silk.

Still his expression was unreadable. He barely met her gaze, staring instead into the flames, or down at the sleeping cats. Belle eased herself into a comfortable position, her right arm across Rumple's shoulders, and felt ridiculously pleased when he clasped her there.

"Did you manage to sleep?" Belle had slept heavily herself, soothed by his company; for all she knew, he had returned to his tower in the night.

"Yes." His fingers curled into her side for a moment, then he lifted his head and tried a kiss. Belle accepted it, leaned into it and savoured it. Her heart beat as madly as it had when all of this was new and every kiss, every gesture, seemed a puzzle to be solved. It had not seemed so difficult to dare, then.

"I've missed you," she said, uncertainty making her voice thin. She did not want to anger him, to cage him with her demands, but... but she _did_ miss him, and worry for him too. He would mend if he caught a chill up there in the cold, but there was something more to it; something that Belle feared would not mend in his heart. "May I help you today?" Now her voice was so reedy as to sound like a little girl, wavering on the edge of tears. He had been so upset with her when she spoke of helping in his work, but how could she leave him to struggle while this gulf between them grew ever wider? Better his anger than that he think for a single moment that he could not look to her for help. "All those books... if you told me what you were looking for..."

"A way to restore my power," Rumple said, quietly. "Will you help me in that, mistress?" He spoke without anger, but there was a darkness there all the same that warned her to tread with care.

Belle closed her eyes before the tears could fall, and rested her cheek against his head.

"If you want me to," she managed, almost steadily, while inside she wailed like a child because it had all been so _unfair_ , and more than missing Rumpelstiltskin, Belle missed the way things used to be between them; all that unfolding discovery and joy. If he didn't loathe wishes so, she would have wished for things to be as they were before the baby, before true love's kiss and before Wren's passing, when it had been so much easier to believe that their future could be a good one. "Will it make you happy to get your power back?"

Relief flooded her whole body when Rumple leaned his weight into the awkward embrace and squeezed her a little.

"It's time I want back. Time to find the answers and find my boy."

Belle could understand that. Rumple might be impatient with his human frailties, with his injured leg, but it was not the notion of his own mortality that frightened him to distraction. It was the thought of running out of time, of life, before he could be reunited with Baelfire.

Feeling timid, she touched his cheek, following the growth of bristles with her knuckles until she reached his chin. Rumple ducked his head and kissed the back of her hand.

"We should give Regina her pet back," he said, straightening in the chair and gently tipping Belle from his lap. She stepped carefully over Smoke and offered her hand to help Rumple rise.

"Her pet?" It took Belle a moment to understand his meaning. "Oh. Oh, yes, please," she said, with feeling, for she did not like those daily visits to tend to her guest. To either of her guests. "What about Gaston? His wound is healing."

"Nobody wants him back," Rumple muttered, catching up his staff and going towards the bathing room. 

Would he really have put Gaston to death without Belle's intervention? Or left him to rot away in a dungeon, unheeded, once he was no longer of use? She sighed, and went to open the curtains and let in the new day.

Rumpelstiltskin was waiting for her in the great room, silver platters laid out at the end of the dining table. Belle had been absentmindedly considering a boiled egg or two; she tried not to let her heart sink at the sight of too much food. Perhaps it was not so strange that a man who remembered struggling to feed his family chose to show his devotion in this way. Belle kissed his cheek before seating herself, and was glad to see Rumple's shy smile. At least _that_ hadn't changed; that glimpse of sweetness when he thought she wasn't looking.

Belle was conscious of how he watched her, while she explored the platters of food and poured out the tea. When she tried to catch his eye, Rumple quickly looked away.

"What is it?" Sitting down, Belle spread out her skirts and folded her hands in her lap, watching him.

Rumple ran a finger around the gilded rim of his empty plate, his brow furrowing as he searched for words.

"I never told you," he began, and Belle felt herself grow tense all over in anticipation of something new; something more to add to the burdens of the past weeks. What more could there possibly be that he feared to share with her? "I vowed, when I lost my son, that I would love no-one else until he was returned to me. And I never looked for love," Rumple explained, too quickly, as if he feared that she would condemn him before he finished telling her. He looked down at the table, eyes unseeing. "Never had the strength to push it away, either."

Belle considered the strange confession, watching Rumple pour himself coffee from a tall silver pot. His hands trembled, a fraction away from becoming clumsy.

"That doesn't sound like the sort of vow that your son would hold you to," Belle said, when she could see that her silence was making him nervous. "Why would he want you to be lonely?"

Rumpelstiltskin attempted to smile, but it went no further than his lips. He sat back in his carved chair, pulling his cup to the edge of the table and beginning to run his fingertip around its rim.

"Oaths are like wishes," he said, glumly. "Best not spoken in haste, no matter the provocation."

Some might say the same of proposals of marriage, Belle thought, and spooned some scrambled egg onto her plate.

"Compared to all the other things you've done, all the horrible things you've done to people," she said, matter-of-factly, "Why does breaking one vow trouble your conscience?"

"What makes you think that the other things don't?" He sounded curious and weary rather than offended or angry. Belle couldn't quite bring herself to look at him, anyway.

"Because you don't speak of them with regret," she said, simply. "Because I think you'd slit Gaston's throat, if I wasn't here, and never think of him again."

"Nonsense." Rumpelstiltskin picked up his cup with both hands and blew on the steaming black liquid. "I'd have turned him into something for the garden." He tried to lend his eerie, familiar singsong to the words, but fatigue flattened his voice. "I'll return him to King George, if that is what you wish. Or deliver him to a world other than this one where he has no enemies. It would be kinder to slit his throat than send him back to his parents."

Belle nodded, sadly. Would King George protect Gaston if the Duke pressed him? Probably not, not when the kingdom was so indebted to Duke Hubert's coffers. But James would, wouldn't he?

"We should release him to the protection of Prince James," she said, becoming more certain of it as she spoke. James had been _angry_ when Rumpelstiltskin humiliated Gaston in the public square. "He and Gaston are friends."

"As you wish." Rumple sipped at his coffee, then wrinkled his nose and returned the cup to the table. "Your eggs are growing cold," he observed.

"Your plate is completely empty," Belle countered, and their eyes met for a moment, teasing.

Yes, she had even missed _that_. 

She began to eat, while Rumple prodded a slice of black pudding with his knife before transferring it to his plate without the least sign of enthusiasm.

"Why did you tell me that?" she asked, hoping to distract him from his lack of appetite. "About the vow you made?"

"I'm not certain." He took a small bite of food, frowning in thought as he chewed. "I often feel better when I confide in you."

Belle flushed, surprise warring with pleasure at the admission.

"I'm glad," she said, flustered, and concentrated on eating for a while until her blush cooled. It no longer alarmed her, as it had to begin with, that a small thing from her husband could move her so. In the moment, though, the little things seemed so vast and all-consuming that they overwhelmed. Too often, recently, they had not been pleasant.

Did Rumple feel as she did now, when she offered him some unsolicited evidence of her love and trust? He looked so sad, so troubled. Was it only his fears about Baelfire and about the future, or did this distance between them hurt him as it hurt her? Did she do him a disservice when she hesitated to speak?

"I'm going to town today," she began, not certain where the statement would lead her. She had not thought of asking Rumple to accompany her. Ought she? Would he forbid her to go alone?

Would she obey him, if he did?

"Yes?" For his part, Rumple seemed grateful for the excuse to push his plate away. A wave of his hand replaced his coffee cup with the chipped teacup that he liked so much, and he reached across to take the teapot and pour. 

"My dressmakers sent a note with the gate workers. They need me to try things on."

"They should come to you," he said, frowning. Then, apparently realising why they might be reluctant to do so, he made a sheepish face. "You can tell them that your kitchen is safe from sorcerers. My foes come to the front door."

Belle grinned.

"We still can't persuade the carrier's donkey to come further than the outer gate. But the women pulled the cart around to the kitchen door."

"I have never," said Rumple with dignity, "menaced a donkey."

"The Fitchett women wanted to make me a dress of red satin for the wedding, but I don't want to outshine the bride."

"You're a good deal wealthier than the bride," Rumple said, shrugging. Of course _he_ would not mind if Belle's wardrobe put that of poor Lady Marcelle to shame. "Softer colours suit you well," he added, with the shyness that squeezed her chest again.

"Widows wear grey when they remarry, in my kingdom. I'm having a gift made for her. A fringed scarf of silver silk."

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a polite smile, and Belle felt discouraged. Passing notes with the Fitchetts had been the most interesting thing to happen to her all week, save for the few minutes she had spent with the twins, trying to lure, cajole and finally to drag the protesting donkey past the laughing workmen at the gate. But dresses and groceries must seem so unimportant to Rumple, when it was his son that preoccupied him; the loss of his untouchable magic and all the easy certainties that went with it. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know why I told you that. It must all sound so silly to you." Upset with herself, with this confusion that would not leave her, Belle pushed back her chair and began to rise. Rumple laid his hand over her wrist where she had braced against the table.

"Don't be sorry," he begged. "Don't go."

Belle sank back into her chair, and looked at him even though her eyes were full of tears. Did _he_ know what to do about this wretched ill feeling between them? Rumple stroked her wrist with his thumb, his expression gentle and full of concern, and she remembered how he had patted his knee and drawn her close, welcoming her nearness even when consumed by his own unhappiness.

"We can't go on like this," she croaked, then covered her mouth with her hand, appalled at how feeble she sounded as the tears spilled out. "We were so happy." More tears, big and hot, chased after the first and dripped onto her linen skirts. "I don't know what to do, Rumple."

He grasped her hand, watching her with anxious eyes.

"The loss of a child--" he began, but she could not bear the soothing tone.

"Many women in Odstone lost their child," she reminded him, hotly. "Mistress Fitchett did, and you don't see her moping about and at odds with her husband."

"Her husband didn't wrong her." Rumple tightened his grip on her hand when she tried to pull away. "I wronged you. I won't forget it and neither should you."

"I want to." It felt like a shameful confession. She knew so much more of the man she'd married, now. His past, his secrets, even his weaknesses. Their loss had torn the truth from him where her patient love might never have made ground. But the cost... "I don't suppose you have a magic potion for that?" She laughed, wetly, and twisted her hand free to make a show of reaching for her teacup.

"Of course I do," Rumple said, quietly. "But you wouldn't take it."

It sounded like a compliment. Like he was _proud_ of her, even as she sat and snivelled at his breakfast table like the pitiable creature she had made up her mind never to be, as his wife. "I almost have. Countless times. A few drops to wash away all the hurts." He drummed his fingers restlessly either side of his plate. "It would be so easy, wouldn't it?"

Belle mopped her eyes with the back of her wrist, then blinked to see him better. That had not been an idle remark.

"Yes, it would."

"It would be so easy to settle into this life with you. Start a family with you. Be happy with you." Rumple gripped the edge of the table, his expression twisting into bitterness. "Betray my son once again. I've come so near to it, Belle. You make it so easy to..."

He bowed his head, clearing his throat. "I don't want to betray you, either."

Belle found an easy answer on the tip of her tongue, and kept it there. She _had_ felt betrayed by his distance, his distrust. Even by his insistence on protecting her from his plans. The betrayal of his accusation of infidelity was still there, a shard of hurt in her heart, and none of their shared tears or truths had healed that. And didn't some part of her still feel betrayed that he had been _wrong_ ; that he had given her a child when he'd sworn that he could not? That part of it was a tangled mess of guilt and anger; the wishes of Rumpelstiltskin's wife, spoiled and indulged as she was, free as she was to _choose_ , pitted against everything that she had been taught about a woman's duty.

"I know one thing," she said, as steadily as she could manage. "You can't live on magic any more. You can't work the clock around and barely eat. All that will do is leave your son an orphan, wherever he is. And I refuse to become your widow so soon." She shook her head, dismayed at how bitter she sounded. She was - oh, a part of her _was_ bitter - but not about that. "If I could give you back your curse with another kiss, I would."

Rumpelstiltskin sat back, teacup between his palms, and nodded slowly.

"I thought that I could overcome it." He blew softly on the liquid in the chipped cup. "True love's kiss. Or that it couldn't truly touch a curse so black as mine, a soul as blackened as mine. Or was it simply that I wanted to kiss you, and told myself that comforting lie?" He sighed, so weary, and closed his eyes. "Did I sacrifice Bae for a kiss?"

"He isn't lost to us. Your awful plan might be, but your son isn't. Not until we give up, and _I'm_ not going to." Belle heard her own bossiness, her own obstinacy, and chewed her lip while she chose her next words with more care. "I've never been someone's stepmother before. I want to do it properly."

Rumple smiled at last, with a gentle warmth that went all the way to his eyes.

"If you tackle it with as much determination as you did becoming wife to a beast," he said, "I don't see how you can fail."

_But I did fail at that,_ Belle thought, and sipped her tea to win herself a moment to think before she tried to speak. Fear of failure had haunted her since the day of her wedding. No - from the very moment that she accepted his deal. She had convinced herself that happiness in this marriage was only a matter of their trying hard enough.

"Everything has gone wrong for you since you brought me here," she said, the leaden weight of that truth lending her voice a dull steadiness where it might otherwise have wavered. "The deaths in Odstone. When you were hurt. The distractions from your work. The clerics and their fairy dust. True love's kiss. The child that should never have--" Her voice did fail her, then, and she was glad of it. She had no idea what she might have said, otherwise. She put down her cup before her shaking hands caused a spill.

Rumpelstiltskin put down his own cup and leaned towards her, reaching for her but stopping short, his fingertips fidgeting beside her plate.

"You don't blame yourself for all of that?" he asked, almost pleading.

Belle shook her head. No, not blame. Not for those things.

"I just think you'd be nearer to finding your son if I'd never come here. You think so, too. Why else did you make that vow? Not because you fear you don't have love enough to spare for another, but because you knew that it would get in your way."

"Yes." Withdrawing his hand carefully, as if afraid that a sudden movement might provoke her, Rumple took a steadying breath. "What are you saying, Belle?" He spoke so very calmly that it betrayed his terror; it cut through all of her confusion and stilled her, somehow. He had never witnessed her doubts like this; she had never admitted to regret; she had never given him cause to question her determination to stay beside him. And as much as Rumpelstiltskin feared to love, he feared to lose it all the more.

"I don't know what I'm saying," she admitted, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. "I feel better when I confide in you, that's all." She pushed herself up, hands against the table, determined. "I'll feel much better when I'm no longer a jailer, I know that. Perhaps then I might be of some use to you instead of being in your way."

"You're not in my way," he protested, but Belle knew that it was only words. Of course she was in his way. They would have to make the best of it. "Belle..."

She felt awful for taking advantage of the extra moments that it took him to rise, to take up his staff; for taking advantage of them to leave him with those hard words in his ears, and to scurry down to her kitchen to be away from him. For days she had missed him, resented his absences, and now she couldn't bear to stay in the same room and finish the conversation that she had begun. And yet... some part of her wished that Rumple would follow her, come to comfort her now, as though that would prove...

What? What could that possibly prove? They had true love - the breaking of Rumple's curse had proved that beyond a doubt. What more was there?

He didn't come after her.

At least she might look forward to the genie's absence. Any guilt that she had felt for putting the tiny man and his cage out of her sight had evaporated over the past several days. The genie was alternately ingratiating, insulting, patronising and ridiculously lovelorn for Regina, and always with that glint in his eye that spoke of absolute confidence. Belle had risen to the role of jailer as best she could, spending long minutes each day with one of Rumple's scalpels to prepare miniature portions of food for the prisoner. He liked bread, wine and fruit and Belle saw to it that he had all three at each meal. When Rumple returned him to Regina, the genie would not be able to report any ill-treatment. More importantly, he would have nothing to report as Regina's spy.

With the delivery of the weekly groceries, her laundry was now taken away and done for her. Belle could not pretend to herself that she regretted that, or that her things had come back to her pristine, and pressed, and smelling of fresh air and lavender. It meant that more women came to her kitchen door, and if she could not yet entice them to step inside with the offer of tea and cakes, it could only be a matter of time. Martha Carter's youngest sisters wanted to see inside the castle; it was written all over their glowing faces, and in their giggling whispers as they hurried away.

Would Rumple still be there in the great room if she went upstairs? Would he catch her up and squeeze her, and reassure her, or would his moody silence only drive the wedge deeper between them? It dismayed Belle to think of Rumple in those terms, and so selfishly. She had no wish to make him pay the price over and over for his one, true betrayal of their love, and yet the bitterness so easily swept away her good intentions when they tried to be honest with one another. If Rumple's secrecy and desire for power made him a difficult man to love, what did Belle's unpredictable moods and naive certainties make her? She felt dishonest, and soiled, as she had when she feared that Rumple wished her to be more like the Queen.

It surfaced again, that dark feeling, when she found him gone from the great room. The breakfast things were gone as well, and Rumple had barely taken a bite. She had thought that it would not be difficult to forgive him, and that peace in her heart would follow that natural forgiveness. Instead, the hard seed stayed unchanged, and every other emotion chafed against it.

Wearying of herself, of the worry, Belle collected her things and started out for Odstone. Sara Fitchett's good cheer would shame her dark thoughts into their rightful place, and Belle was excited to see what the women had sewn for her.

Was Rumple watching her with that magic mirror of his? A shiver caught between her shoulders at the thought, as she passed under the overhanging trees and began to climb the long and gentle slope. Not so long ago, he would have insisted on accompanying her for her protection, or that she take the carriage; did he watch her progress, now, or had he conceded to her wishes and trusted her to face the world alone? Neither prospect satisfied her, another sick symptom of her confusion. Perhaps _nothing_ Rumpelstiltskin could do would satisfy her, in her present mood.

She wanted to speak with Wren about all of it, so badly. She missed Wren so much, and longed to be scolded over a cup of herb tea for complaining that her husband was a difficult man to love.

Belle had to smile as she quickened her step. She could almost hear Wren's answer. _"Aren't they all, my duckling? You drink up, now, and tell Wren all about it."_


	115. Treasure Trove

The fitting was nothing like those Belle remembered for her wedding and betrothal gowns. Those had been a frustrating chore, time spent standing still when she had better things to be doing. The Fitchett women welcomed her with so much friendly chatter and enthusiasm that Belle could hardly concentrate on the decisions being asked of her. This trim or that; the hem up or down an inch; a bum roll or a stiffened petticoat. They had thought of everything, and it was not with an anxious desire to please Belle that they offered her so much choice. It seemed to mean the world to Sara and her daughters that the gown should bring Belle happiness.

Elsa and Sara had not overstated their abilities. One small, bright room of their cottage was devoted to cloth, to ribbons, to thread and to the tools of their trade. Belle stood on a stool in the sunbeams, slightly self-conscious in her petticoats and chemise, and felt herself swept along by the pleasure they took in their work while they measured and pinned things, and held up sample after sample of their finest lace and ribbon. Sara and each of her daughters seemed able to take up the work where another had left off, and equally able to take up the gossip or teasing when one had to concentrate for a moment upon pinning or tacking.

It seemed to be impossible to be in their company without being cheered. Belle's head was spinning by the time she stepped down from the stool, a mass of pins, and Sara shooed her girls from the room before helping Belle out of the half-made gown. They had found her a bright blue silk for the gown, a bold colour that might have given Belle pause, but they had matched it with a simple white chemise with barely opaque sleeves that would end in cuffs of soft lace above her elbow. The overall effect was modest and pretty. Where she had feared that they would offer her something too impractical, forcing her to disappoint them, Sara and her daughters had noted Belle's usual, smart attire and simply... embellished slightly, and in finer cloth. They were delighted when she asked them to find room for some extra ribbons.

"There," Sara said, returning the dress to the wooden mannequin beneath the big window. She made herself busy with her back turned while Belle dressed herself. It was an extraordinary object, that mannequin; beautifully carved from some deep brown wood, and smoothed to a sheen. Unclothed, the headless wooden figure displayed lovely breasts and lifelike muscles - far more detail than mere utility required. And, once the mannequin was dressed, Belle could fully admire Sara's handiwork. Even all pins and bare seams, Belle could see the eventual beauty of it, and the skill of the seamstresses. "Now we've measured you properly, we can make you up anything you'd like, my Lady. The riverboat traders carry all the plain cloth you could ask for, and can bring up anything else from the big towns, if we call for it."

"Some of this cloth is from my home," Belle observed, reaching up to a shelf stacked with bolts of cloth, and touching one with rich whitework embroidery. She recognised the style of the leaves, and could clearly picture the women sitting together in the sun, stitching and laughing together. "Randall must be very wealthy if he takes a toll of this river trade," she said, quickly lacing her bodice.

"Oh, yes. He doesn't want for a thing, though it's the bees that are his pride and joy." Sara absentmindedly removed the white ribbon that bound up her hair. It fell about her face, heavier and longer even than Belle's own, and the change took years from her features. How old must she be? Elsa was almost a woman, and her sisters not very much younger than she. "We made a gown of rose silk for his wife when her belly grew, bless her. Hardly speaks the tongue hereabouts, but she's the gentlest creature."

"Yes." Belle tidied her own hair as best she could, wishing that she had thought to put it into a no-nonsense plait before shuffling clothing on and off. Sara caught her eye, looked at her unruly hair, and smiled.

"I thought fine ladies wore their hair up."

"They probably do," Belle agreed, and it was Regina's glossy and improbably perfect, long, black hair that came to her mind. "My father is wealthy and my husband is a sorcerer. I don't think either one makes me a fine lady."

Grinning, Sara reminded her a little of Mistress Elena. Perhaps it was the slightly flushed cheeks, and the sense that she was resolutely cheerful about the endless demands upon her time and her love.

"Maybe you wouldn't be offended if we offered you tea and cakes, then?" Sara tilted her head, watching her and still grinning.

"I wouldn't be offended at all," Belle assured her, far more urgently than she meant to. "I would be very grateful."

Nodding happily, Sara led the way through a narrow passageway to the cottage's kitchen. The outer door stood open, revealing an untidy vegetable garden beyond. Sara's daughters had taken most of the kitchen chairs and sat in a semicircle outside, sewing in the sunlight and chatting easily with one another. No two of the chairs were alike, and Belle touched the back of the head chair at the table, following the wing of an intricately carved bird. Like the mannequin, the carving was smoothed to perfection and invited the hand to follow its flowing lines.

"My man is a carver and turner," Sara explained, ushering Belle to the scrubbed pine table and lifting a huge black kettle onto a hook over the fire. "Makes furniture, too. A real craftsman, but the living's humble. We do well from the sewing, me and my girls."

Realising that she had said far too little of her admiration for the dress, Belle smiled.

"Your work is wonderful. I'm sure you do very well."

"Better still since you came here," Sara went on, busily fetching tea things to the table. "Can't say our stall was ever that busy. It cheers my heart to see the mistress of the castle wearing our ribbons."

"Your ribbons have brought good cheer to the castle," Belle laughed, but rather weakly. She had not thought to wear one, today, and her daring games with Rumple and the ribbons seemed too long in the past. Did he still keep them about him, the ones he'd taken for himself? It gave her a pang to think of it, and she could not decide whether it was one of pain or pleasure. She took a deep breath and pushed those thoughts away. Here, and in good company, she ought not dwell on her own troubles.

Sara put a plate with a slice of seed cake beside Belle's teacup, then brought one for herself and sat down to join her.

"It's for your father's wedding, my Lady? The dress?"

Belle had stated as much in her most recent note; Sara was trying to make conversation.

"Yes. I'll be glad to see him again." Her insides twisted with guilty remembrance. Sara had been among those who lost a son to the Rot, an unborn son, while Belle and Rumpelstiltskin visited Sir Maurice before. She hadn't the courage to say as much, any more than she wanted to be drawn on the subject of Flora and Randall. And yet it felt like lying, to say nothing. "What do you think of my new law, Sara? Will it help or harm your business?"

Sara grinned again, standing up long enough to pour them both tea. Belle smelled sage in the brew, and felt another pang as the smell reminded her of Wren's cottage with its bundles of drying plants.

"The old law says all the money belongs to the master of the house," Sara said, settling back into her chair. She had offered Belle the seat at the head of the table, the largest, but Sara's had a tattered old cushion that suggested she spent a lot of time sitting there. The sunlight from the open door fell across the woman's hands as she toyed with her plate; it would be where she sat to sew, wouldn't it? Here, at the heart of her household. She seemed to _belong_ there, at the centre of everything, the heart of her family, and Belle had to swallow down an unwelcome sense of envy.

"I think that the new law should say that the money belongs to the person who earns it," she said, trying to convey with her tone of voice that it was Sara's opinion she sought, not her agreement. "You know..." Belle turned her plate around, her eyes on the appetising slice of cake. "My husband begrudges me nothing that gold could buy me. Nor magic either, I think. But it doesn't feel right to be so spoiled by things I've never earned." She shook her head, dissatisfied with the words, but they were the best that she could find for the way she felt. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"I think so." Sara broke off a small piece of cake and put it into her mouth, her gaze becoming unfocused while she considered. "It means something, when hard work puts food on this table." 

"Yes."

"What was it you did before you wed, Lady?"

"Oh." Belle pulled herself together, quickly, and sipped the strange, savoury tea. She was taken aback by Sara's assumption that a woman in Belle's position could have _done_ anything but be spoiled. "Organised my father's household. It sounds idle, I know, but I was busy every minute of the day. I knew everyone, and their problems, and who was feuding with who and why. I oversaw the accounts and saw that guests were made welcome. I suppose Papa's new wife will do all that, now."

"Odstone doesn't want much organising," Sara nodded, sympathising. "Or the Master, either, I expect."

Belle laughed, remembering her bewilderment at finding the Dark Castle without servants - without routine or demands of any sort.

"You're right." She tried the cake, and was not at all surprised that it was delicious. It was so laced with poppy seeds that it was almost black, and it was sweet. "I have the opportunity to make things better here, if the people want it. But only if they want it. Wren showed me that I..." She hesitated, her words running too far ahead of her thoughts. "That I should be watchful, and try to notice what needs to be done. Not simply bring my own ideas and think I knew best." Rumple had shown her that, too, in his way. _He_ knew what a poor man and his wife must truly want from their protectors, but... but his concerns lay elsewhere. "Perhaps I ought to leave things well alone," she said, disheartened. What had she expected Sara to say?

"Old Wren was never one for change." Sara settled herself on her big cushion, more at ease now that Belle had spoken of her. "But she wasn't for tradition, either. Not for the sake of it. She said you'd be a breath of fresh air here, my Lady, and she was right."

Belle nodded, feeling awkward. Strange that she had so seldom felt that way before she came to Odstone with Rumpelstiltskin. It was not simply that she had understood her place in the world, back at home; it was that everyone around her had shared that understanding. Now, here, and gifted with the freedom to shape a small part of the world as she saw fit, Belle felt out of her depth. Did her behaviour merely disconcert the people to whom she wished to be kind?

"Is Janek a good man?"

She looked surprised, pausing with another piece of cake between her fingers.

"Very fair, my Lady."

"And his wife? Has he a wife?"

Sara's brows furrowed as she tried to see the motive behind Belle's question. She had lovely eyes. Blue like cornflowers, like the sky, and she was blessed with the same expressive creases and wrinkles that Rumple had about his eyes.

"He does," Sara allowed, hesitant. "Name of Felicity." She leaned towards Belle, lowering her voice to keep her daughters from overhearing. "She's not the sharpest tool in the box," she said, and immediately looked guilty for speaking ill of someone. Belle liked her all the more for that. "Janek'll do his best for anyone, but his wife keeps to herself. Seems happy enough, but... she won't be a help to you in all this, my Lady. She finds the world puzzling enough without looking for change, if you get my drift. They're childless," she added, sadly. "I think that weighs heavy."

"Yes, I expect it would." Belle ate some more of the cake, finding herself unable to imagine what sort of person would be by Janek's side. Her main impression of the mayor was one of careworn kindness. Sara had hit the mark; Belle _had_ hoped to find an ally in Janek's wife - someone who would be more comfortable being forthright with her about Odstone's wants and needs. She didn't concern herself with the rank of whoever wished to speak to her, but _they_ did. She had begun to learn the way to invite the women to confide in her, but... but she was no Wren. Never would be so steady and wise as that. And she would always be Rumpelstiltskin's wife, first in their minds.

Kindness and concern were all that might be welcome.

"I was so sorry to hear of your loss, Sara."

For a moment, the older woman looked startled. Then she found an uncertain smile and nodded, taking a deep breath and sighing it away.

"And I yours," she said, quietly. Belle had prepared herself for that, a little; for the possibility that the entire town probably knew of her misfortune. The words still pulled at something terribly painful, and took away her breath.

"Everyone knows?"

"They're good girls, the Carter girls, but they gossip like starlings about anyone's business. Not Martha," Sara conceded. "She never said a word about what happened at Wren's, you can count on that. But her sisters... and I'm afraid we started the gossip, when you first asked about dresses. Everyone just thought... well, Wren wouldn't say. The girls put two and two together, like. They meant no harm."

"Of course not. They helped me to reach Wren when I couldn't manage alone," Belle said, the sharp pain dulling to something leaden, instead. It tugged like a weight where the stab of hurt had been. "They were very kind."

Sara seemed to hesitate for a while, making a show of being busy with tea and cake. Belle did likewise, and wondered what this woman would think of her if she could see inside Belle's thoughts.

"It's a hard thing." Sara sounded as if she had made up her mind. "To lose a babe. The little boy wasn't my first, but furthest along. I heard what happened to the boys who'd lived, the Rot. At least he was spared that." Belle didn't know what to say, and only hoped that her expression spoke for her. Sara tried to smile. "My husband is a kind man. Forgiving, no matter how badly he'd like a son." The statement, although gently spoken, dangled like a fishing hook.

"Mine... did not marry me for children," Belle said, as much to put Sara's mind at rest as to unburden herself. "He doesn't blame me. But it's hard between us." She drew her hands into her lap and looked at them for a while, battling with herself. She couldn't speak of it in any detail, not to a woman who was almost a stranger, no matter that they had this particular sorrow in common. Her marriage was hers alone, and as much as she had sometimes cherished that, she would also have to bear it sometimes. "I would like to meet your husband. I've not seen him in town?" She looked up, straightened up, and returned Sara's brave attempt at a smile. She did not seem offended that Belle had changed the subject.

"His workshop backs onto the road there," she said, pointing through the small window above the pump. "I tell him he should set out a stall at market the same as the rest of us, that half the people won't wander this far along the road even on market day, but he's... well, he's shy of people. Daft." Sara's smile became full of comfortable fondness. "But there's nothing he can't make out of wood. Bone or shell, too. Even soft metal. He'd work the clock around if we didn't remind him to come in the house for his meals." She laughed. "I think he carves in his sleep."

Belle brightened a bit, at that. At least she was not alone in having a husband consumed by his work.

"He makes these?" She indicated the carved chairs, each so different, yet seeming to belong together at the same time.

"Oh yes. Most everything of wood in this house is his." That tender pride lifted away Sara's sorrow. "This table first." She patted it, the plain wood with all the pits and marks of long use. "He was still apprenticed, then. Cut the wood himself. Nowadays he buys from the boatmen. He likes the dark woods from over the seas. Hard as stone, but he can work them like they're pine."

"You're very proud of him," Belle said, happy for her, and happy to be so.

"Of course." Sara's cheeks coloured and, once again, the years and the cares vanished from her face for a little while. She loved him, as well. "I'll bring him in, shall I?"

"I'd like to see his workshop."

"Well then." Sara rose, gesturing towards the garden door. The four girls' bright chatter died away when Belle picked her way between their chairs, but their expressions remained open; they each returned Belle's smile.

"Your petticoat, my Lady," Elsa said, holding up her work. Belle could not make out the stitching that bound the seam, it was so tiny.

"You could sew for kings and queens, Elsa."

The younger sisters gasped, Elsa turned beetroot red and grinned in nervous delight at the compliment, and Sara placed a gentle hand at the small of Belle's back to usher her onto the narrow stone path between the vegetable beds.

"We'll never hear the last of that," she chuckled. "Our Elsa has some grand ideas."

"She should have them." Belle took in the rows of new spring planting, the potato beds and the lingering winter cabbages. Every inch of the space was given over to food, save the spot outside the kitchen door where the girls sat, and the path barely wide enough to place her feet side by side. "I was brought up to be someone's wife," she explained, glancing back to see Sara looking curious. "A particular sort of someone. I think the world expects too little of us women."

"But you married the master." Sara's curiosity took on a thoughtful note as they rounded a screen of fruit bushes. The path widened enough for them to walk side by side towards the road, and the long stone building that shaded this end of the garden. "I don't think there's anyone else in the world like him."

"No," Belle agreed, and for the moment her thoughts of Rumpelstiltskin were soothing ones, quiet and fond. She pictured his smile, and the way his brow furrowed when she puzzled him, and the intent stillness of that moment, over her, when he came...

Biting her lip, Belle forced her thoughts back to the here and now. It wasn't as if Sara could _know_ where her momentary distraction had taken her, but Belle felt awkward all the same.

"Here we are." Pulling open a sturdy door, Sara stood aside to allow Belle to enter the building first, then waited a step behind her while she paused to take in what she saw there. Everywhere were... things. It reminded her of the many disused rooms in the castle, lumber rooms full of possessions that Rumpelstiltskin hoarded but did not prize. Everything here was wood, and she could see... well, everything. Decorative carvings sat on the shelves of a huge kitchen dresser. Candlesticks, trunks, walking sticks, wardrobes and chairs were fitted in wherever there was a space, but none of it had been carelessly abandoned. Nothing was dusty, and every corner of the long space was well lit either by wide glass windows, or by lanterns.

"I joke that he must have a boat hidden somewhere in this lot," said Sara, cheerfully. "Gil, the Lady Belle's come to see you."

There was a clatter of wood on wood at the far end of the room, and the man's face appeared over a stack of seasoned pine. Belle smiled, nervously, not used to people looking _quite_ so worried when they met her.

"My husband, my Lady," Sara announced, "Gillard Fitchett. They say his hands are never still."

Belle caught something - a glance, or half a glance between husband and wife that conveyed some private meaning. Sara's eyes were alight with mirth, while her husband smirked slightly and looked a little more at ease.

"I'm glad to meet you," Belle said, gathering that the man had no intention of speaking unless spoken to. "I was admiring your craftsmanship in the house." She gestured around her. "It looks as if your life's work is here."

"If we don't shift more of it, we'll need a bigger shed," Sara teased, and her husband - a tall and thin man whose pale hair was thinning - ducked his head at the teasing, that smirk tickling about his narrow lips again.

"The mannequin in the sewing room," Belle began, feeling rather desperate in the face of Gillard's shy silence. "She's very beautiful."

The gaunt face reddened, and the man himself stepped out from behind the stack of wood, revealing a lanky frame beneath a heavy leather apron. His feet were bare.

"Beauty was the inspiration, my Lady," he said, speaking too fast, as though in a hurry to get it over with. But there was only enthusiasm in his tone; an eager little smile brightening his face. He glanced at Sara again, and it was Belle's turn to blush as she understood: that mannequin, that exquisite nude, was modelled after Sara herself.

Flustered, Sara brushed imaginary dust from a shelf of small, inlaid boxes.

"Beauty's had four daughters and twenty years since then," she scoffed, but Belle only had to glance at her to see the glowing pleasure of an old compliment made new again. A love all their own.

"May I look around some more, Master Fitchett?" Belle could not imagine leaving this treasure trove without buying at least a token - a sample of the man's wonderful work. But where to begin? At his mute nod, Belle began to wander the narrow path that more or less cut a circle around the entire room. It opened up behind Gillard to a work space, and big double doors that stood open to the road. His workbench was covered in tools, and Belle had to look for several moments before she could pick out what was presently being made; it was an acorn, barely larger than a real one, and so detailed that she could imagine planting it and watching an oak tree grow.

Turning right, not knowing where to look first, Belle saw more chairs like those in the kitchen, with each simple, sturdy shape embellished with carvings of birds or trees. Wicker baskets held humble tool handles, while others were full of ornaments like the acorn. A walnut, an apple, a poppy pod, a fossil. Belle picked it up, and her heart gave a guilty lurch as it fell apart in her hand, the lower half falling back into the basket. Only when she retrieved it, an apology on her lips, did she realise that it was meant to break apart, as fossil stones would break, revealing still more intricate forms within. The two halves fitted together perfectly.

"I would like to buy this," she said, turning to show Fitchett what was in her hands. Sara stood beside her husband, her arms folded and her expression satisfied. Fitchett nodded, and came to take the pieces gently from Belle's hands.

"A sea fossil. Does it remind you of home, Lady?"

Belle floundered, taken aback by his way of using words so sparingly that he seemed to speak in poetry.

"I suppose it does." She hadn't thought of that, had only been drawn to the craftsmanship and cleverness of it, but she had memories of wandering beneath the crumbling cliffs and picking up fragments of fossils. She had never found one as large or as interesting as the one Gillard must have copied. "I'd wondered what to give my new stepmother for a wedding present," she told him, still feeling uncomfortably compelled to fill his interested silence. "I'm sure that I'll find it here, whatever it is."

She heard whispering about the price, while she made her way back up the room, this time along a narrow alleyway between shelves as high as her shoulder. Even the shelves had been made with thought and care, though from such mismatched scraps of wood that they looked as if they should never work. As full as the room was, it was tidy and clean.

Gillard was in favour of making a gift of the fossil. Sara reminded him, in a hissing whisper, that the castle expected to pay a fair price - that the Master willed it so. Belle smiled, faintly, and bent down to take a long cane from the lowest shelf at the very back of the room. The wood was almost black, and Gillard had not carved it at all - simply followed the grain and smoothed it, retaining the slight unevenness of growth in a sturdy limb. It was less a walking stick than an ornament for a courtier or fine gentleman; the head of it was a knob of gold, flattened enough to conform comfortably to the palm. Belle thought of Rumple's clumsy staff, and weighed the thing in her hand. The knob could not be pure gold, it lacked the weight, but such gold as coated it was almost certainly _Rumpelstiltskin's_ gold.

Belle tried the cane as she edged around the corner, around a wardrobe with doors of fretwork so intricate that it reminded her of lace. Sara had no more been exaggerating her husband's skills than her own. Odstone was surely too small a place for their craftsmanship to be appreciated, and this workshop was indeed so far from the marketplace, around a bend in the road, that customers would only come here when they had a purchase in mind.

Sara was still whispering to her husband as Belle's tour brought her back to the door by which she had entered. Pretending that she could not hear, and trying not to feel embarrassed that she could, Belle this time took careful note of the varied boxes on the shelves. Many were small enough to fit a pocket, and lovely, but she sought for a larger one for her gift to Lady Marcelle. She thought of how she had come to Rumpelstiltskin's castle with so little that she could call her own, and of how the sight of her own things - the gifts from the people here in Odstone - had reassured her, displayed in the kitchen. Marcelle held a property in trust for her eldest son, but it was not hers to dispose of as she saw fit; she would bring her sons to Sir Maurice's home, but perhaps little enough to call her own.

A wide, flat box caught her eye. Belle tucked the heavy cane beneath her arm and reached for it, standing on tiptoe. Gillard was beside her at once, ever so gently brushing her arm aside and lifting down the box from the shelf that was slightly too high for her. He tilted it to show her the lid, which was inlaid with mother of pearl showing the little white flowers that Belle had seen emerging in the wooded banks of Odstone since the snow melt.

"Yes," she said, happily. "That will be my wedding gift to Lady Marcelle. Thank you." She had to tilt her head back in order to meet Gillard Fitchett's pale eyes. He nodded, his reaction to the sale one of quiet contentment. "You know that the castle pays whatever is asked," she said, as matter-of-factly as she could, and took the cane from beneath her arm to show him.

She had no doubt that Sara had set a fair price for her new dress. But Sara was well used to selling her work and her wares; Gillard seemed too preoccupied with the making of beautiful things to spend much time thinking of how he should price them for sale. Belle gave Sara a hopeful look, and saw that she was holding the carving of the fossil.

"He'll let you set the price, if you don't argue with him, my Lady," she said, and with the first hint of reproach that Belle had seen from her. A sore point, then, that her husband had such skills and did not use them as well as he might to better their family's living. "That dark wood was expensive, Gil," she said, a touch stern. "And that's the Master's gold there. A fair price, now, and that's for your time as well."

Belle could see, from the bemused, vague look that Gillard now wore, that he considered his time paid for by the pleasure of making the things. A milder husband there might not be, and clearly Sara was happy to be his wife, but it must be a worry to her that he was so... unworldly.

"May I take the things now," she suggested, cautiously, "And pay you when you've had time to calculate the true worth?"

Gillard nodded, but glanced to Sara.

"Thank you, my Lady," she said, with ill-concealed relief. "We'll do our sums and have this right."

"Good." Relieved that she had not offended them, Belle accepted the box from Gillard. While she held it, he carefully unlatched the lid and placed the two halves of the fossil carving side by side inside. "Thank you, then."

To Belle's surprise, Sara came and took her arm as she left by the double doors and stepped onto the road. The gratitude was written plain on her face, now, and she kept her voice low while they walked a little way towards the town square.

"Thank you, my Lady. He's a good man, but sometimes he forgets what's important."

"If anyone cheats you, I wish to hear of it," Belle said, sensing that Sara had accompanied her with more than thanks in mind. "Trade here must be fair for everyone. Then people will come from further away to buy things." She tightened her arm through the other woman's, not wanting her to doubt that the gesture was welcome. "We don't all have a head for figures."

"My youngest does," Sara sighed. "I swear, she'd sit and count the seeds in that cake if I let her, then tell you how much they'd weigh."

The youngest sister could not be older than eleven years. Belle had noticed her doing the little chores during the fitting. Holding pins, winding up the lace and ribbons that Belle rejected or carrying her favourites to the big work table. She had been sewing outside with Elsa and the others, at work on the delicate fabric for the sleeves of Belle's chemise. But just because she had a skill with the needle, it did not mean that she must become a seamstress.

"How is her reading and writing?"

"Oh, fair." Sara stopped, drawing her gently to a halt and releasing her arm. "Lulie said you wanted a school here."

"I thought of it. Is one needed?"

The woman nodded, though none too confidently.

"When I think of what Gil could've been, if he'd had the learning," she said, and let the thought tail off into a thoughtful silence. Belle waited, adjusting the cane beneath her arm and clasping the box closer to her chest. "The world's so much bigger than this place, isn't it? And my girls'll have to fight for a good husband if they stay here. Learning's a start."

"Yes." Belle touched her arm. "If you'll bring the dress to the castle when it's finished, we can talk properly. Over tea. And I shall pay you sooner if you like, of course. Just knock at the main door. I might not hear you at the kitchen door."

To her credit, Sara's expression did not change, although her hands tightened against her skirts. Belle hesitated, aware of what she was asking, but decided that Rumple was right. There were times when Odstone must come to her, in her place, and put up with the fact that it was also _his_ place. "Rumpelstiltskin won't harm any friend of mine."

Sara took that as a compliment, as perhaps it was meant to be, and her ears grew pink.

"Thank you, my Lady," she managed, flustered, and gave Belle a nod before turning back to the workshop. Gillard had stepped outside to watch them, and that same, amiable, slightly puzzled expression was on his face.

Glancing back to wave before she turned the bend in the road, Belle saw them standing hand in hand. Both waved her off.

It was a pleasant stroll back to the castle. Belle felt stronger than she had in some weeks, her muscles not turning to water at the steady climb from Odstone towards the crest of the hill. It felt wonderful to be more her old self again, enthusiastic for the tasks ahead of her again. And the first of those would be a gift for her husband.

The cane was elegant, reminding her of those she had seen in the hands of men her father's age, not so much because they were infirm as to display their wealth and manners. But it was sturdy enough to steady Rumpelstiltskin's weight, and he might find it less cumbersome than his old staff. Besides, she suspected that he detested the thing, the memories that kept company with it. He had kept it close to him all these years, but not out of sentimentality. To remind him of the old weakness and the old helplessness, so that he could avoid ever knowing them again.

And now he feared that he did. With magic still at his fingertips, and lifetimes worth of knowledge, and riches beyond those of kings, Rumple feared that he had become weak once again.

Well, a weak leg did not equal a weak man. That was something in the heart, and if Rumpelstiltskin faltered, his wife would be beside him to steady him with her own strength until he rediscovered his own. And... and she should learn to accept his, shouldn't she? His dispassionate eye when she was overwrought. His knowledge where she was ignorant. His counsel, even when she could never agree with his cynical view of the world. They had to try, they had to do better for each other than they had these past weeks, and perhaps Belle could strive for some of Sara Fitchett's stoicism if it meant having strength enough to lend Rumple.

Preoccupied with such thoughts, Belle hardly noticed the gentle downhill walk back to the castle walls. She had not yet had a good look from the outside, and found that she rather missed the way things had looked when a less imposing wall surrounded Rumpelstiltskin's formal garden. But the gatehouse was still busy with masons and carpenters, and as she threaded her way around their carts and benches and tools, their murmurs of greeting reminded her of how it felt to enter a proper castle - a working castle at the heart of the community it protected. If nothing else, she would soon be able to offer the people of Odstone shelter behind imposing defences.

Something seemed different about the buildings within, too. In a hurry to cross the grim cobbled courtyard and reach the castle doors, Belle did not stop to puzzle it out. She let herself in and went straight to the table in the marbled hall to put down the cane and the box.

As she looked up, shaking the slight cramp out of her arms, Belle's lips parted in surprise. There was colour where there had only ever been gloom and grey-white marble; some paint here, some gilding there, and above all there was _light_. She looked around her, baffled, and saw that where there had been grim trophies belonging to Rumple - a suit of armour with holes in it, a rearing stuffed bear, an empty iron gibbet - there were now plinths bearing elaborate arrangements of flowers. They filled the place with scent where it had only ever smelled of dust and wood smoke.

Every door leading from the marble hall stood open, and showed light beyond. Belle had briefly investigated them all, on her first day in the castle, and found them full of cobwebs and shrouded objects, the windows boarded shut. Now... She turned around, slowly, not sure where to look first. A difference in the quality of the light drew her towards the familiar room, the great room. Rumpelstiltskin stood behind the fireside chairs, his worried expression attempting to become a smile. Belle went to him, took his outstretched hand, and gripped it while she looked around. The heavy plush curtains that had blocked out the daylight were gone, replaced with open drapes of cloth of gold. Sunlight filled the room, simply filled it, and there were changes everywhere. She dragged her gaze to Rumple's face and closed her mouth, only then realising that it must have been hanging open all this time.

Rumpelstiltskin lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, just lightly. He studied her eyes, looking for her response to this unexpected redecoration, and Belle saw hope and love there in the honey-brown, mingled with that nervous uncertainty.

"Welcome home, Belle," he said, and gave a relieved, near-silent laugh into her hair when Belle stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.


	116. Corners

There was no place to begin.

Having grown accustomed to her home, to its dark reds and heavy shadows, Belle tried to look everywhere at once to see what Rumple had done. While she stared about her, questions piling up on the tip of her tongue, she gripped the back of Rumple's waistcoat as though afraid that he might wander away before she pulled herself together enough to speak.

He watched her, one hand on the back of a fireside chair to keep himself steady. Belle glanced down and, yes, the chairs were different too. Upholstered in a warm brown, the one armchair was now accompanied by a couch, and the couch was covered in cushions. The long dining table had been dressed with a cloth, its creamy length interrupted by three golden bowls full of red roses. Some of the old pedestals bore vases as well, others gold and silver ornaments or ornate weapons. Of Rumpelstiltskin's gruesome collection, there was no sign. No severed hand, no staring puppets. She had thought them to be his favourites, since he seldom moved them when changing the items on display.

The spinning wheel now occupied the space beside the window at the near end of the room. There was the wheel, and his baskets beside it, and his crude little three-legged stool. But, nearby, an oak settle pushed back against the wall, where its occupants could benefit from the light. Where the wheel had once stood, now there were two couches, facing one another across a low table, and the table was scattered with books.

Belle had felt Rumple's breathing grow faster, while she stared about them with her mouth open. She registered it, now, and lifted her gaze to meet anxious brown eyes.

"If this isn't to your liking, you have only to say."

Careful not to unbalance him, she eased herself closer to his side and slipped her arm right across his back.

"I like it." Faint praise, but Belle was near enough dumbstruck. This had been so much _his_ place that she had done no more than dust a little and stay away, unless he was there and seemed to welcome her presence. "So many flowers."

"Come?" Rumple took up his staff, fidgeting it into position, and Belle finally came back to herself, and remembered the gift that she had brought him. But Rumple was trying to usher her towards the double doors beside the fireplace, the ones that had stood closed ever since she came here. The room beyond was well-lit - an inviting, warm light that drew her.

Once, it must have been a public room. A ballroom, or where great lords held court - as wide and almost as long as the great room itself. The one time she had peeked inside it, Belle had found it pitch dark and musty - empty even of Rumple's usual clutter of odd trophies. Now...

Now, the very walls were lined with bookshelves, almost floor to ceiling, and many of the shelves were full of books. Her study of the room progressed no further than that, because she had brought her hands up to her mouth to stifle a cry of astonishment, while her eyes misted up with tears.

"Every book in the castle," he explained. "Saving the ones that bite. And plenty of room for more." He spoke as though trying to persuade her of the room's merits, while Belle gulped behind her hands and blinked hard, taking two steps forward onto the polished floorboards and feeling that she was _surrounded_ by books. "Belle?"

His hopeful tone had become a worried one, and Belle turned back to Rumple to catch his free hand and squeeze it far too tightly. She was shaking!

"You did all this for me?" she asked him, through the teary blur. He nodded, his thumb rubbing at the back of her hand. She was making him anxious, uncertain, and he had done all of this for _her_. "Rumple." Belle twisted her hand free and wiped her eyes, then blinked until she could clearly see her new library. The smaller room, upstairs, was beautiful with its ironwork and its lanterns, but it wanted for natural light. Here, Rumple had... well, he must have removed the far wall and continued the room across the servants' passages to reach the windows on the inner side of the building. And those windows were nothing like as fine as those that fronted the palace. At least until now. Like the bookcases, the wide windows ran almost floor to ceiling, each one with a cushioned window seat beneath, and the glazing was as delicate as that in Belle's own chamber. Here, there were no token curtains to obscure any of the daylight, but brass - no, _gold_ \- chandeliers hung from the ceiling and each one took a hundred candles.

Belle turned on the spot, drinking in the sight of so many books, until she was facing Rumple and his nervous, searching gaze. His fingers fidgeted at the top of his staff as he tried to decide what her silence meant.

"Thank you," managed Belle, although it emerged as a croak. "It's wonderful."

His relief was accompanied by a smile. It had become rare to see such pleasure in him, and Belle was sorry for that. Gently, she laid her palms against his chest, just below the shoulders, and tried to find the words to thank him better.

"There's more," he said, washing her tentative effort at thought away with his words.

"More?" She glanced over her shoulder, back at the great room, and remembered that the entire hall had seemed full of light. There had been light coming from the rooms on the other side of it, hadn't there?

Belle followed his slight gesture in the direction of the marble hall, but first stood aside so that she could catch his left hand in her right. The scent of the flowers out there was almost overwhelming. Not only roses, here, and the flowers were not in shades of red, but creams and yellows, with blooms that overhung their containers, trailing among variegated green and white foliage atop slender, marble plinths. She did not recognise most of the flowers, and the scent seemed exotic, almost musky in its sweetness. It made her think of faraway places.

The door opposite what was now the library led to a smaller room, which was decorated in cool shades of blue and green. The roaring fire in the hearth on the far wall seemed incongruously bright in the midst of tranquil colours. Belle glanced at Rumple's expression, then gave the new room her attention.

When last she had opened this door, the room had been dark and dusty, with its treasures draped with sheets. Belle had uncovered none of the lumpy, looming furniture, mindful of her promise to leave all mirrors covered and unable to be sure what lay beneath the dust cloths. All of that was gone, along with any dust that she had been unable to tackle. There was a backless couch before the fire, either end a carved scroll of pale wood and its surface scattered with white, tasseled cushions. To her left, a writing desk with a round-backed chair, and to her right an empty bookcase, all of that same, pale wood. Her letter box sat neatly in the centre of the desk, which was otherwise empty save for a golden inkwell.

Compared to the lavish decoration in the great room, this was a respite for the senses - a place to be quiet and thoughtful, and the presence of the letter box suggested that Rumple intended for the place to be hers.

Still lost for any words that matched the moment, Belle found herself gripping his hand far too tightly, as though afraid that he would lose his nerve and retreat back to his turret before she managed to be properly grateful to him.

"One more," he said, guiding her back out into the marble hall. They walked slowly to the final door, the one opposite the great room. Belle had given that one a thorough dusting and sweeping when she first arrived at the castle, only to give it up when she discovered that behind the curtains, the windows were shuttered and locked. The room was as wide as the great room but half as long, with a connecting door in the centre of the far wall. It had been blocked by a monstrous suit of armour, then, and Belle had been unable either to move it or to stretch her arm past it to discover whether the door was locked to her. There had been a number of rolled up carpets leaning against the wall, and more shrouded objects that looked like they stood atop plinths. The dust had been so thick that she left footprints.

Bare floorboards now gleamed with polish. A small carpet in the centre of the room broke the expanse, and it was the least practical colour for a carpet that Belle could imagine - a warm cream, thick and plush. There was a round table with six more of the comfortably rounded chairs, of rich walnut wood this time, with their seats upholstered in shades of cream and gold. Everything in the room, from the pale yellow paint on the walls to the gauzy golden curtains, seemed soft and warm. A tame fire glowed in the fireplace. A touch of gold or white here and there - a pillar, a ceiling boss, an alcove - lent the pale room texture where it lacked for shadows.

Rumpelstiltskin put his hand on her shoulder.

"I thought that you could see your women here," he offered, in that gentle and hopeful voice that always half broke her with answering tenderness. "Meet with Janek. They'd barely need to step inside the castle."

Their conversation of this morning came back to her, then. His promise that her kitchen was perfectly safe for her visitors. Belle tore herself away from the changes to the room and turned to face him, reaching for his waist and staring up at his face. She could see him so clearly in the afternoon light; every crease and wrinkle of his face, and all the marvellous colours of his hair. His chin and upper lip were darkening with a new growth of bristles, and as she watched, he caught a breath through parted lips, his eyes straying to hers for the tiniest, telling moment.

"Everything is beautiful," Belle said, finally content that words could not do the moment justice, so the words she did have would have to make do. "Thank you."

Sometimes, it was a mystery to her how a kiss began. Did she pull ever so slightly where she held his waist, drawing him in? Was the slight, questioning tilt of his head the reason she tilted her own head back a little more, ready to receive a kiss? Rumple closed his eyes as he leaned down. Belle closed hers when their lips met - nothing but a soft press, until she breathed in through her mouth and her lips parted, inviting him to catch at her upper lip with his lower one. So gentle.

Neither of them hurried to draw away. When they did part, Belle had the taste of him on her lips, and found that she had pushed her hands up beneath his waistcoat to find the warmth of him through the silk of his shirt.

"Why did you do all of this?" Stepping back, Belle spread her hands in a gesture that tried to encompass so much change. The flowers, the rooms, the light.

She expected Rumple to reply that it was a gift - to gently brush aside her question with it. Instead, he nodded towards the pale room, indicating that she should go before him. Belle did so, and went to stand on the absurdly thick carpet. It was like standing on a cloud!

Couches nestled beside the fire, with room enough to seat six people if they did not mind their elbows touching. Rumple lowered himself onto one of them, carefully propping his staff beside him. He moved cushions aside to make room for Belle to sit beside him, and took her hand when she did so.

Belle was about to repeat her question when she saw that he was the one looking for words, now. When he eventually decided what to say, Rumple met her gaze and gave her hand a soft squeeze.

"I thought of you inviting your women to visit you in the kitchens. Realised..." He gave a tiny shrug; a sigh that could barely be heard, even this close. He looked down at their hands. "I never meant to banish you to the kitchen and the corners. I never made this a home for you, and I'm sorry for it."

He could speak so softly when caught up in tender feeling, his thoughts and his heart far removed from the darkness. He had the sort of voice that could carry tenderness, like a pure note.

Belle thought about what he had said. He had brought her here, never expecting that she would gladly remain, let alone that his new wife would work her way into his heart, his secrets and his bed. The castle's magic could have given her anything she asked for, yet even once she understood that, Belle had not liked to make too much use of it. She could have done this herself, she supposed; shaped the castle to suit herself. Had Rumpelstiltskin _expected_ her to?

"You let me do just as I liked," she reminded him.

"I don't just mean all this." Impatient with words, Rumple gestured towards the windows, the ceiling, the carpet. In her hand, his fingers curled. "I'd no intention of making room for you, and I'd made you my _wife_." He sounded appalled by his own revelation, and Belle hitched herself nearer to his side, half afraid that he would spring to his feet and vanish rather than continue such a conversation. Rumple leaned into her shoulder, gratefully. "That's what happened with Milah. All those years ago. I only left her the corners. She grew to _hate_ me for it."

"I don't hate you." Simple truths were all that she could offer her husband, sometimes; they were all that seemed to reach him when he fell into doubt.

Rumple released her hand and reached across her shoulders instead, clasping her against his side. Belle rested against him, and wondered if he was right. Oh, she had not minded finding her own places in the forgotten corners of his home, but it had been much harder to learn that she must fight for their very _love_ lest he try to push it out of his sight. Closing her eyes, Belle laid her cheek against his shoulder.

"I missed you terribly, this past week," she told him. "And worried for you. It's hard when you don't allow me to be your wife. It's lonely."

"I'm sorry." He _sounded_ sorry, his voice strained and his words followed by a careful, slow breath. "Belle, I..." She straightened as he released her, and turned herself to face him better so that she could see his eyes. "Look," he requested, and held out his right hand, palm upwards. There was the glow and coiling smoke of magic there, and then...

Belle forced herself not to recoil. The dagger of the Dark One lay across his open hand, and it seemed to batter against whatever sense for magic she possessed, the very glint of the patterned blade mocking her revulsion.

Rumple took it by the black hilt and turned the blade to show her the other side. His _name_ , still etched into the metal as though it had always been there. But... Belle's eyes watered, as sometimes happened when she tried to study magic too closely. She rubbed them, quickly, and caught what her senses had tried to deny; a fraction of a moment where the blackened letters of his name wavered and faded.

"What does it mean?"

"I thought... That I could restore my power, I thought. Be as I was. Be the Dark One again. Or am I, still?" Rumple turned the blade this way and that, fascinated by the way it caught the light. "It's so old, this curse. Trying to understand its power is like trying to read a book from before a time of words. Even for me."

Placing her hand over his wrist, Belle pressed until he lowered hand and knife to his knee. Only then did Rumple tear his eyes from the milky silver blade, blink, and look at her. He took a deep breath.

"The power's not in me, I know that. But it seems that it still bears my name."

"That power didn't bring you to Baelfire," Belle reminded him, stressing the words and leaning towards him in her urgency to be understood. "Have you ever wondered if it held you back, to serve its own ends?"

His frown was her answer; the very idea struck him as absurd. Carefully, Belle took the dagger from his hand and placed it at their feet, then straightened and took both his hands in hers. Was it only a coincidence that Rumple's slightly pitying expression at her ignorance began to falter into doubt? Or was it that he had relinquished the knife, and regained the ability to doubt?

Belle would be the first to admit that her unthinking revulsion made her suspicious of the dagger, when perhaps there was no cause. But even as a mere symbol of the Dark One, it had true power. And it still held her husband's name like a jealous trophy, when true love's kiss should have snatched Rumple clean away from it. Shouldn't it?

"Thank you," she said, because if there was one way she knew to defeat the darkness, it was to push back against it with her love. "For showing me. Trusting me." She squeezed Rumple's hands and lifted them, kissing the back of his knuckles as he so often kissed hers.

Nodding, Rumple leaned towards her. Where she had drawn breath for a kiss, Belle found herself exhaling in surprise when he simply rested his brow against hers, keeping their joined hands drawn up between them. A strand of his hair tickled her nose.

"I need your help," he whispered. "I wanted to keep you out of it, keep you safe, but I don't know what to do. Where to turn." The whisper became strangled. Belle heard him swallow; felt him carefully and deliberately loosen his hold on her fingers where he had been crushing her. "I need your hope, Belle. I need you."

 _Oh..._ Belle freed her hands and reached up to hug him around the neck as she had before. Rumple pressed his cheek to her ear, his hands at her sides but itching - oh, she knew he was _itching_ \- to slide them behind her, and follow the shape of her curves.

"Kiss me." Belle let her cheek drag against his as she moved within reach of a kiss, enjoying the slight scrape of his stubble against her skin. Rumple did kiss her, the first effort clumsy in its urgency. Then a second, far gentler kiss that they could ease into while they found the best places to rest their hands.

Even now, Rumple kissed her as though he didn't quite dare to. Belle caught the back of his head and pulled him to her, harder. The kiss deepened and she and felt his fingers curl stiffly against her back as he tried to restrain himself from touching her as he wished. It had been far too long since this blissful warmth crept through her veins - this physical contentment that only seemed possible when she shared herself with Rumple. A kiss was a faint echo of the greater pleasures, of straining, skin to skin, for that perfect moment of relief, but the contentment grew in her, disproportionate to such a light and tender touch as this. She had missed him so, and missed this as well, and could not have found her contentment again until she had heard him speak those heartfelt words to her. _I need you._

When Belle surrendered the kiss to catch her breath, and loosened her fierce hold on his head so that he could straighten, she saw the same peace in him; the peace of a moment that was purely theirs, fading from his features as he opened his eyes and the moment ended. His smile was absurdly shy, and hesitant, as though it might go into hiding at any moment.

Just as she was wondering what to say - whether there was anything that she should say, at such a moment - Belle recalled her gifts on the table out in the hall. Grinning, jumping to her feet, she startled Rumple.

"Close your eyes," she said, and half-ran out onto the marble to fetch the gold-topped cane.

His eyes were closed when she came back and stood before him, and he looked pleasantly puzzled. "Hold out your hands." Rumple did so, uncertainly turning them palms-up as he gained an inkling as to her intentions.

Belle placed the cane across his palms and watched him close his hands around the dark wood. It really was almost black, that wood, and in full light she could see how very carefully it had been smoothed and polished.

"A sword for me to fall on?" hazarded Rumple, weighing it without opening his eyes. "A rod to beat me when I treat you poorly?" He wore a tiny smirk as he said it.

"Don't be silly," Belle laughed. "Open your eyes."

He did. Turned the cane over in his hands, then stood it upright between his feet and studied the flattened knob of gold. Touched it, his finger circling the single, decorative groove in the metal. Looked up at her in unguarded surprise.

"It looked easier to manage than your staff," Belle explained, suddenly worried that she might have offended him by drawing attention to his weakness. "And so beautifully made."

Rumple nodded, turning his gaze back to the cane. He tapped it against the floorboards to test its strength, then used it to lever himself up from the low couch, clutching it hard.

It wouldn't work if he wished to be comfortable, Belle could see at once, and she felt terrible for assuming that it would. The shape of the gold did not allow Rumple to lean his weight there well enough, although she had been correct in thinking that the cane was a good length for him.

"I'm sorry," she began, bending to retrieve his old staff. "I'll return it. Perhaps he can make one that fits you better."

"No, no," protested Rumple, steadying himself on his feet before hitching the cane up in his hand, catching it halfway along its length, and studying it again. With his left hand, he soothed her with a touch to the arm. "It's a grand idea. Thank you."

Frowning in concentration, Rumple turned the cane this way and that, studying the top of it. He passed his hand over it, and a glittering golden light surrounded the head of the cane. When it faded, the gold knob had become a curving handle, its top smooth and very slightly flattened while its sides were in the likeness of a pair of bird wings. Belle could pick out every feather in the gold, and thought that Gillard would have approved.

"There now. A bit more to lean on." Rumple gave her such a smile - so bright and uncomplicated that Belle might have thought him another man entirely. But it was her husband, standing there, and she had brought him this small happiness.

She watched as he tried the cane again, once more testing it before giving it his full weight to attempt a step. He had used the staff as though it had long ago become part of him - without thinking about where to place it, or how to modify the swing of his damaged leg. He made a hesitant journey over towards the windows, then turned, adjusted his grip on the gold and returned with more speed and ease. When he stopped beside her, he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"It's very elegant." Belle gripped his old staff with both hands and held it up slightly. "If the Dark One suffered a terrible injury in a battle of magic, I think he would use that, not this."

Rumple looked puzzled for a moment, until he followed her meaning. Then he smiled again, and it was a much more familiar one - his mouth lifting at one corner more than the other, and his eyes smouldering with dark amusement.

"It must have been quite some battle, that."

"Dreadful," Belle said, straight-faced. Well, hadn't she read enough stories of heroes and monsters to know how one ought to go? "The world has probably never seen such black magic before. To wound the _Dark One_..."

"Indeed." Rumple gave a little laugh. "You've quite the streak of cunning, haven't you?"

It was praise, and Belle took it as such, although she was already uncertain about weaving such a lie. Or was it only a story? Or were all stories lies? Oh dear!

She stooped to retrieve the dagger from the floor, fighting her own fingers when they tried to keep away from the hilt. Rumple watched her intently, making no attempt to take the thing from her hand. His staff in her left hand and his dagger in her right, Belle faced him.

"Where should I put these?"

Rumple's smile, this time, was humourless. He took the staff and rested the end against the floor, turning the wood in his hand as if to set it just to his liking.

"Look," he requested, nodding at the staff, and Belle did as he asked. She had seen and yet been oblivious to the thing ever since she arrived at the castle. More often than not, it had been propped in the corner of the chimney breast in the great room, until Rumple had need of it again. She had grown quite used to seeing it in his hand, or resting beside him while he sat, and even propped at the head of their bed. She had noted the age and the wear of it, the places where the wood had worn smooth under Rumple's hand, but had never truly _looked_ before. It was just a long branch, unusually even in its growth, with the bark stripped away and the wood smoothed. It bore splashes and stains, dents and a few notches, and a series of what appeared to be deliberate, shallow cut marks at uneven intervals below the height of her shoulder.

"These?" Fingering the topmost of the cuts, Belle looked up at Rumple. He nodded.

"A mark for each of Bae's birthdays," he explained, and Belle understood. They had measured the boy's height with this staff just as Belle's father had measured hers with notches in the door frame of his office. Nobody would notice them unless they were looking for something they knew was there. "Maybe he's too tall, now. I like to keep it close."

"Beside the fireplace, in our room?"

"Yes." Nodding, Rumple looked satisfied. "Yes, I think so."

Belle was not about to extend any such welcome to the dagger. The unwelcome weight of it in her hand was bad enough, and she felt as though her skin was trying to shiver, all the way up to her shoulder.

"Is this still safe up there, in your hiding place?" While the blade still bore the name of Rumpelstiltskin, they had to protect the dreadful thing at any cost.

"I restored the spells that guard it." Rumple headed for the door, his steps once again cautious as he moved onto slippery marble with his new cane beside him. He carried his staff against his shoulder, and placed it on the table beside Belle's gift for Lady Marcelle. "But I no longer sense things as I did. Nowhere can be truly safe."

He turned about so sharply, beside the table, that Belle almost walked into him.

"I must know something." Rumple took her by the wrist, raising the hand that held the knife until it was between their chests. "I can trust no-one but you to give me the answer."

Pleased as she was with a declaration of trust, Belle gave a wary nod. If it involved the dagger, it was unlikely to be anything that she could relish doing for him. But Rumple looked at her so fondly, and the marble hall smelled of flowers, and she nodded.

"Command me," he said, nodding to indicate the dagger. "Invoke my name and command something of me. I must know," he said, quickly, when Belle began to protest. "Belle, _we_ must know what would happen if this fell into the wrong hands."

Belle's mouth had turned dry at the prospect of doing such a thing; it frightened her, and that was only right. Rumple tried to trust her with his heart, but this was another step beyond; this was to entrust her with his very self.

"You already have the power," he said, gently, as though he had followed her every thought. "From the moment you picked it up. All you must do is will it. Anything." He hesitated, and found the room for dark mirth even here. "Painless, for preference."

"All right." Belle tried to think of something innocuous. But magic was a slippery thing; it might take advantage of good intentions. She must choose her words, her command, with care. She tried to show willing by brandishing the dagger in his general direction, and saw his cheek twitch with the effort of controlling himself. He _was_ afraid. Of what she might do, or that he might still be slave to the weapon?

He was right. They had to know.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she said, trying to at least _sound_ as though she willed the thing, "I bid you... I bid you by the power of this dagger to go and stroke the cat."

His eyes widened in absolute astonishment, and then Rumpelstiltskin burst out laughing. Belle, trying not to snigger herself, watched him carefully for any sign that he was overcome with the urge to go and find Smoke. Other than to lean on his cane with both hands and laugh from his belly, Rumpelstiltskin didn't move.

Belle dropped the dagger onto the table, snatching her hand back as she let go of the hilt and not watching to see it fall. Although there was something infectious in his laughter, the moment of dread was catching up with her and she pushed clumsily into his arms, forcing him to put his left arm behind her and lean heavily on the cane. She buried her face against his collar and pushed her hands up beneath his waistcoat. Her urgency quieted his laughter, and Rumple held her, rubbing circles against her back until she found the strength to release him.

"Please put it somewhere very safe, anyway." Annoyed to find her cheeks wet, Belle wiped them with her sleeve. They were not tears of sadness, but this was no moment to snuffle at him. "Your name, there like that. It's as though it's mocking us."

"I shall."

"Good." Belle fingered one of the large flowers in the vase that adorned the table, feeling silly now that her momentary need of reassurance had passed. She had these new rooms to explore, and every book in the castle to read, and yet she wanted this time with Rumple to last even more. It felt so much like an understanding. "When you've done that, I'll be waiting upstairs," she said, growing shy as the words left her, but enjoying how her heart seemed to flutter. "I really have missed you."

Rumpelstiltskin's intake of breath seemed loud in the echoing hall. Her eyes downcast, Belle saw his fingers fidget along the golden wings of his cane and back again.

"...as you wish," he said, unsteadily. He fumbled, trying to pick up the knife, and hurried towards the staircase.

Where Belle had expected to blush, she felt only a pleasant glow of inner warmth - and the welcome whisper of sweet anticipation.


	117. Knots

By the time she heard Rumple's cane on the stairs below, Belle's stomach was all a-flutter. She hadn't thought... well, she hadn't _thought_ at all when she told him that she would await him upstairs. Anywhere would have suited her, but _upstairs_ and he was surely going to think that she wanted to go to bed!

Belle stood beside the bed and fidgeted with one of the pillows, trying to calm herself. It had seemed impossible, in that moment downstairs in the hall, to relinquish the reassurance of Rumple's love. That was all. Now she felt foolish and nervous, and had not even thought to take off her muddy boots or to brush out her hair while she waited for him to come to her. At least Rumple was unlikely to be overcome with burning desire at the sight of her, then.

It was with an uncomfortable suspicion that she had misled him that Belle listened to his approach. The new cane made a much softer sound than his staff, which Belle had propped beside the fireplace as they had agreed. If they tipped the stick with leather, she thought, he might even regain his ability to creep up behind people. It was the sort of thing that the Dark One was supposed to do.

Realising that she must look quite silly, standing there and fretting, Belle plopped down hard on the edge of the bed just as Rumple began the final half-flight of stairs. Whether she had misled him or not, he was hardly going to force the issue; she already had his promise on that, and it had been such a tender promise that Belle felt ashamed of even a moment's doubt. Besides, she knew now what she had not known on her wedding night; that a woman could provide her husband with all manner of satisfaction without permitting him to enter her. She wished that she _had_ known it then. That she had known all sorts of things then.

Rumpelstiltskin paused in the doorway, looking for her, one hand tucked behind the small of his back while the other gripped the golden bird wings of his new walking cane. The cane was more elegant than his heavy staff, there could be no doubt of that. It spoke of indulgent wealth where the old staff spoke only of poverty and pain. He smiled when he saw how she looked at him, and withdrew the hand from behind his back.

He held a single rose stem, the pale flower still in bud, and proffered it as he came towards her. All of Belle's foolish fears evaporated with that simple gesture. Rumple came expecting nothing of her, just as he always had.

"Thank you." Belle brought the flower to her face and breathed in the scent. The creamy white petals shaded almost to yellow at their tips. "It's beautiful."

Rumple sat beside her, awkward for a moment with the cane before he caught it between his knees to keep it from falling to the floor.

"My wife is beautiful," he said, and Belle's whole heart tried to wrap itself around those words. Undeserved flattery, perhaps; she was still pale, she knew, and her hair was all over the place, unruly about her shoulders. But Rumpelstiltskin was careful with words, and had never cheated her with easy compliments. If he spoke of her beauty it was because he found her beautiful here and now. Belle bowed her head over the rose, shy of her own smile.

"I didn't mean to summon you as though I still held the dagger." Belle took a steadying breath and turned herself around to face him, resting her left hand on his thigh. Rumple's faint smile grew a little, but he kept his eyes downcast.

"Neglecting you hasn't profited me. Perhaps obedience to your every whim will?" He gave a silent chuckle at his own joke, then raised his head to study her face. Belle could see the strain of the past days still there, dogging him with exhaustion and frustration alike. The expressive little furrow between his brows that used to appear when he frowned seemed to have set itself as a permanent feature. He was too pale, his lips too dry and his eyes bloodshot. And so sad. "Command me by all means, little wife," he said, small-voiced. " _I_ don't know what to do." He trailed a fingertip down the rose, then across her hand. He rubbed at the band of gold on her finger. "Love turns to dust in my care."

Her heart gave one of those painful lurches at his words - at the despair behind them and that wrung-out look about him. Belle wanted to crush him to her breast and comfort him, but he was asking her - _asking her_ \- for more than that. For... strength. For advice. For forbearance. For her to lift the burden from his shoulders somehow.

Belle squeezed his thigh.

"I read once that magic cannot be destroyed. It can only be moved about. Is that true?"

Startled by the direction of her thoughts, Rumple blinked at her, then nodded.

"...Yes."

"And true love is the most powerful magic of all."

"So they say." He covered her hand with his, the pressure keeping his own from trembling. "Although I begin to doubt it."

"Then love will always be love, even if we lose sight of it." Belle leaned a little nearer, making sure that she caught his eye before she whispered, "Your wife loves you, Rumpelstiltskin."

Tears filled his eyes before he closed them and kissed her, clumsy and off balance but beyond any words that could express his gratitude. The feather-light stroke of his lips against hers spoke for him, of regret and of sweet tenderness. When he moved his head, buried his face where her neck met her shoulder, Belle shivered in anticipation of another kind of kiss, but Rumple merely hid his face there, his hands catching awkwardly at her clothing as they twisted to reach one another.

Smoke pushed her way between them and stepped onto Rumpelstiltskin's thighs, arching her back in a luxurious stretch, and Rumple straightened, releasing Belle and staring blankly at the cat.

"Smoke missed having you here, too." Struggling not to grin, Belle watched the cat turn in a circle, trying to force an inadequate lap to accommodate her.

"She visits me. Sits on my books." His hand hesitated over Smoke's shoulder for a moment, then he stroked her from shoulder to tail, earning a purr. "Sleeps in my straw. Pats at my spinning."

"She's looking after you for me." Belle gave him a kiss on the cheek, slipping from the bed and trying to emulate Smoke's comfortable stretch. "If she could only persuade you to eat and sleep."

"I will." Rumple sounded so wretched that Belle turned, not knowing what she might find in his expression. Expecting thunderclouds, she found only the same blank bemusement as when Smoke first accosted him. He continued to stroke her, to the cat's smug delight. "I... it's just that..."

Belle almost spoke - drew breath to speak, to reassure him and to promise him her love. But something stilled her tongue and she released the breath again, watching as the struggle played itself out in Rumpelstiltskin's expression and posture.

"Nothing tastes as it should. Feels as it should," he confided, after a silence that seemed, to Belle, to last a lifetime. "Like a dream. As though none of it is... real."

She could tell from his strained voice that these were not the words he wanted - only the best that he could find to explain himself. For her sake. "Even magic."

No wonder that everything felt like a dream, she thought, while he was so exhausted from neglecting himself that his eyes had sunk into dark circles. But she didn't say so, too aware of how it cost him to unbend this way. To be weak in her eyes, after everything else. His need only filled her up with tenderness, of course; she wanted only to gather him to her bosom and to stroke his hair, and give him a wife's comfort. But reassurance was not all that a man might need from his wife, was it? An ear as well as a shoulder. Silence as well as words. Belle bit her lip, too aware of how often she had spoken across his doubts, and silenced them with her love and her good intentions.

Should she sit beside him once more? Touching the cat appeared to soothe Rumple almost as well as his spinning could, or one of her ribbons. Belle knelt instead, remembering how she had loved to watch him sleeping - just to watch, watch _over_ him, and to feel that she belonged at his side. Smoke eyed Belle as though taking the measure of her, then turned and rubbed her cheek against the buttons of Rumple's waistcoat, her feet splayed to keep her from slipping down the slope of his thighs. Belle was sure that she had her claws out, gripping the leather, but Rumple didn't seem to notice.

His gaze had followed Belle, unseeing, to the ground. Now he blinked, making a visible effort to collect himself once more. To smile. It lightened his eyes, even if he could not quite manage to lift his lips.

"Your throne has been usurped, mistress." He nodded to the cat. Belle grinned at him.

"I'm not a jealous woman."

"I think she might be." He lifted Smoke and set her beside him, putting an end to the enthusiastic purring. "I'm cold." Rumple made a slight gesture towards the fireplace. When Belle turned her head to look, a couch was there, replacing the straight backed wooden chair. Smoke stiffened and then just as quickly relaxed again, and sat down beside the hot water bottle to wash her hindquarters.

He _was_ cold. Taking his outstretched hand as she got to her feet again, Belle felt the chill of his skin. He had not been warm before, but a few minutes without moving had left his fingers icy. Worried, she touched the back of her hand to his brow, and found the slight clamminess that she associated with fever, not chills. It was so unlike him to even notice a minor discomfort, let alone to complain of it. She went with him to the new couch, and bent to add fresh logs to the fire before sitting beside him.

It was very comfortable, that couch. The seat was well-stuffed, the back high enough to trap the warmth from the fire, and the scrolling wooden arms so shallow that, with a cushion, they could become a pillow. Belle wondered why she had not thought to ask him for such a thing before, but the borrowed chair had served them. She had to pull her thoughts away very firmly from the memory of that first time she had perched upon his knees, while he saw to her _particular need_.

Rumple reached across her shoulders and drew her to his side. For her comfort or for her warmth? Belle toyed with her rose as they breathed in time together, her head upon his shoulder. After a while, Rumple eased his bad leg out straight in front of them, foot towards the fireplace, and sighed noisily.

"Do you have dreams like those? Where you cannot tell what's real or right?"

Belle thought about it, trying hard to recall her dreams. They almost always slid away from her as she awakened, except for the ones that visited her regularly.

"I have days when I'm not sure that I've really woken up," she offered, when the trawl of her memories unearthed only familiar nightmares and fragments of oddities. "Is that what you feel like? As if you wouldn't be surprised to open your eyes and find yourself still in bed, and realise it had been a dream?"

"Yes." Her Rumple sounded so glum. So weary. "Time passes so slowly that it maddens me, and yet..." He waved one hand before him, vaguely, as though attempting to pluck the words from the very air. "And yet I look up and a week has gone by, and my sweet wife's heart is breaking because I've not seen her. Not really." He allowed the hand to fall to his lap. "Please forgive me."

"I forgive you." Belle turned her head far enough that she could kiss his shoulder. "What was it like for you before? Time passing?"

"I'd no need to think about it. I could feel it in my bones. Feel... everything. _Live_ it."

Just as she could hear the frustration in his search for the proper words, Belle felt her own at being so incapable of understanding. This was important; he wanted her to understand this, and to understand his struggle, and while he could speak and she listened gladly, they had not the bridge to understanding.

It wasn't only frustration. She heard the longing in his voice as well. While she could never know how it felt to bear his terrible curse, Belle knew a little of what it was to yearn for things lost and past her reach.

"And magic?" she ventured, when it seemed that he would say no more without her prompting.

"Yes." With rather jerky movements, Rumple stopped clasping her to his side and began to stroke her hair instead. "That as well. The knowledge is there but..." His free hand drew patterns in the air again. "My thoughts are so slow. Like a dream."

Was that simply how an ordinary life felt if one wasn't used to it? Like being trapped inside a sluggish dream? Belle grimaced to herself, not liking that idea at all.

"You know," she said, and almost didn't go on. She didn't want to become some dreadful nag of a wife; she _didn't_. "It might be easier to decide that you've woken up if you spent a bit more time sleeping."

To her intense relief, Rumple snorted with amusement instead of impatience.

"And easier to remember the true taste of food if I spent more time eating. Yes, yes. I know." Grumble though it was, it sounded like a comfortable one. Belle smiled. "It turns my stomach, Belle. Every bite." He made it sound as though the fault were his.

First leaning across him to place her rose on the arm of the couch, Belle placed her hand on his belly. She knew when the gesture caused him to smile; some small change in his breathing or in the set of his shoulders.

"I liked Wren's tea when I felt queasy," she offered, and immediately wished that she had found something better to say. He had not asked to be reminded of _her_ troubles! And, yes, Rumple went tense at the reminder, but only for a moment. Then he put his other arm around her and urged her closer to him, kissing the top of her head.

"What did she put in it?"

"Sage, I think. Sometimes mint. It tasted..." Belle hesitated, trying to describe the taste that she could recall as clearly as anything. "Green."

Rumple's silent chuckle rocked them both. It gave way to a pleasant, still moment, with Belle comfortable in his arms.

"But you are feeling... better?"

"Yes. I felt better almost as soon as... as it was gone." Belle shut her eyes, as if that could deny the startling pain of remembrance. It pinched at her innards anyway, and left her breathing unsteadily. "There isn't anything the matter with me. I tire more easily, that's all. Wren said it would take time to mend, nothing more. What about _you_?" She tugged at the front of his waistcoat, wishing that her urgency to change the subject had a less selfish motive. "What would you eat when you were ill, before?"

"Whatever I had. Too ill to work for a day and you don't eat the next." He tugged a handful of her hair, the gesture playful even when the words were anything but. "What would your maids and cooks give you when you sickened?"

"Plain things." Belle fidgeted, uncomfortably aware that she had never known the slightest hardship of that sort. She could not even pretend to understand the harsh life that had shaped her beloved. "Gruel or broth. Salt not sweet." Her nurse had thought very highly of salt, be it for scrubbing skin, bleaching cloth or making a tasteless slop palatable enough to swallow. "There isn't much goodness in it. You gave me eggs and bread pudding when I was hurt. And lamb chops and ox bone soup when..." Again she faltered, running in to the subject that caused her so much hurt, yet would not lie and be forgotten.

"When we lost our child." He said it so simply - the thing that she herself hated to say, as if saying it made it more real. But curse or no curse, this was Rumpelstiltskin. He would remind her that words _mattered_. Swallowing them too often might be poison.

"Yes." Belle watched her right hand form a fist, there against his dark brocade. Her heart beat too fast. "When _I_ lost it." He did not contradict her, and the sick throb of her heartbeat began to settle down in the silence. Belle could _feel_ his keen awareness of her, his tender concern, every bit as much as when they loved each other in bed. His fingers never stopped toying with her hair. "I'd rather worry about you for a little while," she said, after a long time. "It's easier to bear when you're here. When you leave me alone I... I remember that day. How you doubted me. How I wouldn't have asked for your help if it cost me my life, I was so angry." Her breath caught; she had not quite known this. Not the full shape of the ugly notion. "If I hadn't been too proud to argue my innocence you might have saved it. Our baby."

"No." Thick-voiced, he gulped the word and pressed his face against the top of her head as if to stop more words from following after. Squeezed her, as she clung to him for all the comfort she could find in touch. Rumple shook his head once or twice, and loosened his crushing hold on her with some tremendous effort of will. "I might have spared you the pain and the weakness. But when a life is over, it's simply... over. No magic can call it back. Pride didn't do this. Yours nor mine. I promise." Was he crying? Belle shivered. "I was no husband to you that day. I don't know what I might have done had you come to me."

It hadn't only been pride and outrage that kept her from seeking his help, had it? She had not feared him, not even then, because she knew herself to be innocent of any wrongdoing. But she had been quite certain that he would not help her when it came to the child he denied. Belle sat up, nodding and hiding her damp eyes from him by turning to face the fire.

"You were horrible," she agreed, without reproach. "I wish I could forget it. And I don't understand why. Why you thought... When could I have done such a thing even if I wanted to? Who with, and where?" The anger was still all too ready to catch her tongue, but it was a weary disappointment that ruled her voice. The pain felt stale and rotten, and she wanted to drive it away, not invite it in closer to her heart. "This won't help your digestion." Wiping at her face with both hands, Belle tried to tidy her hair.

"Perhaps it will." Rumple eased himself to the edge of the couch, to perch beside her and bow his head over clasped hands. "I do think of you. Worry. Up there." Out of the corner of her eye, Belle caught his small gesture in the direction of the stairs. His turret. His place. "I don't forget you, treasure. Nor how I've wronged you, from the moment we met."

Shocked out of herself, Belle looked at him. He had promised to try, but she had not expected this of him. This grim-faced, soft-worded effort to answer even the questions that she could not bring herself to ask aloud, yet had surely asked him in a hundred aching little silences. And perhaps it _would_ help him, at that. His great and terrible secrets had been torn from him in his shame, in that desperation to make amends. These secret fears that mattered only to the two of them seemed insignificant beside those others, but each was still a burden, in its way. How many did Rumpelstiltskin have that she knew nothing about, and how many had she brushed aside as trifles when he tried to make amends as though for some terrible crime?

"I was thinking of our wedding night," she said, slowly, wary of where the thought might take her. Rumple nodded, glumly, and she placed her left hand upon his knee, not wanting him to construct new fears from old. "You were being as kind as you knew how to be." Sad as she felt, Belle had to smile a little. The memories were still so very bright and vivid to her. She could still taste him, smell him, _feel_ him against her body that night, along with the numbing fatigue, the fading terror, and the fierce acceptance of something that became hers alone when he took her for the first time. _Hers._ "You thought to spare me... yourself." She almost laughed the word, as incredulous now as she had been when first she realised why he avoided her bed those first nights. "That was kind and cruel of you. I cried."

"I know." Rumple sounded as though she had driven all the air from his chest. "I heard you."

Of course he must have heard her. Belle closed her eyes, unprepared for yet another little hurt to shorten her breath. That had been pride, too. Not strength - her refusal to weep until her duty was done had been pride, and the sobs that had taken her had not all been because her new husband left her to sleep alone. There had been fright and fatigue, confusion, homesickness and that overwhelming unknown of her new future, all catching up with her once that duty was done and she could afford to let go of her pride in being dutiful.

Belle squeezed his knee, as much to stop her hand shaking as to comfort him.

"If you wronged me, it was in deciding what I wanted without asking me. Not in taking me..." she groped for a word that didn't sound too awful. "Briefly."

She couldn't tell which of them sniggered first. Just for that moment they were in such perfect accord that it didn't matter. They shared a rueful glance and a weary chuckle, shaking their heads and retreating into shy smiles again. Rumple slipped his hand into hers and stroked at her fingers with his thumb.

"Would you have preferred the Dukeling?"

"I doubt it." Belle groaned inwardly, remembering Gaston. "I almost forgot his medicine." She began to clamber to her feet, but Rumple squeezed her hand.

"Time to let him wake up and send him on his way. I've summoned your prince to fetch him, and Regina for the genie."

Summoned a prince and a queen. Belle had to take a moment to let that settle into her thoughts properly. It had not been so difficult to imagine such things while Rumpelstiltskin wore his curse with such dark glee. Here and now, sitting beside her and stooped at the shoulders, Rumple looked all too ordinary and frail to be summoning princes.

"Then we'd better have a good meal and a good rest before we face them. And you should practise with your new walking stick. The Dark One might be injured by the blackest magic if you spin a good enough story, but the Queen won't believe that you'd fall over your own feet or faint from hunger."

Belle turned her head, suspecting that she had sounded too bossy and too impatient, but Rumple was smiling. Nodding, as though he thought her words wise and worthy, not those of a dreadful nagging wife.

"Tell me," he said, the smile softening to something sad rather than vanishing. He stared into the flames. "How would you go about finding my boy?"

"Me?" Astonished, she turned about to face him properly again. Rumple nodded, dragging his gaze back to her.

"You. My wife who's so wary of magic, of tricks, who wouldn't harm a fly and can love a monster. How would _you_ do it?"

He meant it. He truly wanted to know what she would do to solve the problem that had occupied him for entire mortal lifetimes. Belle floundered, trying to think fast and only managing to tie herself in knots.

"I... I would find out who could help me, and ask them for their help," she said, when nothing more promising came to her. At least it was an honest answer. It was important that she give him that.

Expecting him to scoff, Belle was bemused by another sad little smile. Rumple lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, closing his eyes.

"Yes, of course you would." The words were full of love, not scorn. He seemed quite satisfied with her answer.

Smoke joined them at the fireside and sat watching them, as if prepared to wait for them to do something that interested her.

"Perhaps the cats could live in one of the new rooms," ventured Rumple, his fingers suddenly all a-fidget in hers. "Downstairs." Mild as the suggestion sounded, Belle heard it for what it was; a rather apologetic request. He did not want to upset her, but he would prefer that the creatures live elsewhere.

"If you like." Belle leaned a little nearer and lowered her voice. "As long as you mean to keep me company in their place."

He nodded, relief and embarrassment both evident in his hesitant smile, and then they let their heads come together to rest temple to temple. His hair remained damp from that cold sweat that she'd felt on his brow. Belle gave his hand a firm squeeze.

"A nice meal," she declared. "That's what we both need." She herself was still full up with seedcake, but Rumple was more likely to find his appetite if she joined him. "You like bread and honey."

"I do." That was almost a groan, but Belle knew that he was smiling. "Here." Releasing her hand, Rumple gestured gracefully to the space before them. A low table appeared there, neatly straddling Smoke, whose fur stood on end as her ears went flat against her head. Reproachful green eyes stared out at them from beneath the table, and then she washed her paw with great concentration, turning her back to them.

"You frightened her," Belle scolded, looking over the pair of large silver trays that covered the new table. "That was unkind."

"She knows the scent of my magic by now." Rumple reached over to arrange the teapot and cups to his liking. "After sleeping amongst my spells."

Tea beside the fire as the day drew to a close. It put Belle in mind of nursery days, back in her father's home, and of the company of women. Sometimes it still startled her a little to see her husband do anything as ordinary as pour out a cup of tea. The room began to smell pleasantly of mint and other green things. Smoke forgot herself, there beneath the table, and hunkered down to purr.

He had brought them a fresh loaf of the softest, whitest bread. There was a hard yellow cheese, a platter of sliced meat, a dish of butter and a single plump apple. A saucer of glistening honey sat apart from all the rest, beside the long loaf, and Belle gathered that all of the other things were meant for her alone. Rumple had taken her suggestion of bread and honey for his own meal.

Although he made a show of pouring out their tea and arranging the cups on their saucers, Rumple regarded the food with dull eyes and a sort of leaden resentment.

The smell of the cheese brought Smoke out from beneath the table, nose lifted in pursuit of the scent. She nudged at Rumple's shin with her cheek and offered up a meow.

Belle would simply have given in and offered the cat a share of the delicious smelling cheese, and probably a lick of the creamy butter as well. But Rumple brushed Smoke away from him with his other foot, taking no notice of the bald request for food. He did not even glance down. Had Belle tried to refuse her, Smoke would have tried a louder cry, an anxious and ingratiating purr that contrived to remind Belle that four growing kittens needed nourishment, and then wound persistently about her ankles with the threat of tripping her until Belle understood the importance of doing as the cat wished. She had learned that while Smoke lived near the kitchen. But now, ignored by her master and gently pushed aside, Smoke flicked her tail and stalked off to join her kits in the basket in the corner.

"You have a way with cats."

Rumple almost looked insulted. He took his teacup, choosing the chipped one as always, and edged himself back on the comfortable seat to balance the saucer on his thigh.

"Dogs are loyal and obedient, with hearts full of love," he said, distractedly. "And useful. Cats are each and every one of them like a king."

Laughing at the picture this brought to her mind, Belle looked for the bread knife. Finding none, she broke the loaf with her hands, tearing off the crusty end before tearing that in two, showering everything on the tray with flakes of golden crust. It was like the loaf that they had taken with them from the inn on their journey back to the castle - the soft, sweet bread made from the most expensive wheat flour. Odstone's bakers made fine bread, but this was bread fit for the table of kings. And, she presumed, cats.

"This looks delicious."

"I feel ill just looking it it." Nose wrinkled in his distaste, Rumple sipped at the hot tea. Belle thought that the grumble and the expression were both a little exaggerated. His glances were too anxious about making certain that she was paying attention. He wanted to be persuaded.

"King George says that an army marches on its stomach."

He almost spluttered the tea.

"Does he?"

"So my father says. Get the supply line right or all other efforts are wasted." She turned, proffering a plate with the torn piece of bread. "Think of how your son would look at me if I had to find him and tell him that I let his Papa starve to death."

Rumple blinked at her, and Belle smiled brightly. With any luck, he would be so busy trying to keep up with her chatter that he would forget about his queasy stomach entirely. Belle's tutors had always told her she had a gift for spouting nonsense.

"Bae might thank you for that," he said, but it was another of those almost-contented grumbles, full of theatrical gloom. He allowed her to take his cup and saucer, exchanging it for the plate. Belle slid it onto the table between the trays, and fetched over the dish of honey, holding it out to him with an imploring look. "I'm not an army, my dear."

With a weary sigh, he broke off a small piece of the bread and dipped it into the honey before putting it into his mouth. Belle's confidence in cajoling him to eat weakened somewhat; there was nothing feigned or exaggerated about the grimace, nor about the last of the colour draining from his face while he chewed and forced himself to swallow.

"You didn't like to eat while you were cursed, either," she said, not trying to hide her worry. "But now you must."

" _Must_ is never very palatable, I find." Rumple waved away the honey and tore off another piece of bread, frowning deeply as he watched his own hand. "But there's a price for all magic. I never expected the curse to be broken so what did it matter? One more spell to sustain me. What of it?" Taking a deep breath, he ate the piece of bread. It seemed to go down a little better than it had with the honey. "I shall eat enough to live, little wife. To be strong enough for Bae. Don't stare at me so."

Belle fumbled as she returned the dish of honey to the tray, flustered by his request. By his sober and sobering tone. An apology was on her lips, but he spoke again first. "Distract me, sweetheart. Speak to me about dresses or wedding nights or your nest of kittens." She heard him eat another bite of bread, and nodded, putting some bread and cheese on to a plate for herself.

"I..." How difficult it was to find something to say when simply asked to _speak!_ Belle fiddled with the food for as long as she could, until there was more on her plate than she could eat herself, and then made herself comfortable among the cushions. "I'm used to having better ways of distracting you." He reached over and touched his knuckle to her cheek, and Belle smiled, leaning in to meet the gesture. The warmth of it, the playful way he tugged at a lock of her hair before withdrawing, gave her an idea. "I shall give you lots of kisses when you come to bed with a full belly," she declared. _That_ should distract his thoughts from the taste of his bread.

"A deal? You offer me a deal, mistress?"

"I do." Relieved to hear the amusement in his voice, she faced him, her smile growing. "A kiss for every bite of bread."

"A generous rate of exchange," Rumple mused, turning over the remainder of the bread on his plate. "But there's a lot of bread. We may lose count. No-one cheats me on a deal, you know that."

Well, she had distracted him from his bitter gloom, at least! Her playful husband was here, with seduction in his soft little smile.

"We'll keep a proper tally then." Belle put her plate beside her and rose. She went to her trunk and opened it, taking out the assortment of new ribbons that she had not worn. "Like the fish merchants do. A knot for every barrel of salt cod."

Pausing behind the couch on her way back, Belle dangled the ribbons over his shoulder and let their colours uncoil where he could see. His indrawn breath was so hard that she was grateful he had not taken a mouthful of bread beforehand.

"A dealmaker and a temptress," he murmured, with evident approval. "Very well. We bargain for my appetite as though it were barrels of salt cod. Why not?"

Delighted that her silly idea had lifted his black mood, Belle resumed her seat and spread the ribbons out in her lap. She chose the longest, a piece of pale, wide silk as long as her arm, and pulled it through her hands to enjoy the softness. Rumple watched, captivated.

"A knot for each bite," she prompted, twisting herself to face him and lifting her own plate back onto her bent knee. "And a kiss on account for each knot."

Bowing slightly, gracefully given that he was seated, Rumple tore off a small piece of the bread and put it into his mouth.

While he chewed, his eyes remained on the ribbon in her hand. Belle had a bite of cheese and another of bread, and did her best to keep an appropriately serious expression on her face when the delay caused her husband to fidget, faltering in his chewing as the anticipation won out.

Very slowly and deliberately, Belle tied a loose knot in the centre of the ribbon. Rumple made an appreciative little sound and swallowed the bread.

"Most... distracting," he said, rather hoarsely. Belle giggled.

After four more knots, each added symmetrically to the length of ribbon in the manner of the fish merchants, Rumple reached over and touched it where it lay across Belle's bent knee. Her own mouth full of cold beef, Belle made no comment until Rumple's next bite of bread, which was so small that she would have been justified in calling it a crumb. He barely had to chew.

"That wasn't a bite," she protested, gulping down her meat. "That was hardly even a lick!"

"Size wasn't mentioned," he said, and there was a smugness about him that Belle had not realised she missed so terribly. Her playful husband, so very pleased with himself and his cleverness. That was who she had begun to fall in love with, all those weeks ago; in laughter and teasing. She had to try very hard not to smile. "You bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, dearie," he went on, wagging a finger and contorting his voice into the eerie singsong that she had first known. "Perhaps you should take more care next time."

Feigning bad grace, Belle tied another knot.

"I was going to allow you to choose where the kisses would be," she said, almost managing to sound aloof. Almost. "And to draw out each kiss for as long as you wished. If you mean to cheat, I think they will be nothing but a dry peck on the lips, sir."

Rumple put his hand to his chest, feigning a wounded gasp. He was a great deal better at hiding his laughter than Belle would ever be. A mask, playacting, they came so very easily to him. But they distracted him from himself, and in his distraction they added four more knots to the ribbon, with no further cheating on his part.

"Tell me," he said, fingers pulling apart what was left of the piece of bread. It was little but crust and crumbs, now. "What might I kiss for a bite of cheese?"

Belle grinned hugely and selected another ribbon, holding up its virgin length to show him.

"Ask yourself what _I_ might kiss," she offered, in what she hoped was a persuasively and distractingly seductive voice, and Rumple's answering laughter warmed her to the bone.


	118. Belle's Husband

Laughter and teasing distracted Rumpelstiltskin for long enough to eat a small lump of cheese and a slice of cold beef. Thoroughly enjoying the game of adding promise knots to her ribbons for every bite, Belle was rather sorry when he held up a hand in defeat. Since by now he looked more than a little green around the gills, she let it be and, smiling, exchanged his plate for the ribbons she held. Rumple smiled thinly, dragging the bundle of ribbon through his left hand and letting the loose knots catch as they went.

"You'll have so many kisses you won't know what to do with yourself." Belle topped up their teacups. "And you'll feel so much better in the morning, rested and strong."

Rumple managed a nod and half a smile. Sweat had begun to collect on his brow again, glistening in the firelight. The hand that clutched her ribbons so jealously trembled whenever he allowed it to relax against his thigh.

"You will be all right, won't you?" Belle touched his hand, and only then realised that she asked the question for her own sake. This frailty in him frightened her more than his terrible power ever had. "It isn't supposed to be like this when a curse is broken."

"That's where people go wrong when they dabble with magic. There is no _supposed to be_ , with magic."

"The stories don't say that." Oh, she had known better than to believe wholesale in stories. She _had_. But there had to be some... some _fairness_ somewhere in the order of things. Didn't there? "True love's kiss brings a happy ending. Everyone knows that. All our kiss has done is make you miserable."

"Don't say that." He leaned towards her, brushing the hair away from her cheek with his left hand. "If this were a story, we would have found Bae before the kiss worked and lived happily ever after, no doubt. Stories lie."

Belle found herself staring foolishly into his eyes, quite hypnotised by his voice and by his closeness. She would only need to lean a little further to kiss him, but that would spoil their game of bartering. And besides, he might think that she wasn't listening to him. She blinked and caught her breath, and watched Rumple's smile broaden at the sight of her so swept away. It was a gentle smile, without any trace of teasing.

"I'll be all right." He touched her nose with his fingertip, then lowered it to her lips, watching with heavy-lidded eyes. Belle might have mistaken it for desire, that look he wore, if he weren't so pale and strained. "Can you be patient with me, Belle?" He traced the shape of her mouth with his fingertip, then allowed it to catch lightly at her chin as he let the hand fall. His gaze followed it, hiding him away from her even though he was near enough for a kiss. "Be patient while I learn to make the best of this?"

Beginning to suspect that either exhaustion or a fever ruled his tongue, Belle touched his cheek, then felt his brow. He shivered and drew back, startled. She wondered if he even remembered asking her that question a moment ago.

"You're not going to be sick are you?" He looked as though he might, all clammy and uncomfortable, his hair sticking unpleasantly to his temples and to his neck.

"I still kept my end of our deal." Rumple twisted the two knotted ribbons around his hand, dropping the others into her lap. They were somewhat crushed and damp. "I'll be all right. You're quite right. Some proper rest. A few good meals." He nodded, without obvious confidence in the words.

"Get into bed, then." Belle felt that her chest could burst with the frustration of being so incapable of _helping_ him. It made her sound cross and anxious where she wanted to sound warm and reassuring. "I'm sure that even the Dark One can afford to let his wife make a fuss of him, sometimes."

She made as if to rise, but Rumple caught her at the waist and drew her towards him - into his lap, so that she had to kneel upon his thighs if she wanted to keep her balance. Surprised and intrigued, Belle steadied herself with her hands against his shoulders, watching how he watched her.

"His wife. My wife." Rumple shook his head, leaning back against the upholstery so that he could study her from this new angle. Belle felt awkward there, and far too aware that her hair needed brushing, her face washing. But he saw none of that. He never did. As much as he enjoyed her for her beauty, Rumpelstiltskin had always looked past that skin-deep quirk of fate and seen _her_. "I still can't believe it. That you're mine. That you _want_ to be."

"I am. I do." She tried to ease her weight away from his bad leg, but only managed to make herself wobble so that he gripped her waist more firmly. He watched her the whole time; watched her eyes as if he hoped for more from her. "I like that you're mine."

"I am that." At last he seemed to notice the pressure on his leg, straightening it carefully while steadying Belle with his hands. "When the Queen comes to visit, she must see that you are mine."

Belle tilted her head, fidgeting until she sat astride his knees, her own knees among the cushions of the couch. He shivered beneath her hands where she grasped his shoulders. She couldn't tell, from his expression, whether it was from his malady or a frisson of sweet desire. At least she was no longer adding to his pain.

"I never want to see that woman again." She could say so without heat. Regina and her spite had been the very least of Belle's recent concerns. Nevertheless, it was true. She did _not_ want to spend a moment longer in that mocking company.

"Then I must ask you to do something that you do not want to do." Rumple rubbed her back, very slowly. Soothing her, Belle supposed, though it felt more like a seduction in such an intimate pose as this. "A show of strength. _Your_ strength."

She laughed. At once, Belle clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle it, but she could not take back that expression of naked astonishment.

"My strength?" At Rumple's nod, Belle sat back on her heels. She might have believed that he mocked her, not so very long ago. Not now. His sincerity hurt almost as much. "I've spent the past fortnight snivelling about things I can't change. Putting things off because they seem too difficult and wishing it would all go away. I thought that I was strong, once, but all I've been is... is _stubborn_. The Queen just _laughs_ at me."

Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, even more astonished by the small outburst than Belle was. He lifted both his hands and rearranged some of her hair where it fell across her bosom, watching himself do so. While she waited for him to speak, it dawned on Belle that he, now, was taking care to listen to her, just as she had made herself be quiet and listen to his woes before.

"I'm supposed to be my husband's comfort and strength," she said, not quite wanting to yet unable to stop herself. "And I want to be. I want to give you my strength and my hope, just as you asked. But am I supposed to manage it for both of us?" The hurt in her chest came, and the lump in her throat, but no tears. Not now. She kept her eyes down, half aware of how his hands twined with the ends of her hair. The ends of her ribbons trailed down his arm. "If I am, it isn't fair."

"We make our own bargain as we go, mistress," said Rumple, touching her cheek with his fingertips. "I bought _forever_ with that deal to save your little town, nothing else." He spoke so lightly, his voice almost the soft croon that had soothed her in their first days, when he had not known how to be fond but had been oh-so-careful of her. "But you are strong. Stronger than that witch. That's her bitterness passing for strength, and she's as brittle as thin ice beneath it." He tapped Belle's chest before he let his hand fall, his fingertips light over her heart. "There's strength. I've nothing to match it, but what I have is yours."

"And comfort?" Able only to smile slightly at his whimsy, and at his strange praise, Belle cleared her throat and looked him in the eye. He looked drowsy, but not weary of her talk. He answered her weak smile with one of his own.

"Warm feet?"

"Among other things." For some reason, Belle recalled that night in her old room, her old bed, when he had read to her because they could not touch. That had been comfort; his nearness and the way the words washed over her, unimportant compared to the kindness of his voice. Why had she never asked him to read to her again? And why had he never offered? Was it possible that he simply didn't know when his comfort would be welcome - that he hoped she would tell him?

"You look so worried." He sounded wretched and looked worse. "Forget about the Queen. I shouldn't have asked it of you."

"You should." Belle sighed to herself, and squeezed his shoulders firmly before she climbed off him. "And I will face her." It seemed unthinkable that she leave Rumple to face the witch alone when he was so dreadfully out of sorts. And when Regina was so very good at setting his nerves on edge, too. It had taken so little to come between them the last time. Regina had needed but a few words. "Come on," she said, offering her hand to help Rumple to his feet. He let her pull rather than merely taking her hand as gently as possible, and she saw how his other hand shook when he reached for the golden head of his new cane. "Let me make a fuss over you. You haven't counted your kisses yet."

"Hmm?"

Belle nodded to the ribbons, still wrapped safely around his hand.

"How many do I owe you?"

"Oh." He blinked at her. At the ribbons. Nodded. "Yes." Belle gripped his waist and steered him towards his side of the bed. It was not so bad as yesterday, when she had brought him here after a week of sleepless nights, but when Rumpelstiltskin was incapable of a witty retort, she could be quite sure that all was not well with him. She tugged his nightgown from beneath the pillow and offered it to him, challenging him to argue with her. He only nodded again and took the gown, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. After a moment he placed it in his lap and obediently began to unfasten his waistcoat.

Belle placed his cane next to the head of the bed, resting against the wall. She spared a guilty glance at the window; it was barely twilight yet. Their early nights had seemed less indulgent while the days were shorter and colder. Passion had been the temptation then - the discovery of new sensation and new wonders. Now it was something else; a simple desire to be where Rumpelstiltskin was, and to let their affection remind her of what she cherished about being his wife. Besides, she _had_ promised him all those kisses.

"I think I shall join you," she decided. Whose business was it but theirs if she wanted to snuggle up and cuddle her husband at teatime?

"Good," said Rumple, vaguely. A moment later his brow furrowed, became a scowl, and he waved his hand in an irritable way, letting magic perform the chore for him.

It was an effort to hold her tongue. Her disapproval of his unthinking reliance on magic had never particularly swayed him and now was _not_ the time to persuade him.

She took her time about washing her face and brushing out her hair, half-listening to the sound of Rumple climbing into bed. By the time she returned to the bedroom, Rumple was already asleep, a half-hearted effort at a slope of pillows beneath his shoulders. Smoke had already installed herself upon his thighs and curled up tightly.

Belle crept towards the bed, but by the time she stood over him she could see that mere footfalls would not awaken her husband. It looked as if he had been overcome with weariness while piling up the pillows and simply laid his head down a moment, and been lost to sleep at once.

The soldiers had been that way, she remembered, when they fell back from the battle after a day's fighting. Where they stopped they slumbered, too exhausted to do anything else.

She bent to give him a soft kiss on the brow. To her astonishment, one of the knots in the ribbons vanished with a little _pop_ and a brief sparkle of magic - the centre knot, the very first she'd tied. He still had both ribbons wrapped tightly around his hand. Belle could see the crease in the silk where the knot had been.

Well, she'd not wake him for all the world. Kisses would keep until he had his wits about him again. Belle changed as quietly as she could into her nightdress and silk robe. She collected a new bundle of Wren's papers to read. Moving the table that Rumple had conjured for their meal, she sat on a cushion on the hearth rug and filled the bowl of her lap with drowsy kittens. Smoke had clearly chosen Rumpelstiltskin over Belle, and was forthright about her view that a lap cat outranked a mere wife. Perhaps one of the kits would prefer her?

The castle cats at home had been fiercely independent creatures who lived on scraps and the inexhaustible supply of rats and mice to be found about a market town. They would sleep on the occupied beds for the warmth if they could get away with it, a blessing for all concerned on a biting winter's night in a draughty castle, but they could never be thought of as companions any more than the cats themselves thought of their fleas as friends.

Wren had written at length about the use of maggots to clean a poisoned wound in a cow's leg. Belle was far from squeamish about such things and she prized all fresh knowledge, but the descriptions of the creatures eating away the dead flesh made her wrinkle up her nose and wish that she had chosen a book of stories for the evening. _'Much that kills may also cure,'_ Wren had written, before carefully drawing a particular fly and its maggot with charcoal.

"Yuck," Belle told the single, wakeful kitten. It had balanced itself upon her knee while the others slept in the hammock of her skirts, and it watched the movement of the papers with interest. Belle had crumpled up a few sheets of precious clean paper for the kittens to play with, and each and every one of them had vanished beneath the great bed. "I'm not crumpling up Wren's words for you," she told it, and grinned when her attempt at conversation earned a pathetically small meow. Once again envying Rumple's ease with the creatures, Belle tickled its ears and stared into the fire.

Presently, the sound of Rumple stirring in his sleep roused her from empty daydreams. Belle turned her head when she heard him mumble something, but the new couch blocked her view of the bed. The fourth kitten had fallen asleep on her knee; she was able to return them all to their basket without awakening them.

If only her husband slept so easily and so well. Climbing to her feet, surprised at how tired her limbs felt, Belle saw him turn sharply onto his side, tumbling Smoke from the bed. Although the cat landed heavily, Rumple did not wake up. He was caught somewhere between nightmares and waking, the occasional sound in his throat one of protest or of pain.

Belle sat beside him, trying to soothe him by stroking his cheek, then his hair. His hair was damp all over now, his sweat soaking deeply into the pillow, but he still seemed more chilled than feverish. After a few moments, her stroking hand seemed to quiet him, to still him at least, but ought she let him sleep like this, soaked through? His nightgown was as drenched as the pillow.

Had she done wrong in coaxing him to eat when he so plainly had no appetite? What was it Wren had written about fevers and colds?

With a deep breath, she stopped herself letting the fear run away with her. Sleep was a good medicine for most things; everybody seemed to agree on that.

Smoke scratched to be let out, so Belle opened the door just enough for her then went about the room snuffing candles. Closing the curtains, shedding her spider-silk robe, she got into bed and crept to Rumple's side. She could warm him and comfort his bad dreams, and perhaps when he had slept, he would be able to tell her what was the matter with him.

She did not mind curling up against his damp body, but far from warming him she began to grow cold herself. Dragging her discarded robe across, she tucked it about his shoulders like a shawl and settled again, curled against his back on the shallow slope of pillows. After a while, something about him seemed to loosen, his breathing to grow softer, and a little of her fear softened with it.

Calmed by the steady rise and fall of his chest, Belle drifted off to sleep for a while.

It could only have been an hour or so that she slept there, tucked tightly against his back. Greyish twilight still kept the room from complete darkness when Rumpelstiltskin's restlessness awakened her. As before, he made unhappy sounds, fidgeting without quite waking himself from whatever dreams so disturbed him. Belle squeezed him and whispered his name, torn between rescuing him from nightmares and merely trying to soothe him back into a quiet sleep.

Rumple tensed in her arms, awake at once and gasping for air.

"Hush, it was a dream," she tried, though for long moments it was as if he could not hear her. Then he sagged, turning his head slightly in her direction and placing a trembling hand over hers, beneath his breastbone.

"A dream," he agreed, as though to convince himself of it. He twisted himself further, trying to peer at her. "You're soaked," he complained, muzzily.

"No." Belle squeezed him again. "You are. I've been trying to keep you warm."

"Oh." Rumple considered this, looking down at her robe across his left arm. Then he sat up, drawing Belle with him, and passed his hand in front of them both. Without any show of sparkling magic, they were both fresh and dry, and the bed beneath them restored to its usual pristine order. "Better," he muttered, and fell back among the newly-plumped pillows. "Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive." Fretting that he would apologise for that which he could not help, Belle leaned over him. There was only just enough light to see him by; she had left only one candle burning. "You're not well."

Even so, Rumple continued to look uneasy. She fingered his hair, which was dry and clean now but in exactly the same tangled mess as it had been before he worked his magic. He reached for her, then noticed the ribbons still wound around his left hand and held it up between them instead.

"I've been robbed," he declared, touching the place where the middle knot had been.

"I stole a kiss while you were sleeping," Belle confided. It sounded rather saucy, with her voice husky with drowsiness. "I wasn't to know that you'd enchanted the knots."

"Mmm." The corner of his mouth lifted, but most of the smile was confined to his eyes. "Robbed." He drew her over him, drew her down until they were nose to nose. "Cheated by my own enchantment."

"Let that be a lesson to you."

They kissed. It was one of those wonderful kisses where they came together by unspoken, utterly mutual agreement; where the first touch of lips against lips led to a melting, to a closer embrace. Belle startled herself with a muffled little sound of appreciation when the kiss deepened. Rumple grasped her upper arms without pressure, doing nothing to prolong the kiss but meeting her halfway. Breathless when she finally lifted her head again, Belle saw that his eyes were closed.

"I hope that made up for the one you missed?"

"Possibly. What did I miss?" When he opened his eyes, the expression there was almost grave.

"I kissed your brow. Here." Belle touched her nose to the place rather than rob him of another kiss. "Do you feel any better now?"

"Warm and dry with my wife atop me, full of kisses." Rumple cocked his head, playfully. "A little better, yes."

A great deal more alert and playful, at any rate. Belle made herself more comfortable, beside him rather than awkwardly astride him, and invited him with a beckoning gesture to kiss her again. Rumple held up his ribbons and squinted theatrically at the missing knots.

"You have plenty left."

"I don't want to squander them." He withdrew the hand and hid it jealously beneath his chin. Even playacting, that coy expression of his caused Belle's heart to skip a beat. That plunging sensation had been a stranger to her; now it startled her and made her mouth turn dry. "Who knows when I might win some more?"

"I think you should enjoy your kisses and then see if your wife has any more to share." Belle rolled onto her back, pulling an extra pillow behind her head and not-so-accidentally causing her hair to fan out behind her while she made herself comfortable. When she was certain that she had Rumpelstiltskin's full attention and that he was quite, quite awake, she loosened the bow at the neck of her nightgown and allowed the two ends to hang by way of an invitation.

"Belle." Rumple leaned over, touched a fingertip to her chin and let it slide downwards; down her throat, down to the very start of the cleft beneath the crisscross of ribbon. But he watched her face; he watched her eyes, and when she concentrated on that, Belle did not see what she expected to see. His expression was tender and troubled. "It's too soon for this, hmm?"

"For kisses?" Belle shook her head. "Not for kisses. I've missed you too much." But her heart ached with love because he thought of her.

He nodded, and bent to kiss her. It was just a brief touch of lips, a sigh shared as he drew back.

"Not for kisses."

Belle had expected that he would make the most of their bargain - that he would push his luck with every promise knot, but the next kiss was equally chaste, even if he lingered at her lips and tasted her with the stroke of his tongue. That made Belle think of her wedding night, of his fleeting kisses, and that in turn made her yearn. She had wondered, worried, if she would be able to think clearly if she fell into a state of desire; if she might lose control of herself and do what she ought not do. But she need not have worried; Rumple had no intention of doing anything that could possibly endanger her.

It made her feel safe; as curiously, incongruously safe as she had felt beneath him on their wedding night, and only then did she recognise that the feeling had been absent. And not only since he thought her unfaithful, and since that dreadful lonely walk to Wren's cottage. Before that.

He felt her hesitate, struck by that unwelcome question, and broke their next kiss at once. His hand was beside her head on the pillow. Out of the corner of her eye, Belle saw one of the knots pop loose.

"Too soon," he said, with such gentle understanding that she could have cried.

"It's not that." Watching his face, Belle ran her hands down his back. "I miss how easy it was. One kiss and I'd forget my own name. Remember?"

Nodding, Rumple gave her a sad little smile.

"I remember." He touched her cheek, his eyes softening with... what? Love, of course, and there was desire, and regret... Belle had not forgotten how to lose herself in the mystery of his gaze. "A magic all your own. Such innocent fire." Leaning down slowly, Rumple kissed her above her left brow, then her right. Two more knots slipped away in their brief glow of gold. "The trust that I never earned and couldn't trust in turn." He kissed her cheek, his hair dragging across her face and tickling when he moved to do the same to the other side.

"You're going to run out of knots." Belle pushed her fingers into his hair. That was far more pleasant now that he was no longer damp and sticky.

"But the deal is kept." He pecked her on the lips. "And no more taken than was pledged." Another peck, this time with his eyes open. Watching her reaction. Belle could only blink at him. "We bargained--" kiss "--only--" kiss "--for kisses."

Belle managed to pull herself together enough to make sure that the last one was a good one, holding him there with her hand splayed across the back of his head and pressing so hard that the stubble on his chin seemed to burn her skin. Maybe a clumsy kiss could express her confusion better than words, in any case.

When Rumple rolled away and lay beside her again, he shyly offered her a creased and sorry looking ribbon, empty of knots. The darker one remained wrapped around his hand, its few knots intact. Belle took the first, but only to double it up and then tie it about Rumple's wrist in a pretty bow. He laughed, almost silently, and allowed her to take the other one from him.

"What did I promise to kiss?" she asked, pulling the ribbon so that it slid through her clenched left fist. Seven knots.

"Anything I liked."

"And you aren't going to hold me to that?"

Rumple shook his head. And perhaps he didn't think only of her, Belle realised. The sweat was beading across his brow again and his eyelids were growing heavy. She felt bad that she hadn't thought of that when she teased him with the bare skin at her neck. She hadn't even considered that Rumple _desired_ no more than kisses if he wasn't feeling very well.

It was their own game. They got to decide the rules for themselves, didn't they?

Belle had to confess, as she rested her head on his shoulder, that she had been thinking - just a little - of how well he slept after she pleasured him and of how badly he needed the sleep.

"I don't mind, you know," she said, suddenly not sure that she had been fair or kind to him when she had simply done as she wished the other night. He was infinitely more careful about touching her. "With my mouth and my hand." Her voice grew smaller as she spoke. "Did you mind when I did that without asking?"

"No." He sounded surprised. "I'm not rejecting you, my sweet. Not a bit of it. I've treasured every moment with you as the rarest of gifts." An almost-kiss whispered against her hair.

"I know," Belle replied, but too quickly. He couldn't possibly be fooled and she winced to herself, grateful that he could not see her face. "But you don't want me to now?"

"Sweetheart." Rumple whispered it so quietly that she barely made it out. "Sweet Belle. Are you afraid I won't wait for you?" He settled her more comfortably against him, his left arm firm about her shoulders. "Or did some fool of a maid tell you that men are incapable of forbearance?"

"No-one told me anything." The bitterness of that startled her, but it did feel good to give voice to the complaint whenever she had the opportunity. "Not about wanting or coming or a man's forbearance or a man's anything else. I knew to open my legs, to go limp and keep still while you got on with it, and I only knew _that_ much by listening where I shouldn't." Oh, yes, it felt _good_ to give vent to all of that, in the reasonable certainty of his sympathetic ear. _He_ didn't confuse a cock with capability, or innocence with propriety, or ignorance with innocence. "No-one told me how long is long enough to wait after losing a child. Not even Wren. When I'm ready and not before, she said, but _I_ don't know. Is it the same as missing you? Because I do."

Her grumble faded there, swallowed up by her embarrassment at being so cross. Rumple waited a while, still tensed as though ready to listen further. Then he relaxed into the pillows and began to toy with her hair.

"I could heal your body in an instant, you know that. Keep you from conceiving, too. I can't undo the things I said and did. I can't heal that with magic. If I could wash it away I would. It sits here." He pulled his right hand tight against his chest, against his ribs. "Sits here and hurts every day." The hand shook when he loosened his fist. "Let me earn you this time. Little by little as you're ready. Let me be a better husband than I was that first night." He took a long breath and released it, unsteadily. After a while, he ventured, "Is that really all you knew?"

Belle laughed. As heartfelt and moving as his request had been, there was the piquancy of mischief in that last question. She would have bet her purse that he'd playfully wrinkled up his nose as he said it.

"Really. To lie still and to relax all over so that it wouldn't hurt so much."

"Oh gods," he muttered.

"And to call it 'spooning'."

They sniggered together and Belle felt his fingers catch beneath her ribs, just the echo of a teasing tickle. "I'm going to give you your kisses," she declared, claiming him with her knee atop his legs. "I never break a deal, you know. I'm Rumpelstiltskin's wife."

"Are you really?"

"I'm probably quite famous by now. He hoods my face when we travel, though." She eased herself astride his thighs and smoothed out his nightgown at the shoulders.

"A mystery woman." Rumple gave her a drowsy smile, hands cupping her elbows. "Lucky me."

She bent over very slowly, letting her hair fall all about their faces as she touched her nose to his.

"She likes to kiss, this hooded lady. She likes to kiss Rumpelstiltskin."

"A fortunate man."

Belle kissed him, closing her eyes when their lips met and trying to pay attention to everything about it; the way they breathed, the way their noses nudged together, and the prickle of his stubble against her upper lip. She did not stop until she had coaxed a quiet sound of enjoyment from his throat, and earned the tightening of his hands at her elbows.

Yes, she liked to kiss Rumpelstiltskin very much.

There were barely any knots left in the darker ribbon when they were startled apart by Smoke landing on their legs. The cat stalked across them onto the mattress, walked up the length of their bodies and sat down beside Belle's shoulder. Rumple sat up at once, pushing Belle away, forcing her to scramble backwards if she did not wish to fall onto the floor or squash the cat. Only then could she see what Rumple had seen; Smoke had the limp body of the genie between her paws and was patting him as she rolled onto her side.

"Oh, good girl," Rumple said, while Belle was still staring in horror. She put her hand to her mouth when she saw the tiny man lift his head and raise an arm to ward off a playful blow with a paw. "What a good cat! Where did you find him?"

Belle stared at him. At them. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes positively gleamed with malice, while Smoke rolled from side to side and pushed at the struggling genie with her front paws, apparently in the hope that her master would share the game. His grim little smile suggested that he just might.

"No!" Belle gasped, finally regaining both her voice and the use of her limbs. She made a grab for the genie, but Rumple was faster. He plucked Smoke's prey from her and held the genie between thumb and forefinger, the cruel amusement turning to something far darker when the prisoner regained his senses. Belle shook her head, urgently. "Rumple, put him down."

"I don't think so."

"I'll take him back to his cage. Regina can take him away tomorrow, you said--"

"But now our little spy has seen me, my dear. And seen us in our bed." Rumple tightened his grip, and the genie struggled. "And I don't think the cage presented him with much of a challenge." He spoke with that horrible singsong, all mockery and loathing.

"As if," growled the genie. "And you are... look at you! You reek of weakness, _mortal_. My mistress will destroy you! Both of you!" He laughed. It was the laughter of a man with nothing left to lose, as full of mockery as Rumpelstiltskin's laughter ever was.

With a growl in his throat, Rumple tightened his grip again and gave the captive a rough shake. Belle grabbed his wrist and clawed at his fingers, trying to pry them open, but even as she struggled with him she felt a chilly magic against her fingertips and saw the change come over the genie. One moment a struggling little man, the next moment a figurine made of clear glass, frozen in the act of fighting for his life.

"No!" Belle felt a sob well up, and almost shrieked when Smoke stepped onto her knees to better reach Rumple. The cat rubbed her cheek against Rumple's hand and on the glass figure before Belle scrambled backwards, causing Smoke to turn and spit angry defiance at her, ears flattened.

Belle hardly recognised the man who drew back his arm, face twisted with ugly rage, and made to dash the dreadful little glass ornament to pieces against the wall.


	119. Sensibilities

The glass shattered with a sound that was almost musical. All Belle could do was to stare at where the shards had fallen and listen to the sound of Rumpelstiltskin breathing hard. Even as she watched, the fragments of glittering glass melted away as softly as ice under a blazing sun. There was nothing left.

Dry-mouthed, Belle turned back to Rumpelstiltskin, her heart thundering beneath her breastbone. He still wore a twisted little smile, his eyes fixed on the spot where the glass had struck the wall. His hand was still raised, his thumb worrying against the pads of his first two fingers.

"You killed him," she croaked, because she could not think of a single thing to say that would be more use.

He blinked and lowered his hand. Looked at her with a level gaze that was almost as frightening as the depths of his sudden rage.

"Yes."

"He was barely bigger than a mouse!" How she wanted to say something better than that! Something enlightened, weighted with reason and rightness. Instead, Belle began to tremble as the purring cat rubbed up against her knee, then transferred the affection to Rumpelstiltskin, who caressed her easily.

"Wish magic or no, he was a genie. Regina's creature through and through. He ought to have stayed in his cage if he wished to live." He smiled down at Smoke, who planted her front paws on his thigh and pushed herself up to better receive his approval. "Can't say we didn't warn him."

Belle shuddered. Yes, it was _we_. She had been complicit in the threat, even knowing that it had not been an idle one.

"And why would he leave his cage tonight of all nights?" The suspicion stole over her as she reached for her robe to warm herself; the memory of a prisoner dead in his cell at her father's castle - choosing death rather than the promised visit of the Dark One. "I didn't tell him that he was to be returned to Regina tomorrow. Did you?"

"I may have mentioned it." At last there was a note of discomfiture to break his chilly self-satisfaction. "I expect I gave him a quicker end than Regina promised him if he failed her."

They stared at one another. Rumple was the first to look away.

"And Gaston?" she demanded.

"What about him?"

"Are you letting him wake up so that you can find a reason to kill him too?"

"No!" The irritable look he shot her broke through the stillness of Belle's shock. _How could you think that?_ , the look asked of her, and she could see that Rumpelstiltskin truly did not know the answer. "He's safely locked in his room with all the food and water he could want. He can go, if the fool prince will have him." Waving his hand in impatient dismissal, Rumple looked around him rather than at Belle.

Only then, she thought, did he see what she saw. Their bed. Their chamber. This... cold interruption to their gentle loveplay.

Only _then_. His face fell, and he glanced at the cat who had rolled onto her back to better enjoy his attentions.

Belle's heart sank, after thundering away in her fright so that she could barely breathe.

"I understand why," she said gravely, seeing that he sought for the right thing to say. Here and now there was no such thing and whatever he chose could only make things worse. "But not why you'd take such pleasure in it."

Rumple bowed his head. He laced his fingers together in his lap, ignoring Smoke's fresh solicitations.

"Do you despise me for that?"

"...I..." Taken aback by his meek tone, by that almost-flinch, Belle didn't know what to say. "I don't share your pleasure, I know that," she told him, quietly. And she could not throw off the urge to go and check that all was well with Gaston, whatever Rumpelstiltskin said. Would he lie to her? Actually _lie_ rather than deceive by omission and misdirection? Surely he wouldn't...

Would he?

"I protect my family." Hands twisting together in his lap, Rumple nodded. "Expect nothing else of me."

Hadn't she wondered all along if it was the dark curse that fuelled his penchant for cruelty? Now she knew the answer.

"There should be no cruel pleasure in that," she told him, rising with as much dignity as her state of undress allowed, and turning away from the sight of Smoke trying to rub herself against Rumple's leg. "That should be something you can take pride in." And she thought of her father as she put on her robe and went upstairs to check that Gaston was all right.

There was a wall of magic in place at the doorway. Belle could feel it as she pushed on the door, a tickle and a tingle in her arm. It might keep Gaston from leaving but it did not keep her from entering.

True to his word, Rumple had provided for the prisoner. Candles lit the room, food and water awaited, and it was even tolerably warm in there. Belle hugged herself anyway, finding her skin covered in goosebumps. She stared at the sleeping Gaston, resisting the urge to see if she could shake him awake merely to have somebody to talk to. Gaston would never be the sort of person she could talk to because he didn't know how to listen.

She felt very alone, with Gaston sleeping and still as a statue. With her husband downstairs, gleeful and heartless in his victory.

Heartless. How could that word ever describe her Rumple, whose heart was so full of love and passion? But it did describe him when he played with people, with lives, in just the way the cat played with her prey. It did.

Her own heart heavy, Belle went back downstairs. She found herself hesitating outside her own door, reluctant to enter. To face him. To _see_ him before she had gathered her wits again. Rumple behaved as though it were nothing to kill a man, and somehow she had to reconcile that coldness with the loving man she knew and cherished.

Where could she begin?

Belle almost carried on downstairs, to retreat to her kitchen or to her new library so that she did not have to confront the question. But she reached for her courage instead and pushed open the door to the bedchamber, trying not to dread her husband's mood. What else could she do but return to his side and face him?

She was surprised to find the room in darkness. For a few moments, before her eyes adjusted to the fire- and moonlight, Belle thought that Rumpelstiltskin had gone. But no - there he was in the great bed, more or less where she had left him. He had done away with his pile of pillows and had the covers drawn up to his ear, his back to the door.

"Rumple?" Belle inched her way across the carpet, wary of stepping on one of the kittens in the gloom.

"Yes." Was that sullenness she heard, or merely tiredness? She found that she wanted to think the worst of him at this moment, as if adding imagined sins to his real ones would somehow allow her to make sense of him.

None of that. She sat beside his hip and groped for his shoulder; found him tense to her touch and already damp again with fresh sweat.

"Did you think that I wouldn't come back?" Of all the questions, that should have been the least important to her, but it was suddenly the one that mattered to Belle. That bone-deep certainty of his that her displeasure would turn her against him utterly and forever, one of these times. "It is my bed."

"Do you want me to leave it?"

"No." She never had. She'd told him that, hadn't she? That no matter how monstrous she found him, or how unbearable she found his touch, she would sleep beside him as his wife. It hadn't been for his sake that she decided that. "What are you going to tell Queen Regina?"

Surprise roused him from his careful stillness; he pushed himself up on his arm and looked over his shoulder at her. He had the best of the light, moonlight from the window, and could probably see Belle better than she could see him. For a moment she tried to school her features, to hide her dismay and her disappointment, but then she told herself 'no'. That would be a lie, and she owed him the truth as much as he owed the same to her. "She's coming to take back her servant."

"Her slave."

"He loved her, you know." That made her terribly sad - that such a wonderful thing as love could twist a mind to the borders of madness. "He would have done anything she asked of him."

"Murdered you in your bed, do you think? Or simply told her everything he learned here?"

Belle was almost glad that she could not see his eyes.

"I know why you wished him dead. I do. He came to spy on us. On you. She sent him." She felt his nod. "Why make a game of it? Why draw it out? Why gloat as if his death is something to be proud of?"

"Because I remember being too weak to protect what belongs to me," Rumple answered, shortly. "And I will never be that weak again."

It was no answer to satisfy her doubts, but it was clearly _his_ answer. It satisfied him to prove that he _could_ protect his castle, his person and his family - that he could both outwit and overpower his enemies with such ease.

Was it really so very different to Gaston's pride in a battle well fought? He would show no remorse for the slain, would he, if he felt that the cause was just?

She felt something brush her ankle. Smoke. She shivered, repelled, then reminded herself that it was a fool's errand to blame a cat for hunting small and helpless creatures. It was what cats _did_.

But they seldom did anything for the convenience of their master.

"Did you use magic on Smoke? To set her on him?"

"No." There was an impatient sigh from beneath the bedclothes. "But I won't say I didn't hope she'd find him creeping about and save me the trouble." He spoke the last through clenched teeth, that anger still seething beneath his sulky stillness. "Are you coming to bed?"

"Yes."

Rumple breathed a little more easily at that. He made no attempt to touch her when she got back into bed beside him.

"You spoke to me that way," Belle said after a while of staring up at darkened nothing. "When you thought me untrue. When you thought I would break my word and go home. That... contempt. Hatred." She followed the unhappy thought to its conclusion and closed her eyes, her chest aching. "Would you have killed me for betraying you?"

"You didn't," he answered, gruff in his reluctance to answer at all.

Belle hadn't been at all sure that she wanted to hear the answer in any case.

She slept somehow, with her nerves on edge and her limbs taut. Whenever she surfaced it was because Rumple had moved; he tossed and turned, restless as she and with that strange fever besides. With inches between their bodies she could feel that he was once again soaked through with perspiration. When he shivered, Belle turned onto her side and placed a hand between his shoulders, meaning to soothe, but Rumple gasped as though the touch burned him and jerked away from her before slumping into the pillows with a sigh of... was it relief?

"Belle."

"I'm here." Whose touch had he expected? Some dream-assassin? A long-dead enemy? He might deny his own conscience but every man had one, didn't he? Did the bloodshed trouble his dreams? "I'm still here."

The pillow rustled when Rumple nodded, an inarticulate sound of relief in his throat.

"I'm grateful you know," he mumbled, less than half awake. "That you stay."

"Yes." Gingerly, Belle caressed his hair. It once again clung to him in warm, unpleasant rat-tails. "I know. Go to sleep now. I'll be here."

When he was still once more, Belle did her best to take her own advice. Nothing would seem any better tomorrow for a lack of rest.

In the end, she suspected that Rumple had rather more sleep than she did. The first light of dawn came as a relief and Belle eased herself out of bed as quietly as she could, stretching out the aches before tiptoeing to the bathing room.

A hot bath awaited her, its surface scattered with fragrant petals and glistening with drops of golden oil. Extra candles gave the room a pleasant glow and warmth. The gesture that might have melted her heart at a better time caused it to sink now at the reminder of their disagreement. Belle lay in the water until the horrid tension left her limbs, banished by the heat. She combed one of Lotte's lotions through her wet hair then lay still, hair dangling over the rim of the bathtub, with vivid memories of last night playing themselves out behind closed eyelids.

Not all of the daydreams were unpleasant. One moment the little glass statue struck the wall again, exploding into fragments. The next, the memory of Rumple smiled drowsily and leaned in for a kiss. A killer. A lover. And now an invalid too, with his chilled sweat soaking the pillow and making him shiver beside her. What was she going to do about that?

It was no great leap of insight to suppose that Rumple was feeling the effects of losing his curse, or of the magic he had employed ever since. And there was still the dagger, still half laying claim to Rumpelstiltskin's own name. Why? Did it hope to win him back?

Oh, Rumple had assured her that the dagger was a mere object, no more capable of decision or desire than a stone wall, but what about the curse? Surely that had life of a sort, and the will to... well, to _be_. It was impotent without its host and formless without Rumpelstiltskin's flesh. It would want him back, wouldn't it?

And Rumple wanted the curse back, for the power and safety that it gave him. No doubt of that.

The faint sound of his coughing and stirring awake roused Belle from her lassitude. Today Regina would come to collect her spy and learn that he was dead. Today Prince James would come for Gaston - or so Belle hoped. The sooner the other prisoner was far from Rumpelstiltskin's sight the better. James would surely honour the friendship of which he had spoken and protect Gaston, wouldn't he?

It seemed to become more and more difficult to guess at what people would do. Even herself.

Belle was seated on the edge of the tub and swathed in towels before Rumple peeked around the door, his knuckles brushing the wood in the softest of knocks.

"Thank you for the bath," Belle said, all too aware that she spoke with dutiful courtesy rather than the warmth of true gratitude. She plucked a shrivelled rose petal from her forearm and dropped it back into the water. "Do you want it after me?"

"Not today." Rumple passed his hand in front of him, brow to belly, and became... the man she had married all those weeks ago. Gleaming curls, green-grey skin, hard leather over rich silks. Even his stance changed, she thought, swallowing hard to move the lump from her throat. Even without the support of his cane or staff, he stood more easily in that dark disguise. "You'll need a dress to armour yourself against a queen today," he said, and his voice had changed too. From behind that mask, Rumpelstiltskin spoke in lighter tones, the words and the cadence a game for his tongue. Yet he was hesitant, raising a hand in her direction, the index finger crooked so as not to point directly at her. "May I?"

Belle nodded and stood, noting a dull lack of concern as the towels fell about her feet. Wet hair shrouded her breasts in a little modesty, but only enough to tease. And she didn't care. Let him look. Let him want. Her old sensibilities had deserted her and she felt neither awkwardness nor anticipation beneath his gaze. She just felt slightly chilly.

He did stare at her - just for a moment, eyes widening in surprise at her boldness, then softening in response to her loveliness. Before Belle might have thought of turning away, Rumple shook himself and, looking at her with nothing but a critical eye for the shape that she would make beneath a new dress, fluttered his black-nailed fingers towards her in a haze of golden magic.

It fitted her closely, this new gown. Belle put a hand to her chest as she looked down at skirts of deep ocean blue. They draped oddly, and it was only when she glanced over her shoulder that she realised the whole thing was gathered up there, falling from the small of her back over some sort of padding that lent her a protruding backside where her body was rather spare in reality.

"It's... different," she said cautiously, wondering if perhaps Rumple was having fun with her.

"It's the fashion in a land I once visited."

"Did the women there not sit down?" Belle smoothed down the front of the skirt, liking how the strange gather at the rear pulled the fabric closer against her thighs. "I can see that it will be easier to walk about though. It stops the skirt sweeping the floor."

Rumple smiled his ugly-toothed smile at this note of approval, and gestured hopefully for Belle to give him a twirl. She did so, carefully, as the shiny buttoned boots on her feet seemed to have precariously high heels - more so even than the shoes made to match her betrothal gown. The heels clicked on the wet stone floor.

"Is it comfortable?" Belle saw him gesture to his chest, and paid attention to the bodice. There was a firm and all-encompassing corset beneath, but whatever stiffened it was so light and flexible that it added little bulk to the gown. She could breathe, albeit not as freely as she might have wished, and the shape of the outfit encouraged her to carry herself with a certain, stiff grace. Her hair was dry and pinned up, heavy and tight.

"It isn't meant for comfort, is it? It's meant to impress Regina."

Rumple stood aside and then followed her to the mirror at the bedroom window, pulling open the curtains so that Belle could see the full effect. Buttons secured the bodice at the front, running in a neat line from beneath her navel to a tall collar at her throat. Besides that and the magnificent rustling satin of rich and rare blue, the dress gave an impression of restraint and modesty where she had expected to appear overdone. Rumpelstiltskin had an eye for such things. It also, she noted with a pang, left no room to suggest that her belly was growing, fitting her tightly from ribs to hips and lying perfectly flat and smooth even where Belle herself did not.

"Will she envy me? That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Envy you your husband? I doubt it." Rumple stepped up close behind her so that they could see one another in the looking glass. "She has all the dresses she could want as well. But your influence here? Your being mistress of this place and of me?" Rumple grasped her shoulders, tilting his head to watch her better in the mirror. "She tried to break that. She failed."

Belle nodded and dragged her gaze from his to the reflection of her hair style. Like the dress, the arrangement of her hair was simple and rather severe, swept up and back before falling in exquisite ringlets behind the crown of her head - and behind a golden tiara. That was a plain band, wide as two of Belle's fingers, but set with a row of diamonds so clear and so perfectly matched that they did not need to be overly large to convey their expense. Hesitant, not wanting to disturb the neatly pinned hair, Belle reached up and touched the centre stone. Rumple was watching her, the old hopeful eagerness lifting his expression out of its usual severity.

"Yes," Belle managed, her hand falling to her side. "She failed." It was impossible to hunch her shoulders forward in the tight dress, the sleeves of which corrected any impulse to slouch, but she felt her body try. Rumple saw, and took her by the shoulders again. "I'm afraid of what she'll try next. Not of her," she added, quickly and urgently, seeking Rumple's eyes in the glass again. "That she won't leave us alone. That she'll keep doing these things for mischief or spite."

"Her malice is directed elsewhere." With a wiggle of his fingertips at her right shoulder, Rumple conjured a jewel. A brooch, as simple as the tiara; a disc of gold with a single, bright diamond at its centre. He reached around her and pinned it carefully to the stiff, straight collar that circled her throat. "There. Bedecked and bejewelled, but true beauty cannot be hidden behind trinkets."

Belle tried to smile, to muster words of thanks for his attention to her 'armour' and for the flattery, for jewels that befitted a queen, but nothing would come. She turned and gave him a kiss on the cheek instead, grasping his leather sleeves as she did so.

"Remember to get the feel for your walking stick. And I need to find out if it's even possible to sit down dressed like this." She brushed her hand over the swell behind her. It was not as rigid as she had first supposed. "Was it a very strange world where the women dressed this way?"

"Very strange. Lacking all colour and stiff with manners. Rigid with science and a stranger to magic. Very strange. But useful." He offered each detail as he might offer her a small gift. Belle tried to turn her imagination to a colourless world, to the possibilities for adventure and discovery there, but her enthusiasm failed her.

Belle moved into the clear space beside the bed and turned around slowly, noting how the skirts moved against her legs and the black leather boots gleamed with wax. It was surprisingly comfortable, all told, and wearing the exotic fashion from another world did make her feel quite grand. Armour indeed, with Rumpelstiltskin's wealth on display in every seam, every stitch and every jewel.

"I should see if Gaston is awake," she decided, before the silence could become too awkward to bear.

Rumple hesitated, about to say something, then nodded and went before her to the bedroom door, collecting the new walking stick on the way. He barely needed it, she could see; he walked with a limp, but without the fear that the leg would fail him or that pain would prevent him. Had he found the right magic at last?

"I'll await you at breakfast then." And he was gone, in such a hurry that Belle was left wondering what he had wanted to say to her instead.

Gaston might be their prisoner, but Belle could not completely ignore her history with the man. Nor could she pretend that her own actions had not contributed to Gaston's downfall - even to his attack on the Queen. Now that he was cut off from his family, Gaston seemed different to her somehow. The realisation made Belle feel uneasy. Not quite guilty, but some complicated emotion that was close enough to it to be extremely uncomfortable.

He had always been uncomfortable in her presence, falling back just as she had on formality and strict manners whenever they were together. Belle understood only now that she had resented her duty. The mere fact that she had chosen Rumpelstiltskin, decided her own fate, had made everything else... No, not easier. Made it her own, and that in turn gave her a passion for her marriage before she knew passion for her husband. That after a lifetime of looking for satisfaction in duty and service, she could instead look for it in accomplishment and responsibility.

She knocked at the door. There had been clothing laid out for Gaston's use and she cared enough for Gaston's feelings not to barge her way in and find him half dressed. There was no answer, so she turned the handle and opened the door very slowly.

"Gaston?"

"Belle." He sounded almost overcome with relief, emerging from the darkness behind the door to face her in the light. The unkempt beard made him appear almost wild - such a contrast to the man she had known. Barely known. "I woke up, the wound..."

Gaston had dressed in the finery that Rumple had left for him - a jerkin of piped green velvet over a flowing white shirt and soft leather breeches. He could not have managed all that by himself unless the wound in his side was very much better than when Belle last saw it.

"We gave you a potion. For sleep. For healing," she explained, stepping across the threshold so that Gaston had to step backwards. He moved stiffly but without obvious pain. "He feared that the wound might never heal, being magical."

"It..." Frowning, as though he had forgotten how to make even simple conversation, Gaston touched the place above his hip. "It hurts very little."

"He's letting you go. Is Prince James a true friend to you?"

"James?" Gaston followed her for a step or two towards the bed, then appeared to notice the impropriety of that and halted in his tracks. "He fights bravely and leads wisely."

That was Gaston for you, Belle thought. He would struggle with any notion that could not easily be aligned with his ideas of honour and valour. Even friendship.

"I'm asking if you would trust him with your life," she said, seating herself cautiously on the very edge of the bed. It was not as awkward as she had feared, sitting down in the dress. The bulk of the fabric nestled behind her, supported by some hidden underpinning with more springiness and lightness to it than a bum roll, while her thighs met the mattress to support her. "Not in battle, not at court, not at the tournaments but in this _mess_ you've made with assassins and queens and my husband. Will James protect you from your father, and from the King?"

"He..." Gaston cleared his throat, trying to put his hands behind his back and, finding that painful, clenching his fists at his sides instead. Belle patted the bed beside her, since there was nowhere else to sit, and with slow reluctance, Gaston sat down. He left the width of two bodies between them. "I believe that he would try. His loyalty to the King is beyond question."

"I've sent for him." Belle suspected that this news would reassure the man more than hearing that _Rumpelstiltskin_ had sent for the prince. It _had_ been her idea. "To ask him to give you sanctuary."

"I can go?" Shocked, Gaston forgot his mask of stoicism and manners and simply stared at her. She smiled, unnerved by this glimpse of an inner-Gaston.

"I said that I would speak up for you, didn't I?"

"You said that you would be my wife," he retorted, cold again. He faced the front, staring ahead so as not to look at her. "People say many things when it suits the moment."

"I didn't, you know. I only kept quiet while our fathers agreed everything."

"As did I."

Belle had never thought of it that way. Gaston had been silent as well during their betrothal, although he had given every sign of wearing her proudly upon his arm thereafter. When the occasion called for it, anyway. On the whole he had avoided her company as far as possible, which had suited Belle well enough.

"I would have married Rumpelstiltskin to save my people no matter who I was promised to," she said, frowning in her discomfort. "There was no other way. I couldn't let you carry me off to safety while they all died. What would that make me? Make you? I saw a way to make a difference, to be worth something in this world, and I took it."

"I wanted to be a good husband." Gaston mirrored her pose, hands folded in his lap and gaze downcast.

"I think the Duke and Duchess between them would have made that quite difficult." Belle spoke tartly, and closed her eyes at once. Why did Gaston's company make her so _quarrelsome_ and so _childish_? But she could not stop herself - not even if the lion's share of her annoyance and dismay belonged to Rumpelstiltskin this morning. Gaston was a much easier target. "A good husband doesn't visit whores."

She heard his gasp, and uncharitably wondered whether it was her use of the word that shocked him, or the fact that she knew such a sordid thing about him. There was a perverse satisfaction in delivering the blow, but Belle felt ashamed of herself at once. Gaston might not have been her choice, her true love, nor even interesting to her but he _had_ been unfailingly courteous during their engagement. Even the kiss that had so revolted her had been well-meant - a celebration, a rare unbending for a man who was so, so stiff all the time.

But a good husband didn't bring the pox to his marriage bed - even a sheltered maiden knew _that_ , and where the deadly curse of that disease was obtained. Even if she did not fully understand the how, Belle had known the where and the who, and that the health of the prostitutes who attended the docks was of tremendous interest to the ship owners and the captains.

Gaston laughed. It was Belle's turn to be shocked, then, and she turned her head to give him a sharp look, suspecting at once that he was laughing at _her_. But there were tears in his eyes, and he had thrown back his head to look up at the ceiling as though in supplication to the gods. The grin that cracked his face was twisted and quite mirthless.

"You think very little of me, my Lady," he said, realising that he was watched and composing himself somewhat.

"It isn't true?" Belle's heart gave a guilty skip, just as it had when she came upstairs to check on Gaston last night rather than trust Rumple's assurance.

"What does it matter?"

"It does matter to me! If a girl must keep herself pure then why not you?" She was on her feet before she realised how angry she was. At Gaston? For this? She couldn't tell; couldn't separate the feeling from all the rest. "The Dark One himself had more respect for me than that!"

It was an ugly card to play, and with Gaston of all people. She knew it. But the taunt worked, needling him beneath that veneer of high breeding that had always infuriated and intimidated her while she was his betrothed.

"Perhaps the _Dark One_ has the benefit of greater experience," Gaston growled, and Belle was so taken aback by the parry to her deliberate blow that her mouth hung open as she stared at him. " _I_ had not. Would you have thanked me for being an ignorant oaf? Does a girl respect a husband who does not know how to love her?"

Reddening, his scowl black with humiliation and anger, Gaston got up and stalked towards the door. He sprang back as though stung when cold blue light flared and blocked his way, but stopped himself turning to glare at her in accusation. Behind the beard, his face was crimson.

So was Belle's, although her shame was undoubtedly hotter and darker than Gaston's embarrassment. She prided herself on always thinking the best of people; of searching for something better hidden away even in the most disagreeable people. It had served her well with Rumple, but she had never truly made the effort to like Gaston. To find out if there was anything beneath the surface of him.

There had just seemed to be so _much_ surface.

"If that was your reason," she said, her voice quavering, "If _I_ was your reason, then thank you. And I'm sorry for thinking ill of you." She owed him that, didn't she? She couldn't be sorry that she had found a way to escape their marriage, but she was sorry that she had misjudged him. That she had known him for almost two years without once suspecting the troubles of his family, his tenderness towards his mother, his terror of magic or his concern for the wellbeing of a virgin bride. She had not... well... She had not thought him capable of any of it. "I'm sorry, Gaston."

When Belle dared to look at him properly, she saw an incredulous little smile trying to be born amidst his blushes and confusion. He half turned and almost met her eye.

"It is as well that we were not married, my Lady. We would have quarrelled before the wedding feast was over."

She grinned, liking the hint that Gaston - superficial and staid Gaston - had a sense of humour after all.

"I think--" she began, but a pounding on the castle doors echoed through the building, shaking the thought loose from her head.

"James?" Gaston murmured, turning a questioning look on her. The ferocious knocking sounded again, longer and louder this time, and Belle sighed to herself.

"No," she said, gloomily, with her heart in her boots at the prospect of coming face to face with their other invited guest. "No, I'm afraid not."


	120. A Woman's Touch

What would Wren make of Queen Regina? Belle asked herself the question as she made her way carefully down the stairs. Below, the sound of Her Majesty's voice raised in anger echoed around the marble, distorting the words. Belle gathered that she was displeased at being made to wait at the threshold for somebody to allow her inside.

 _Good,_ thought Belle, and then bit down the rare moment of petty spite. What would _Wren_ tell her to do about the dreadful woman? She didn't know the answer to her own question, but thinking about it - about her friend - left her calmer than before. She took the final two flights of steps sedately, careful in her tall and rather wobbly shoes, and saw Rumpelstiltskin arriving to meet her at the bottom. He gave her a thin smile and offered his hand to steady her on the last two steps.

"My dear," he murmured. Belle accepted his hand, felt the warmth and strength in his grasp, and tried not to feel the pang at seeing him so disguised. It _was_ a disguise, the eerie eyes and the glistening curls, for all that she knew him best in such a form, and she needed to remember that. They both did. Yet Rumple had a certainty about him that had been absent before, as though the disguise itself lent him confidence. He moved with graceful ease in spite of the cane in his right hand, escorting Belle to the middle of the hall as though leading her out to begin a dance.

Dressed in harsh black and red, her hair a raven coloured cascade across her shoulders, Regina looked out of place among the ivory candles and soft flower arrangements. Her anger seemed out of place in the face of Rumpelstiltskin's unconcerned ease.

"My dear." He half-turned to face Belle, his hand growing tighter around hers as he searched her eyes very briefly for... something. Belle blinked and the moment had passed. "The Queen has come to collect her careless spy."

"Spy!" Regina burst out, not once looking at Belle. "He's my--"

"Assassin then," Belle said, and was shocked at herself because the words came so easily. So calmly. Regina noticed her then, and to Belle's satisfaction the other woman's sneer crumbled somewhat in the face of quiet confidence. "Perhaps you sent him to kill me, instead?"

No good would come of it if she made trouble, Belle thought. _More_ trouble. But she had known the truth of it as the genie danced around her questions, torn between loyalty and a dreadful self-satisfaction at having served his Queen so well. Queen Regina did not have the blood of King Leopold on her hands, but his death lay on her conscience. "He loved you enough to kill for you, and you sent him here to die." She spoke coolly, matter-of-factly, and felt Rumple squeeze her hand. What was that? Approval? Appreciation? He enjoyed it when she spoke up in public, but did the Queen count, or was this one of the things, the _magical_ things, that he had demanded she leave alone? "My husband warned him what would happen to him if he spied on my bedchamber again. Spy or assassin, his fate was sealed when he obeyed you."

Wrong-footed by Belle's matter-of-fact statement, by the sight of her standing hand in hand with Rumple, Regina seemed to take stock for the first time. Her eyes took in the couple standing before her, very decidedly united; took in the flowers, the warming light - all the changes to the Dark Castle that made rather a joke of the ominous name. She was baffled, Belle could see, and angry about being so. Whatever mischief she had intended by revealing Belle's condition to Rumpelstiltskin, she had been disappointed.

"He's dead?" Regina asked, with uncharacteristic caution.

"The cat caught him creeping about in our chamber," said Rumple, fingers waggling atop the gold head of his cane. "Last night. I'm sure I don't need to go into gruesome detail."

Belle kept her face very carefully blank. She would never get used to the way Rumple could dance around the truth without speaking a lie. Perhaps she would never get used to being torn between her loyalty to him and her revulsion at his wickedness, but she was rather afraid that she could get used to this gamesmanship with Queen Regina.

For the barest moment, Regina looked shocked. Shocked that she had lost this deadly game, Belle realised; not shocked about a needless death, the loss of an ally. Shocked that her defeat was possible.

"Cat?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at Rumple.

He shrugged easily, indifferent to her suspicion.

"Can't say I didn't warn him."

Regina seemed taken by a rather fascinated horror at the idea of her tiny spy meeting such a gruesome fate. Belle stared at the woman's lace-clad shoulder while the sound of breaking crystal came back to her and birthed a shudder.

"I see." Recovering her poise, and with it her sneer of slight amusement at the expense of the world, Regina walked past Rumple and into the great room. Belle's teeth ground together and she met Rumple's gaze before they both turned to follow the woman.

Belle had not taken the time to enjoy Rumple's alterations to the castle, yesterday; it had seemed more important to take the time to enjoy his company. The difference in the great room still took her breath away, enough even to distract her from the black-clad intruder who was striding up the room as though she owned the place. The library to her left had a cool and inviting light, a draw all of its own, but Regina had walked straight past it to examine the new glitter and luxury in the great room. At the far end, she turned, looking around her, and planting her hands on her hips.

"Well," she said, and Belle couldn't decide whether or not the grudging admiration was sincere or playacted, "I always said the place needed a woman's touch, Rumple."

"Indeed," was all he said, but so quietly that the very quietness warned of danger. Warned anyone who was listening, anyway. Regina wasn't. She rounded the far end of the table and came back towards them, pausing to run her gloved finger over the top of the spinning wheel and examine it for dust.

 _He needs her,_ Belle thought. The only reason Regina was permitted this latitude was that Rumpelstiltskin _needed_ her for his plans. He wanted Regina to know this... this smug sense of superiority, even as Belle felt him stiffen beside her, bottling his rage.

A simple breakfast had been laid at the top of the table. Eggs and porridge, a loaf and butter, and a large pot of tea. Regina stared at it, surprised by that as she had not been by any of the gilt and upholstery.

"How... domestic," she said. The thought of the Dark One sitting down to a light meal with his lady wife seemed to offend her sensibilities. "What's next, Rumple. Changing the baby?"

Belle's intake of breath was silent, but Rumple's hand crept to the small of her back in answer to it. She could barely feel his touch through the stiff corsetry of her strange dress, but it was reassurance enough to allow her to regain her composure.

"You look foolish when you talk about what you don't understand," Belle said. The upset still roiled inside her, betraying her with the slightest waver of her voice. "I want you to know something," she added, as some dam of toleration inside her burst without violence, but with a finality that fuelled her courage. She took two steps towards Regina, who looked uncertain, scarlet lips parting slightly as though she meant to speak. "I would have been your friend. Perhaps even your ally. I don't serve my husband, I have a mind of my own. I would have been a friend to you, but you decided to make me a plaything instead. A pawn in this ugly game that the two of you play." She took another step closer, and this time Regina took one step backwards, her hand gripping the back of the head chair. Behind heavy black makeup, brown eyes were full of uncertainty. "I lost my child that day. I want you to know that too, so that he can't turn our grief into another game with you by making it a secret. It would have been so easy to convince him that you were to blame for it, or to twist a word or two so that he'd kill you just for adding to the hurt. I want you to know all of that, Regina. I would have been your friend, and you chose this instead."

One perfectly plucked eyebrow crept upwards as the Queen regained her self-assurance. Breathing hard, surprised at herself, Belle wondered for the first time what Rumple thought of her declaration. She did not turn around to find out.

"I don't celebrate the death of your genie," she said, her voice much quieter. "I would have given him back to you unharmed. I don't have magic, Your Majesty, and I want no part of your games. But don't think for one moment that it makes me foolish or weak. Don't you dare."

Regina managed a soft laugh of incredulity, clasping one hand to her bosom and looking past Belle to Rumpelstiltskin. She found no support there, it seemed, because the false smirk hardened into something brittle.

"I'm not to blame if she lost the child," she said, speaking across Belle as though she weren't even there. "She was trying to hide it from you!"

"Hardly." Belle felt Rumple arrive beside her, returning that hand to the small of her back where the silly dress cinched in tightest. "Are you going to pretend that you told me as a friend, Your Majesty? That you sent the genie out of mere concern for your old teacher?" Regina was silent. She ought to have been afraid, Belle thought. When Rumple spoke that way, soft and singsong, it was the lull before a deadly storm. "If I thought for a moment that you'd harm a child of mine, I wouldn't just kill you. I'd make your death last for all of time." He said it almost pleasantly, his fingers curled tightly into Belle's back. She could all but _feel_ their unblinking stare.

The Queen had the sense to be the first to look away.

"But I didn't."

"But you didn't," Rumple echoed, and his voice was cold. "You can go now."

The woman bridled at being dismissed, but thought better of what she had been about to say. A slow smile replaced her frozen anger as she made a show of turning to leave.

"I thought you must have learned your lesson from my mother," she said, black train sweeping the floor behind her on her way to the door. "But perhaps you _enjoy_ having women make a fool of you."

Waving without glancing back, Regina left. Belle stared after her, mouth open in outrage, and trembled as the castle's outer doors slammed behind her.

A moment later, Rumpelstiltskin brought the head of his cane down so hard on the table that the teapot shattered and cups flew everywhere. It was over before Belle had even turned, crying out in shock; she saw him drop the cane atop the wreckage of their breakfast and clutch at the back of her chair, his face contorted with fury and his breathing shallow as he struggled for self-control.

Better the crockery than the Queen's skull, Belle supposed, but the speed and violence of the strike frightened her. Rumpelstiltskin trembled, head bowed so that the curls hid his face from her. She was timid in touching him between the shoulders.

"Are you angry with me?"

"What?" He turned his head and stared at her, almost as if her presence came as a surprise to him. It was the same last night, she thought, when the genie provoked him; some blood-red rage filled him up and he heard nothing else, saw nothing else until it was spent. His expression contorted, caught between confusion and the dwindling rage. "No. No of course not." Pushing himself away from the chair back, snatching up the cane, Rumple half staggered over to his spinning wheel and dropped himself onto the little stool. He tossed the cane down at his feet and took up his thread with shaking hands.

Unsteady herself, Belle began to collect the bits of shattered porcelain onto a tray. She wanted to cry. The sobs were there, just ready to take her over if she let them, and they were sobs of fruitless anger and sudden fright rather than of hurt. They were no use, so she pressed her lips together and choked them back, and blinked until her eyes stopped stinging.

Tea had soaked into the white linen cloth that ran the entire length of the huge table. Belle began to lift away the bowls of flowers, moving them one by one to the floor so that she would be able to roll up the cloth. If the laundresses of Odstone could restore _that_ to unmarked perfection then she would pay them double this week and be thankful for their skill.

"I can see to it," Rumple muttered, hidden away behind the spokes of his wheel. Belle had been trying very hard not to look at him. He had taken his rage away from her, but not very far. That was... Belle shook herself inwardly. That was her husband trying to keep his promise, she realised. He was trying not to push her into the corners of his life; to trust that she would love him still if she saw this black temper overcome him.

"Better if you spin," she said, with a bright cheer that was entirely false. "And contemplate the consequences of your temper," she added, deadpan with her back to him as she dried the table with a corner of the cloth.

"Oh yes?" He knew her well enough to detect that she was teasing him; his question was wary, but spiced with amusement rather than genuine worry. That warmed her as perhaps nothing else could.

"My porridge for breakfast again." Belle turned, stopping herself just in time before wiping her sticky hands on her crisp satin skirts. She had grown so used to going around in linen dresses and a grubby apron!

Hopeful of seeing a smile, Belle turned to regard her husband. Rumple looked back at her, pinched and strained, and only managed a nod in acknowledgement of her fun with him.

"She didn't ask about your leg."

"No. But don't think she didn't take notice. Or that she won't want revenge for the death of her pet." The thread snapped between his hands. He pushed himself away from the wheel with a curse, the three-legged stool rocking dangerously beneath him for a moment. "Damn the woman!"

This time it was the petty temper of a man inconvenienced, not the violent rage that had cost them a pretty teapot. Belle approached him, resting her hand upon the wheel and watching him around its rim.

"For being as bad as you are?" she asked, all innocence. Rumple scowled, groping for his cane. "Or for mentioning her mother like that?"

"For being half the woman her mother is," he snapped, clutching the cane to his chest. "And ten times as much trouble."

Belle nodded, tilting her head to watch him better. He was trying to turn his face away just enough that his hair could hide his expression from her.

"And did she make a fool of you? Regina's mother?"

Her directness shocked him out of himself. Leave him no room for evasion and mystery and he had no retreat left but silence. He stared at her, wide-eyed and stricken.

"Long ago," he managed to say, and then he could no longer hold her gaze. "A lifetime ago."

" _Regina's_ lifetime," Belle pressed, because his reluctance to speak of it bred suspicion in her that Regina's feeble efforts alone had not. It was an awful thought. "She's not your--"

"No!" He meant to shout, but it emerged as something nearer to a croak of dismay. "No, she's not."

After a dreadful pause, Rumple broke their frozen stare and pulled out a silk handkerchief from beneath his waistcoat. He mopped his brow and then his chin, and Belle realised that she had fallen for the disguise. Fallen completely for it, and forgotten that he was... not himself. Not _that_ self any more, and not what he pretended to be in front of the Queen. But, Belle thought, going to his side and laying a soothing hand on his shoulder, he had never been entirely that. Rumpelstiltskin showed Regina whichever facet of himself mirrored her self-interest, and he needed her so badly that he even choked back his bloodlust rather than strike at her. At least Belle could be certain that he was capable of controlling it, then.

"I find it best to ask you direct questions," she told him. "Then you can't give me slippery answers the way you do with her."

"Well I've been a fool for you since our wedding night," muttered Rumple, tucking away the handkerchief and composing himself with an all-too-visible effort. "We've another Royal Highness to look forward to."

Belle nodded, cheered by the thought. She had liked Prince James, and not only because he had covered her swiftly with his cloak while everyone else in the room stared or panicked.

"Yes." No, it wasn't the time to press Rumple for details of some past lover. After all, she'd been sure there must have _been_ lovers. His knack for pleasing her in bed had been clue enough, but she had been almost sure of others when he evaded her question about how he had become so skillful. Even so. Regina's _mother_? A thought struck her - a memory. "You told me that my blood is bluer than hers. What did you mean? Her father is a prince. Surely her mother was a noblewoman?"

Rumple's irritable glance upwards reminded her that this really was _not_ the time, but her curiosity was shameless.

"Common as muck, my dear," he said, sourly. Then he smiled darkly. "Commoner. Credit where it's due, she didn't let it slow her down."

Now Belle really _was_ curious about the woman, because whatever the stories in her books might say, princes did _not_ marry commoners. And even supposing that they did, their daughters did not become queens. Come to think of it, the stories were usually silent about what happened _after_ the royal wedding.

Absentmindedly, she tidied a lock of her husband's hair. As she tucked it behind his ear, he leaned ever so slightly towards her hand and closed his eyes.

"Did she nag you about eating breakfast?"

His eyes snapped open again and he stared into emptiness, apparently fascinated by the mental picture she had just provided.

"Not once, no," he said, distantly. "Never." As he awkwardly straightened his collar, Belle saw down the hollow of his left cuff. One of her ribbons was wrapped about his wrist and tied off in a tiny, neat bow.

_Oh, Rumple..._

"I won't ask you about her." She squeezed his shoulder. "I trust you to tell me if there's something I ought to know. Something I wouldn't want to walk into blindly. I expect Regina thought I'd be jealous."

Of course, she _was_. Just a little. There was even a shadow of jealousy towards Rumple's first wife, if she looked long and deep enough inside herself. But she wasn't about to heed those inner shadows and behave jealously. _That_ would have been Regina's hope, wouldn't it? Just like when she told Rumple about the baby, and when she tried to lure Belle away with the promise of protection and power at court. It didn't matter to Regina what Belle _felt_. It mattered to her what effect Belle might have on Rumpelstiltskin.

He stood up, surveying the mess he'd made of the table with bleak eyes. Belle took him by the hand.

"Is it out of spite that you chose Regina to cast your curse? To punish her mother?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask," Rumple protested, but without fight. He clutched gratefully at her hand, as though he could draw from her by sheer proximity the things he had told her he needed; her strength, and her hope.

"I'm not asking about her mother," Belle said, reasonably. "I'm asking about Regina and your curse, and about your motives now."

Rumple nodded. His eyes never left the table. Belle wondered if it would be laid and pristine when she turned to look. If there would be even more roses than before. It wasn't as if he could complain about her adhering to the letter of a promise rather than the spirit of it.

"Cora's daughter was always going to be the one to cast the curse. Before I even met the woman or had an inkling of her existence. Before Cora was ever born, her daughter was the one."

To Belle's great relief, he seemed to take no twisted pleasure in that. He spoke with a grim certainty, his eyes downcast.

 _Cora._ She repeated the name in the privacy of her own head a few times. _Well then._

"Would you really have been her friend?" It was Rumple's turn to startle her with a question. He looked troubled by the thought.

"Why not?"

"She had her husband murdered shortly before you met," he reminded her, with careful patience. Belle eyed him, not liking that the comment annoyed her so.

"And what had _you_ done shortly before _we_ met, Rumpelstiltskin?" She watched his mouth drop open to reveal the illusion of filthy teeth; watched his golden eyes widen at her challenge. She gave him a soft smile. "Anyone can change for the better if someone gives them a chance."

"And..." He stopped himself, struggling for the words he wanted. "And can anyone be loved, in spite of anything?"

"Of course."

Slowly, Rumple's pained bemusement softened into a look of tenderness. Belle shut her eyes as he stooped to kiss her, battling both reluctance and a terrible longing. His lips were dry, scratchy against hers in a kiss that was the merest brush of contact.

"You are a remarkable woman," he told her, solemnly, when he straightened again. "And far too kind to monsters."

She was helpless whenever she saw such love there in his eyes. Especially those eyes, familiar in a way that the mortal brown ones had yet to become. It wasn't kindness that allowed her to look beyond his ugly deeds; it was that she had seen beneath all that without trying, because what he buried within himself screamed for a voice. That loving father who missed his son. That timid lover who cherished her every willing caress. That passionate man who _felt_ the world, and felt it no less keenly for having built himself such hateful armour. He broke in her arms and became hers, nothing more or less than her very own husband, and the part of Belle that broke with him loved him harder than all the rest.

She missed that. It was so simple compared to all of this.

"We should eat," she sighed. Then she remembered the ribbon tied about his wrist. Just knowing that it was there gave her strength. She wondered if it did as much for Rumple. "Come on. Help me carry this to the k--"

Even as she turned towards the table, Belle saw the magic ripple along its length and leave the pristine cloth behind. Breakfast, tea set, all of it - restored as though his rage had never been.

"No reflection upon your porridge, my dear."

Belle couldn't help feeling that it was cheating to use magic to undo what had been done. But Rumple was in no mood to debate the point, and even though confronting Regina had left her stomach in a hard little knot of nervous excitement, Belle was hungry.

Each of them ate a little, Rumple trying to conceal his reluctance. He fidgeted in his seat and, when Belle had pushed away her plate, conjured his pipe and smoked it. The fingers of his left hand drummed beside his plate, making the crumbs and crusts dance.

"How do you like the dress?" It was a painfully awkward effort at conversation, even by Rumple's standards. Belle glanced down at herself. The bundle of skirts and padding behind her obliged her to perch at the front of her chair. The tall shoes meant that her feet more or less touched the floor when she did so. It was surprisingly comfortable, if she didn't try to bend.

"I don't think Regina even noticed."

Rumple waved a hand in dismissal, sending white smoke swirling about him.

"I didn't make it for her."

"It makes me feel... taller." Belle flushed as soon as she said it. How silly! "I hope you like the one that Sara is making for the wedding."

"Ah yes. The wedding." He shifted uneasily in his seat. "You're looking forward to it?"

"I... suppose so." Not having thought of it in those terms, Belle could not provide a better answer. "I hope that my father finds happiness." He acknowledged that with a wordless sound and drew deeply on his pipe. "I'm a bit nervous about having a stepmother," Belle admitted. She hadn't given that much thought, either, but when she pictured herself at the wedding, wearing her new dress and proffering strange gifts from far away... It was difficult to know what Lady Marcelle would make of her. Or of Rumpelstiltskin. All things considered, it was quite brave of the woman to marry into their family.

"We should make her a present of the tomcats," Rumple mused. The relaxing effects of his pipe smoke had soothed away his tension; his voice was deeper, the words slower. "The kittens," he clarified when Belle looked blank. "You can't let them sire kits on their own mother."

"Um... no, of course not." Belle had not even considered that when she took pity on them in the wood shed, and felt ashamed of herself. Cats, of all creatures, knew no shame of any sort, and the kittens would soon be grown. "I don't know which are which."

"All boys. Every one." Rumple drummed his black fingernails beside his plate again. "In my village we made a gift of good mousers to a new bride. Smoke has proven her blood there."

Belle almost didn't see the way his lips twitched with the hint of a suppressed smile. Almost.

"You're right," she said, standing up with care so as to let the unusual arrangement of skirts fall properly around her. "We have that custom too. Marcelle should have the kittens." She sounded upset, despite her best effort not to, and knew that he would suppose it was because of the kittens. Comfort and distraction though they had been, Belle did not think of the kittens as _hers_ \- they belonged to Smoke. Cats being cats, she would not miss them terribly for long. "Papa's castle is always overrun with mice."

Nodding his satisfaction, Rumple leaned back in his chair. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of their meal and banished it from sight.

Belle went for a better look at her new library. She could hardly do anything useful, not in this dress, so why not find herself a book and escape her troubles for a little while waiting for the Prince? Both her own words to Regina and Gaston's from earlier kept trying to haunt her thoughts, and she welcomed neither memory.

In some ways, it had been a great deal easier to choose a book to read when she had but a few to choose from. Even if she knew each of them cover to cover, it had been a pleasure to select one and to curl up somewhere with it while the life of Papa's castle flowed on around her. Her own little world of books. Books seemed to fill the world, here in the new library, and she didn't even know where to start.

She was standing a few feet inside the door and staring around her at the tall bookcases when Rumple's approach made her jump. Not a sudden appearance at her back, this time, but the way his footsteps and the knock of the cane became audible the moment he stepped from the carpet onto bare wood. Belle had wanted to be alone, but she had not said so. Why did it annoy her that he came after her, then?

"Are... Are the books in any sort of order?" She grabbed for the first thing to say, forcing good cheer into her voice.

"As you began to arrange them upstairs," Rumple said, and Belle realised that he had stopped at the doorway rather than enter the room after her. "By their subject. Except for the rarest. Those are in the locked cabinet." Belle glanced behind her to see which way he was pointing. To her right, far along the wall of books. She went to look and, yes, there was one cabinet tucked away amongst the otherwise uniform shelves of polished nut wood. Squat and built of oak and iron, it looked terribly out of place. And mysterious. Her heart quickened with anticipation as she reached for the double doors.

They were locked, but there appeared to be no keyhole. Belle looked askance at her husband, who approached then. He cut a fine figure, she thought, watching carefully as he covered the distance. Far from making him appear weak, that cane and the uneven gait added to the puzzle of him. With the old wooden staff, Rumple had seemed smaller than he truly was. With the dark cane and his high collar, he imposed himself on the world again. And it was such a small thing. Just a piece of wood in his hand, topped with gold. Anything could be a kind of magic, Belle supposed.

"Some books need to be approached with respect," he said, halting beside and just behind her. "Books of magic or secret knowledge. Or one of a kind."

Belle, who habitually approached any book with respect, could only nod to indicate that she was listening.

"Locked away without a key?" She indicated the blank iron lockplate that sat in the centre of the doors. "Books are meant to be read."

"But of course." Rumple's voice made her spine tighten with the beginnings of a sweet shiver. He spoke as a lover spoke, hushed and full of promises. Reaching around her, standing close, he caught her right hand and guided it up to touch the featureless metal plate where the keyhole ought to have been. "Some must also be kept very safe." Gently, he pressed and squeezed her hand until he had urged her to extend her index finger alone. Equally gently, he used her fingertip to draw the simple shape of a heart against the iron. It was blisteringly cold to the touch, and Belle's fingertip left glowing red in its wake.

The lock clicked open and the doors swung outward.

No two books on the shelves within were alike. Binding, width, height, condition - Belle's gaze was greedy, racing over the spines. One or two had no spines at all and were simply bundles of yellowing parchment held together with fragile stitching. Some were bound in leather tooled with gold leaf; some less than the height of her hand while others lay at an angle because they were too tall to fit the space between the shelves. They looked every bit like the books that she had dreamed of finding when she was a girl - the treasures that came from a bold and brave adventure.

"It's beautiful," she said, and then hoped that Rumple wasn't rolling his eyes behind her. In truth the cabinet was untidy, musty and many of the books were sorely in want of repair, but together they were a marvel. A beautiful thing, and all the more so for being hidden away from prying eyes. She could feel the tickle of his breath against the back of her head as he leaned nearer. "Gaston's mother said that reading too many books erodes a girl's brain," she remembered, touching one of the newer and sturdier spines. "I wonder what she'd think of these?"

"Gaston's mother is a--"

It was probably fortunate that Rumple's darkly muttered remark was interrupted by three solid, unhurried blows on the castle doors. Belle felt the sigh beside her temple, felt his hand skim against her ribs before he straightened and turned. "Ah," he said, brightly, with one of his hand flourishes and a big, unpleasant smile. "Our other guest!"


	121. Masks

It was a struggle to put everything else out of her mind, but Belle knew that she needed a clear and cool head for this. They entered the marble hall side by side as Rumple, with one lazy wave of his hand, caused the castle's doors to open with a lingering, ominous creak.

Prince James kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. Belle noticed the way his chain-mailed fist tightened as the doors swung open, and how he deliberately loosened his grip before he greeted them each with the slightest of bows.

"Dark One. Lady Belle."

"Your Royal Highness," countered Rumple, all sickly insincerity, sweeping as deep and courtly a bow as the walking stick would permit him. Belle watched James and saw the bemusement crease his brow. _Rumple's misjudged him,_ she told herself, offering the prince her hand to kiss and watching him carefully as he did so. _He doesn't stand on his pride the way Gaston does. And he's already noticed the stick._

"Thank you for coming. Gaston will be so glad to see you."

"I'll be glad to see him!" The gust of relieved laughter sounded quite sincere to Belle.

"And we'll be glad to see the back of him," Rumple complained. "He clutters up my castle." He caught Belle's eye and his sneer faded. The flash of fevered malice in his gaze did not.

"He... always did have two left feet," James said, with careful politeness. "How did he come to be your prisoner here?"

"Blind luck," Rumple snapped, but without the crispness of his usual retorts. To Belle's dismay, he swayed on his feet when he turned away from them. It was far too easy to forget that this was a mask he wore now; that such protection as it lent him was paper-thin. She could risk nothing that might give him away, not even a show of concern, and the helplessness burned. He waved a hand dismissively without glancing back. "I'm sure you appreciate that you owe his freedom to my wife's generosity, not my own."

The double doors of the great room slammed shut behind him.

Prince James cleared his throat. Belle did her best to hide her confusion and worry, gesturing for him to follow her to the staircase.

"I'll take you to him."

She could all but feel the man's effort to remain silent until they had turned the first corner on the climb. Then James caught her arm, staring at her intently from two steps below her.

"What does the Dark One want in return for this?"

"Nothing."

James shook his head, his smile grim and his words urgent. "He always exacts his price. I won't have _you_ be the one who pays for Gaston's freedom."

"There's no need to whisper," Belle assured him, leaning forward conspiratorially. "He could listen anyway if he wanted to. All I did was what you asked me to do – to speak for Gaston if I could."

"You're certain?" He watched her eyes with a sudden and unnerving intensity. "Understand, Lady Belle, that your actions saved not only your home but our very kingdom. Your diplomacy in surrendering your birthright has been more help than you know. And now Gaston." He gripped her elbow. "I _will_ do anything I can to help you in return."

Although he spoke with the courtly formality of a prince, his eyes betrayed more than gratitude for her service. He burned with a passionate conviction that came close to anger.

"Thank you," was all she could say. "But Gaston needs your protection, not me. The men who assaulted me at the King's banquet, when you gave me your cloak--" Her cheeks were aglow before the words were even out, and the humiliation felt fresh. Belle marched on upwards as steadily as her costume would allow, hoping that James had not noticed. "They've pitted themselves against my husband, against his dark magic, but they're using dark magic of their own. Gaston is bound to silence. Telling us what he knows almost killed him." Perhaps that was an exaggeration, because she was sure that Rumple would not have wanted to disappoint her, even if he cared little for Gaston's survival. But Belle remembered how James had been willing to end his friendship with Gaston over the insult to Belle at the banquet. How would he feel about Gaston creeping into Regina's bedchamber with a blade? "His wound has healed but he needs looking after."

"I can do that."

"He doesn't even know who might come after him. The Duke…"

"Lady Belle." James caught her by the elbow again. "I know the danger he's in – better than he does, or you. I will protect him. I swear." He forced a smile, as if worried that he had spoken too coldly. "If a prince of the realms can't protect his friend, what use is he?"

Nodding, Belle led him up to the second landing, trying to think quickly. What might a prince know that Gaston did not? That Rumple would wish to know?

"Is Duke Hubert responsible for what's happened to Gaston?"

James laughed, turning to face her as he gained the landing beside her. "You never came to court, did you?"

"No." And something compelled her to add, "My father needed me by his side."

"Duke Hubert is no strategist. Look to the Duchess if you're looking for the source of any trouble." James seemed to be sizing her up for a moment and Belle wondered just what he saw. "Gaston worships his mother. More than mere filial piety allows for." Again the silence and the feeling that she was being weighed in the balance. "Is there some dark magic that can make a person speak with another's words? Act against their own nature?"

"I expect so." She remembered the agony of Gaston's struggle to speak the truth, and hugged her chest. "There isn't much that magic can't do."

"But there's no magic to match the power of the Dark One."

"No." Belle could feel the weight of Rumple's great secret on her shoulders. What would James do if he discovered the truth? What would King George do, if only to protect his own secret about an adopted son? Lies and secrets made such a _mess_ of everything! "Someone has done a great deal of harm trying to find a way. The innocent don't matter to these people who used Gaston. Do you know what they want?"

"To rid the realm of magic and the old powers," answered James, shortly. "Can you imagine a world without magic?"

"No," Belle confessed, and stroked her hand across the front of her satin skirts. She could not imagine the land where this dress she wore was the fashion, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was a more peaceful one for being free of magic. "It's the Dark One they've been looking to undermine. They even thought it worth taking his wife from him. Maybe that's why it seems personal."

"The Dark One has a very personal history with Gaston's family."

"Yes," sighed Belle. "Yes, I know. How does it ever stop? Vengeance? The Dark One was a slave and turned on his masters, and now they want revenge for that? And Rumple will kill them if he gets the chance, for the things they've done. Can't it just end?"

James's slight smile told her that he was indulging her grumble rather than agreeing with her sentiment. Belle led the way to Gaston's room, wondering at herself. Twice now she had spoken to James as though they were friends. True, he was no longer her Prince, but still _a_ prince, and accustomed to being treated with a careful respect. Why was it so easy to forget that?

"Don't let his pride fool you," she warned, her hand on the door. "His wound was very bad. Rumple says that a magical wound might never fully heal."

Nodding, James kept his gaze fixed on the wood of the door. He was too well-mannered to show impatience, but eager enough to see his friend that he preferred not to prolong their conversation. Belle found herself smiling as she opened the door.

Gaston rushed forward, but remembered himself and dropped to one knee when he reached the threshold.

"Highness," he said, his head bowed.

"Get up, Gaston," laughed James, but his laughter faded when Gaston struggled to obey. Wordlessly, both pretending not to notice his reddening face, Belle and James took an arm each and helped Gaston to stand. "Lady Belle told me of your wound," James went on, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. He slapped Gaston's upper arm, plainly thinking better of embracing him. "I brought horses but I can see we need a coach."

Mortified, Gaston shook his head.

"I can ride. He's truly letting me go free?"

"I am," Belle said, and immediately regretted her pointed tone. This time she was _sure_ that Gaston had done nothing to provoke her, and she disliked the thought that he provoked her worse nature merely by existing. Supposing she'd _married_ him?! "Where will you go?"

Once again she found that nothing of a smile on James's lips. It was echoed in his eyes – all courtesy, all surface, leaving her nothing to guess at.

"It's best that even Sir Gaston doesn't know that until we get there," he said. Although his tone was pleasant, Belle had the feeling that he would be immovable if she tried to debate him. "If those with magic can even overhear a private conversation," James added, deflecting her suspicion at once. "Let the Dark One destroy me should I ever betray a friend, my Lady." He made a fist and pressed it over his heart. He all but shone with sincerity.

"Chivalry is of little use in this fight," Gaston warned, touching James on the shoulder with a familiarity that surprised Belle. The prince turned his head sharply, startled. "But I would be gone from here. I've been a burden on Lady Belle for long enough." He cleared his throat and tore his gaze from James to look at Belle. Standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder, Gaston was the taller of the two men. Belle had never noticed that before. "Your kindness and your protection will not be forgotten," he said, with the solemnity that had always struck her as pompous beyond his years. She could see the awkwardness behind it, now. She could see a boy who had once been all elbows and knees, forcing rigid control upon himself for the want of any natural grace. "I hope that I am able to repay you one day."

Belle felt ashamed. She nodded and led the way back downstairs. Behind her, the two men held a hushed conversation. She tried not to listen, _truly_ she did, but…

"— but we thought you dead!"

"Not dead. But I may as well be. I do not deserve even t-- even _his_ clemency."

Silence for a few steps. Belle could hear the scuff and tread of their boots, her precarious heels clicking on the stone, and her own breathing.

"I think we can place our trust in the lady's judgement." James spoke a little louder, then. Perhaps he knew that she must have been listening as they whispered.

 _Would_ James forgive Gaston if he learned the whole truth? He was a man of honour. He expected as much from those under his command. But… Gaston had never truly been under the command of King George. He was Prince James's boyhood friend, and if they made for an odd match then it was because rank was the nearest thing they had in common. She glanced over her shoulder before taking the final turn, and saw them side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and grinning together.

She almost slipped on the first of the marble stairs, because she looked away so quickly and so guiltily that she lost her balance, and then her footing. Before she could fall, Prince James had her beneath one elbow and Sir Gaston beneath the other, and they righted her without a word. When she dared to glance again at their faces, she saw only that solemn seriousness from before.

"Thank you." Although steady on her feet once more, Belle felt unbalanced in a way that she could not describe. She glanced towards the closed doors of the great room, wondering why Rumple did not appear. He usually found it difficult to resist having the last word. She missed the way Rumple watched her as she dealt with others. That light in his eyes that was made up of love, mischief, laughter, glee and lust; she _missed_ it.

When she turned, she saw it anyway – it was there in the way James looked at Gaston. A blink and it was gone, but Belle had seen it. She found that her mouth was open and shut it with a little 'snap'.

"Is it true that you have no servants? No stables, no grooms?"

Belle nodded at James's question. She was still too startled to speak. Whatever she had seen in that private glance, it had vanished again behind the Prince's smiling mask. Gaston had not seen it at all. He stood there looking stern and slightly sullen, just the way she remembered.

"Would it trouble you to keep one of my horses here? I know that you journey soon to your father's wedding. Would you present the beast to him as a gift?"

Gaston nodded to himself and James watched her with a glint in his eye. Belle thought quickly, dragging her mind away from speculation about she knew-not-what. There would be stabling in Odstone or down at the river. They could lead a second horse. He had no need to ask this favour of her; he meant for her to have the horse.

"It will be no trouble. My father will be honoured."

Rumple _had_ promised that she should have a horse.

"Then I'm twice in your debt, Lady Belle. For Gaston's life and for your kindness to me." James bowed deeply. Gaston's eyebrows disappeared beneath his unkempt mop of dark hair. "And please convey my--" the barest hesitation "--respects to the Dark One." He almost concealed his glance towards the door that Rumple had taken when he left them so abruptly.

Belle led them outside, throwing open the double doors. She had forgotten about the work on the castle walls. Some of the men were clustered in the shadow of the gate arch, talking and watching the pair of grey horses. They were not tethered, but stood patiently on the cobbles, nose to tail. They came forward slowly when James whistled through his teeth, falling into step beside one another as neatly as marching soldiers.

"Those two shouldn't be parted," Belle observed. She felt oddly self-conscious with the two tall men standing behind her; she felt small and… not safe. She moved to one side of the wide steps so that she could face them instead. "They could be twins."

It was only a word, but she felt herself try to swallow it back even as it was spoken.

"They'll be reunited when I present this one to your father as well," James said, catching at the reins of the horse that bore his packs. He seemed not to notice her stumble, nor her sudden nervousness. It _was_ just a word to a man who had no idea that he had been born a twin. Belle wondered what the brother was like, and tried not to think about Rumple's part in separating them. What would her father's kingdom be without its Prince James? For that matter, what would it be if there were two royal princes instead of a sole heir? "The King commands me to attend the wedding." He steered Gaston towards the horse and then stooped to make a stirrup of his hands so that the injured man could mount. "But I must attend to friendship first." Gaston looked down at the prince's cupped hands, appalled. Belle couldn't tell whether it was the words of disobedience that shocked him, or the sight of his prince stooped like a stable hand and waiting to receive his boot.

"Highness, no," Gaston managed, and James relented after a glance up at the other man's face. He straightened, grinning easily, and swung himself up into the saddle.

That was Gaston for you, Belle thought. Honour before common sense. She steadied the man when he took James's arm and struggled up behind him. Once mounted, Gaston gripped the sides of James's jerkin, his expression grim and his face gone ashen with the pain. He saw Belle's worried look and turned his face away, swallowing hard.

"Hold him or he'll follow," James advised, nodding to the second horse. "His name is Flood."

Belle took the reins and soothed the giant as his brother turned about.

"What do you call the other?" Belle asked. She tried not to smile when James groped behind him and dragged one of Gaston's arms securely around his waist, nor when Gaston sheepishly did likewise with the other hand. Pale a moment ago, he grew quite pink.

"Fire!" James said, laughing, and tapped his heels to the beast's flank. The men at the gate made way in a great hurry as the horse and riders bore down on them. "Farewell, Lady Belle. And thank you!"

She stood and stared after them until the sound of hoof-beats faded. Flood nuzzled her curiously, ill at ease but patient.

"I hope we have a stable somewhere," Belle said, weakly. But then she cheered up, reminding herself that she no longer had a prisoner, and that stabling a horse in Odstone presented little difficulty to anyone with their pockets full of gold. "I know we have carrots. Do you like those, Flood? And goodness knows the kitchen garden needs grazing. Then we'll find someone to look after you properly."

For all his towering size, Flood seemed the docile sort. He walked with her easily, glad to be led, and stood very still while she removed his saddle and harness. The kitchen garden was no paddock, but it offered sunlight and shade, overgrown grass and a deep trough of rainwater which Flood moved towards at once.

After fetching the promised carrots and securing the wooden gate with its heavy bar, Belle went back inside. She had grown more accustomed to using the kitchen door, what with the deliveries and the collection of the laundry, but it still felt strange to her. She tried to imagine the place full of servants as she passed through the kitchen and went upstairs. How many would be needed for a castle this size? Twenty? Thirty? Cooks and grooms, maids and scullions, guards and porters. The kitchen garden needed a small army of gardeners to restore it to order and make it useful again. Rumple could do that with a mere wave of his hand, but…

"Rumple?!"

He was sprawled face-down on the carpet a dozen paces from the door to the kitchen stairs, a fallen marble plinth and its golden bowl of red roses spilled all about him. "Rumple!"

Belle dropped to her knees beside him, relieved to see that his eyes were open. He was alert to her presence, even trying to struggle, but he clearly had not the strength to move from where he lay. His ebony cane was trapped beneath him. "Did you trip? Are you hurt?" Panic made her voice unsteady, and the dress that had been so lovely to wear to greet royalty was suddenly nothing but a nuisance.

"No… no. The others. Don't let…"

"They've gone, they've gone," she said quickly, hearing her alarm spill over into the words that she'd meant to sound soothing. Rumple sagged then, nodding slightly, and he changed as the fight ebbed out of him. She realised that he had been holding on to the illusion of being the Dark One with the very last of his strength. "Oh, Rumple…"

When she took his left hand, Rumple responded with a weak squeeze. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

For what? She didn't press him for the answer now. She pushed off her shoes instead, made herself as comfortable there beside him as she could, and stroked his hair. There was no way that she could lift him to his feet until he found some strength of his own, and he would no more want her to fetch help than he had wanted Gaston or James to witness this. 

It was only a little while before Rumple was able to rouse himself further. He gripped her hand with reassuring firmness, then released it and put his palms flat against the carpet. With a trembling effort, he pushed himself up to his knees. Dishevelled and even more pale than Gaston had been, Rumple blinked rapidly and tried to push his hair out of his eyes. He looked around him, at his cane, at the scattered flowers, but not at his wife.

"I'm sorry to frighten you," he said, voice low and soft. "The glamour… I had no strength." He gestured to his face, then let the hand fall to his side, too weary even for that. "The dukeling?"

"Gone. They've gone." Belle could hardly think about that. Here, now, on their knees together, they were the world. "Why are you so weak?"

Rumple flinched. It was the slightest thing, a twist of the features and a shift in the way he held his shoulders, but Belle understood that she may as well have taken a cudgel to him as use those words She had asked a question, feeling nothing but concern for him. Her husband heard condemnation in its place. She shuffled closer, hampered by the tight satin, and put her hands on his shoulders. Rumple turned his face further away from her. What would he do if she spoke other than gently now. "Why is this happening to you?" She brushed her knuckles against his cheek, full of love for him, but it was a desperate love. It hurt. "How can I help?"

He shook his head. "You can't."

"Rumple…" But he shook his head again, vehemently this time. At least he let her help him to his feet, the pair of them wobbling until Rumple stumbled the few paces to the corner of the table and clutched at it with both hands.

Belle picked up his cane and took it to him, earning a tight nod of thanks.

"No-one can see me like this."

"You'll be all right," Belle began. The black look he gave her persuaded her to swallow back the rest of the comforting words.

"No. I won't." He staggered for the first few steps and Belle put her hand to her mouth, afraid that he would fall again. She took two hurried steps after him, but something stopped her there. Rumple neither welcomed nor needed her words of comfort; his words were not spoken in resignation but with a bitter determination.

"What are you going to do?" Her voice tried to fail her, betraying the growing fear that she had yet to acknowledge to herself, but Rumple heard. He stopped and half-glanced over his shoulder.

"Whatever I must," he said, and his voice was as hard as stone. Belle hugged herself tightly as she watched him limp away, supported as much by pride as by the cane he leaned on so heavily.

He did not look back.


	122. The Winter Graves

The ride to Odstone was a joy to Belle. Flood seemed as pliant as he was powerful, and the long journey with the prince had not exhausted him. When Belle urged him to a trot he moved on the feet of a dancer, sprightly and with every sign of relishing the extra speed. She wondered what it would be like to ride him at a full gallop, and then realised that she could not remember when she had last ridden at speed for the sheer pleasure of moving. There had been the lessons with Papa, of course. He had made certain that she knew how to ride hard if she ever needed to. But had she ever done so merely to feel the wind in her hair, or because the animal beneath her was born to run?

She ignored the startled glances of the townspeople, well aware that her stockings were on display beneath her shortened skirt of blue linen, which was hitched up to accommodate the girth of horse and saddle. People did their best not to stare, but when she slid from the saddle outside the town hall, three different sets of hands vied to catch Flood's bridle and hold him steady for her. They need not have bothered. A strange place and strange rider were not going to trouble the mount that Prince James had trusted with a rescue mission.

Smiling at the man who had beaten the others to hold her horse, Belle recognised his face. She could not recall his name, or decide where she had seen him before.

"Hello," she said, and simply smiled since she did not know his name. "Thank you."

"Lady." The man nodded his nervous greeting. Belle could see that he had not been prepared for the possibility that she would speak to him if he volunteered himself. She was too familiar by now with the strained combination of respect, wariness, hope and dread that the wife of Rumpelstiltskin instilled in them.

"This is Flood," she said, patting the horse's neck and giving the man a big happy smile that only further unnerved him. "Would you be very kind and find him a stable and the very best care? He's come a long way."

"Of course, Lady." Relieved that the task entrusted to him was uncomplicated, the man nodded and returned her smile. "We saw the fine gentleman ride through here earlier. He'll be well kept at the tavern."

"Good." Belle reached out and dropped two gold pieces into his hand before he realised what was happening. "Thank you...?" She felt slightly unkind, then, for ignoring how she frightened him so. To ask for his name was no small thing when she had the ear of the Spinner, and he could hardly refuse to answer her obvious query.

"Name of Lakeland, my Lady. I serve Master Janek as bailiff."

"Thank you." Belle placed him at last; she had seen him before, helping to restrain Dacey Tavish when his drunken mouth ran away with him. "Could you tell me where Janek lives? I'm afraid I haven't been polite enough to ask him before."

Her openness about her own failings seemed to put Lakeland at his ease. He gave a true smile and patted Flood.

"Why, here Lady." He indicated the town hall to her right, then pointed upwards at the second story. "Over the shop, the Lord calls it."

There'd be a story there, Belle knew, and likely not one that saw Janek get the best of his deal with the Dark One. She nodded her thanks again, and brushed herself down as Lakeland led the patient horse towards the crossroads. One or two children – girls of course – fell in behind them, impressed by such a horse and its finery.

She had not understood how the ride had distracted her from her cares until they came back to her in an unwelcome rush. The smile died on her lips as she thought of Rumple. She had looked for him, when she felt that she had given him a little time to recover from his fall, but the cup of tea she had taken up to his turret had gone back to the kitchen with her, stone cold. He was nowhere to be found in the rooms they frequented. It seemed a hopeless task to search the uninhabited parts of the castle for a man who wished to avoid her.

Expecting the town hall to be empty, Belle was surprised to hear voices coming from inside. Women's voices, at that, and laughter too. Distracted from both her cares and her thoughts of speaking with Janek, she followed the sound into the open space of the hall and found more than half a dozen women clustered around the council table. They had not taken the men's chairs, but instead stood around and between them on the dais, the table between them covered in their bundles and baskets. There was even a sleeping baby there, carefully nestled between two baskets and with a cloak for a bed.

"Excuse me," Belle began, and even from across the room she heard the indrawn breaths as the women froze, facing her with uncertain expressions. "I didn't mean to interrupt you," she said, struggling to find the smile and the cheerful voice that would reassure them. She felt so brittle herself that her effort to put others at ease seemed hollow and false rather than kindly. "I was hoping to see Master Janek?"

She recognised Sara Fitchett and Martha the midwife, and then realised that most of those around the table had been at the fireside at the tavern when they gathered for Wren's burial. Some of them had carried Wren to her resting place.

"Lady Belle!" That was Sara, stirring herself from behind the group and hurrying down the steps to greet her. The other women began to look relieved, and Belle was equally relieved to realise that any intruder would have caused them to fall so silent and to look so uneasy. "Janek's ridden to the river today."

"And you're borrowing his table?"

"Not _his_ table," one of the women complained, but quietly, and even that was elbowed into silence by the others.

"We've all talked to the other women," Sara explained. "To find out what's needed. When we tried to talk about it at the tavern..."

Belle looked at the group on the dais, and then at Sara's weary expression. She nodded, and thought of how she had sat with her needlework while the men of her town decided everything for everyone, and of how Gaston had evicted her when she tried to contribute her ideas. Women were expected to keep their own counsel.

And she'd been right. Her father might be too wrapped in grief to see it, but Prince James saw it. She'd been right that they needed Rumpelstiltskin, and she'd taken it upon herself to pay his price. Could a man have done as much?

"Is this Janek's home?" Belle gestured at the bare hall around them. "Lakeland just told me that he lives here."

"Upstairs," Sara explained, pointing to a small, narrow door at the back of the dais.

"And this is your town hall." Belle glanced around, trying to think what could be made of the space, but the place reminded her so forcefully of Wren's passing that she had to force herself to face Sara again. "And it seems you're in nobody's way. If it helps you to have my permission to be here, then you have it. And Rumpelstiltskin has no objections," she added, finding a little of her usual good humour and making it an exaggerated whisper. "He doesn't expect a woman to be seen and not heard."

Sara covered her mouth in time to hide hers, but several of the others were too slow to hide smirks or splutters of laughter.

"Aside from old Wren he never spoke a word to us," Martha said. She seemed to have charge of the sleeping baby, and adjusted its shawl while she spoke. "Nor much to the menfolk either, mind. Only Janek."

"I don't think that Janek objects to my meddling." Belle remembered how he, too, had tried to hide his smile when she exchanged boldness for the outrageous. "He has so much to do that I expect he'll be glad of your help. Who _does_ help him? I've seen Lakeland and another man with prisoners. And the other men on the Council. Is that all?"

"More or less, Lady." Sara gestured uncertainly to the steps. "We were talking about what you want of us. Will you talk with us?"

"What I want?" Oh dear! Belle followed her, waving away the offer of the big carved chair. The circle of worried, weathered faces looked to her, open and wary at the same time. "I suppose I wanted to make things fair here. So that women like Mistress Tavish have somewhere to turn. So that a daughter with a gift for numbers can think of more than how to find a husband to keep her."

"Things _are_ fair here." A bedraggled looking woman, young but greying, looked to the others to support her claim. "I was born in the valley beyond the river, Lady. That's King Leopold's land, and we went hungry to pay his taxes. You can think of what's fair, my Lady, but I'll wager you've never had to think of where your next meal will come from. Try thinking lofty thoughts about fairness and justice then."

There was uproar as the other women scolded her, but Belle held up her hands for silence. They obeyed her, darting anxious glances between her face and that of the woman who had spoken out.

"You're right," Belle said. "And my husband says the same thing." That interested them. Belle watched them glance to one another, then back at her. "Look, if the changes I propose don't suit you then you must tell me so. If you feel they will make your lives worse instead of better then they mustn't happen. But I can defy my husband without fear of a beating. I _chose_ my husband. And if _I_ can, surely it's only fair that his law gives you all the same freedom and safety that I enjoy?"

She had not been sure what her slightly desperate statement might provoke. More shock, perhaps, or some agreement, or even a rebuke from the woman who now stood tight-lipped, annoyed that the others had scolded her for speaking the plain truth. Instead, every woman stared at Belle in blank surprise. "What?" she asked, weakly.

There was a lot of shuffling and throat-clearing. Only Martha looked directly at Belle, and her surprise was giving way to a twinkle in the eye that reminded Belle very much of Wren.

"I suppose we thought you were one of his deals," she said carefully, speaking for all of them, even if all of the others suddenly wished they had never come. "We always wondered why he'd not done it sooner. Found himself a wife. Gold and magic... He could have any woman he wanted."

Belle had thought the same thing. And she had to admit that her choice might not look like very much of one to anyone but herself. It was only compared to her lack of choice in marrying Gaston that her deal with Rumpelstiltskin took on a favourable light.

"My father refused his deal," she managed, hoarsely. "I accepted it freely."

Just as she could not understand hunger, Belle could see that these women did not understand the nuances of her decision. They, in their way, had more freedom when it came to marriage than any high born girl.

"Women follow the men where you come from, then." Martha nodded. It had not been a question. "And the men choose what's good for women and the little ones, and stay quiet if they're beaten or worse."

Belle nodded. She felt too ashamed to speak. She would defy Rumpelstiltskin if it seemed the right thing to do, but not merely for the sake of defying him. Not just because she _could_. If the women here in Odstone preferred that she left well alone, how could she defy that?

She thought about Lotte, dreaming of a fine husband and of children; of the very things that Belle herself had chafed against, yet been too cowardly to refuse. She had not known her own importance until that day when King George heard Gaston's claim to her hand in marriage. She had not thought about keeping the sea port from the Duke's family, nor about how desperate King George must have been for military aid to ever assent to her engagement with Gaston in the first place.

"She wants us to have our say," Sara insisted. "Not to say for us what's to be done. If a husband raises his hand to any of my girls and she brains him with the poker to keep him from starting on the babes, I want to see some law on her side for a change."

"King Leopold's law allowed for that, but what you ask of the law must be paid for. He said that too. I'd sooner a black eye than hungry children."

"You don't have to choose between the two," Belle promised, only to realise that she could never promise that. Not to everyone, not even here in her tiny realm, and not even if Rumple made her queen. Rumple meant to leave this place to find his son. Suppose they never came back? "Taxes pay for armies, for swords and horses and for men to guard the borders and patrol the roads," she said, addressing the woman who had challenged her. "We're free of all that. The Dark One will never need your gold."

"Will your law say that, miss?" The woman who had spoken out was losing her fight. She did not have the support of the others. She looked at the table as she spoke again. "Because we've never gone hungry before."

"Ask Dacey Tavish if the master's law kept his children fed," Martha snapped. "Better yet, ask his wife."

"Please," Belle said, seeing the younger woman's face crumple in the face of Martha's annoyance. "I want to hear what you all have to say. Men and women alike. If you don't agree among yourselves then I will decide for the majority," she promised. "But what I want is for you to decide what's fair and how it should be done, and then come to me when you need help to make it happen."

"What about the school?" Belle had not even noticed Tullia until she spoke. She had been standing quietly at the rear of the dais, and she had her hair piled up in the manner of the younger women rather than loose the way the children wore theirs. Belle had never seen her so clean, nor looking so well-fed. "That's needed. Law's no use if we can't read it."

"Your pa would've taken his belt to you if you'd learned to read, Lulie," said one of the women, not unkindly.

"Not if the law said ma could hit him with the poker," answered Tullia, with a coldness that Belle hadn't seen in her before. "He'd have been dead ten times over before I could walk."

"He'd have been dead before she was conceived," the innkeeper pointed out. "And where's the good of that? Law is for making people think twice about what they do, not just for hurting them after they do it. Cut of a thief's hand and he's still got another, and half the means of earning an honest living he had before."

This caused another argument. Belle, who had argued about justice with her father until they were both furious, kept her own counsel and climbed down from the dais, beckoning to Tullia. Normally so glad to see her, the young woman looked sullen as she skirted the arguing women and joined Belle at the foot of the short steps.

"My Lady," she mumbled. For a moment Belle thought that Tullia would apologise for her hard words, and for beginning the heated discussion going on behind them, but she didn't. Belle was glad.

"I think you're right about the school. But you and your sisters will be far from here by then."

"No, we won't. Ma changed her mind and says she won't go. Won't leave him because he can't manage alone."

"Manage what?" Shocked, Belle drew Tullia further away from the noisy group on the dais. "The farm?"

"I don't know. She just says I don't understand."

"Oh, Tullia."

"She never would've, you know. Taken the poker to him for coming after us. Jules would've. I would've. I only said it because they all knew. All of 'em. How many of them stand by and let it happen to their little'uns?"

It was another shock in a day full of small shocks, and Belle could feel herself becoming numb to them. But something about the way Tullia said it pinned Belle's attention to the moment; to the grimace of hate on that young face.

"Did he do more than strike you?" she asked, and wished that she could count on wishes and force the answer to be the one she wanted to hear. "Did he do worse, Tullia?"

The young woman shrugged, then raised her head and managed something of the defiance that she had shown when she spoke to the older women.

"Didn't do this to myself, did I?" Tullia flattened her apron over a belly that was rather fuller than it ought to be on a girl who'd only recently found enough to eat. "Can't say it was worse," she added, darkly.

Belle could feel the words straining to be spoken; the 'why didn't you tell me?' and the 'I'm so sorry'. But what use were they? She knew full well why a woman held her tongue about an unwanted babe, or the filthy attentions of an unwanted man. And what use was her sorrow?

"If you accuse him, I will have him punished," she said, and although she spoke calmly she felt her body tremble with anger. "Does your mother know?"

"She doesn't see when she doesn't want to know. I told her we had to go far away before he's let out, but she won't."

"Have you spoken to Martha?"

"No, my Lady. Nothing gets past her, but things have been different since the boys died, and with Wren took ill and gone. She'll spot it soon enough if we stay here. Everyone'll know whose it is." The flat matter-of-factness of Tullia's words upset Belle more than tears or pleas ever could have. "What'll you do to him, if I accuse him? Will it stop him coming back to ma?"

What would Papa do? She had always been hustled away before such cases were heard. Only later, through gossip and exaggerated truth, did she learn that rape had been done. Only by listening when nobody knew she was near had she ever learned that some men violated their own daughters. She felt ill.

"I can't think of a punishment harsh enough," she confessed, because if she had no answer then she owed Tullia the truth of that. "But your father will not be released before you are safe from him, I can promise you that."

"I'll take my sisters and go, if that's best," Tullia said. "But I won't leave them here for him. Not until my ma picks up that poker."

 _One word,_ Belle thought, thinking better of going after Tullia as she hurried outside. _One word from me and Rumple would destroy Tavish. If I speak up for her now, how many of these women will take up a cudgel, and fetch their men, and help drag Tavish to their own justice?_

She had that power, and it would be so, so easy to use it.

Belle wandered back to the door, where she stood in the shadows and watched the street beyond. Odstone was busy with its ordinary comings and goings, and although she had become important here she remained an outsider. A mere onlooker, trying to understand.

"Lady Belle?" Sara had stopped just short of touching her shoulder, saying her name instead. Belle saw her draw back her hand. "Don't mind any of that. We're all grateful to you for this. We're just not sure what we want. We're not used to change here."

"No."

"Did Lulie tell you about her mother staying?"

"Yes." Hugging herself, Belle looked back out at the street. "Why would she stay when she has the choice?"

"Don't think badly of her," Sara advised. Laughter erupted back in the hall, and both women glanced back at the group around the table. "I reckon she's been frightened so long it's just habit now. She's broken without those boys of hers."

Unable to think of anything else to say, and feeling overwhelmed by Tullia's news and her worry for Rumple, Belle kept silent until she had calmed herself.

"I must pay you, Sara. For the dresses and for Gillard's carvings."

Sara hesitated, then dug into the pocket of her apron. She brought out a slip of paper with two figures carefully written on it in a beautiful hand.

"The castle pays what's asked," Belle said, making the effort to smile. She brought out her purse and counted the heavy coins into Sara's hand. "At least that seems fair. Thank you, Sara."

"My Lady."

"I think I'm in the way here." Nodding to the women and their conversation, Belle forced a smile. "I'll speak with Janek soon. Even if it's decided that we keep the old laws, they must be written down clearly. And Tullia's right – anyone who wants to must be able to read what they say."

That made Sara grin. She wanted that school for her daughters.

Belle said goodbye and wandered outside. The day was drawing on, and she wanted to find Rumple and make sure that he was all right. But there had been something very final in the way he left her earlier, cautioning her to leave him to himself. Would he return so soon to pushing her into the corners of his life? He he tried so hard and they had said so much. Shared kisses of new promise together. And then he'd killed the genie in that moment of cruel rage, right there in their bed.

She turned towards the crossroads rather than take the road for home. At first she thought that she might visit Wren's cottage, but that seemed too morbid. There were no ghosts there, and she needed no help to keep her memories of the time spent there with Wren. Instead of stopping, Belle went on past the cobbles and onto the dirt road, and was almost at the graveyard before she admitted to herself that it had been her destination all along.

The winter graves had been softened by the greens of spring. Each of the children's graves now had its stone marker in the local custom – a stone taken from the mountain onto which a flattened surface had been carved to receive the name. Those graves still looked too fresh beside the resting place that Rumple had given to Wren, covered with grass and moss and shaded by a tree that would have taken decades to become so lush. Belle had not known why he did that, until today. It somehow hurt her less to see Wren's grave nestled into the landscape, already become one with it and with the past. Even covered with sparse new grass, the graves of the boys taken by the Rot and the grave of Yrsa were a raw wound on the place, and they seemed too harsh to allow for comforting memories.

"Wren." The empty silence swallowed up the name. There was nobody here to listen. Belle knelt at the foot of the grave, fighting back tears. They were not so much tears for Wren as for her own loneliness. "It's all going wrong, Wren. I think everyone would have been better off if I'd never come here. Even Rumple." A few tiny wild-flowers grew in amongst the grass at the base of the headstone. Belle leaned over and brushed her fingertips across the white petals. "He's angry with you for dying. I'm selfishly wishing you were here so that I could talk to you. To someone. You helped me to make sense of things. To be brave or to stop being silly. To understand about being someone's wife." She sat back on her heels again. "I'm no good at secrets, Wren. I don't like keeping them. Odstone has them. Rumple has so many."

"Not all secrets are bad, child."

Belle gulped and cried out at the same time, resulting in a strangled sound as she scrambled to her feet and looked all about her for the owner of that voice. A woman's voice. Her pulse raced with fright, and with a foolish hope that brought tears of shame to her eyes when she caught herself hoping it.

"Who's there?" she demanded, angry at whoever had been listening to such private words, and frightened because she could see no-one. "Show yourself!"

"I'm here." A light caught Belle's eye, then, half hidden amongst the low branches of the tree. Against the low afternoon sun it was barely more than a sparkle, like a reflection on still water, but as she watched the light emerged from among the blossom buds, revealing a figure barely taller than Belle's thumb borne on delicate, sparkling wings.

"A fairy?!" Belle realised only then that she had not _truly_ believed in them. Not even when Rumple spoke so blackly of their part in his separation from Baelfire, or of how their light magic could burn him. But the figure in its halo of water-ripple light could be nothing else. Wings and a wand, and the sensation that there was music in the air, just beyond mortal hearing. Belle could smell roses.

The fairy smiled at her, a little uncertainly, and drifted down to the level of Belle's eyes, hovering over Wren's headstone. She was beautiful – a tiny woman dressed in palest blue, with dark hair and watchful eyes.

"Believe, Belle," the fairy said, kindly. Belle nodded, feeling that she no longer had the choice. The fairy drifted closer, and Belle could hear the whisper-whirr of her busy wings. Closer to, Belle could see that there was worry in the creature's watchfulness; she looked all about her, as though afraid that they would be discovered. Her voice became hushed. "I have a favour to ask of you."


	123. Reul Ghorm

Belle took a step backwards, unnerved by the fairy's close scrutiny of her face.

"Fairies are supposed to grant wishes," she said, warily, dashing the unshed tears from her eyes. "Not ask favours."

"None can grant your wish, child." The fairy gestured to the grave below her, the sweep of her wand leaving a shimmering trail in the air. "Magic cannot restore the dead to us."

With her initial shock wearing off, Belle took stock of the situation. Although the fairy was smaller than Belle's hand, her voice sounded as though it came from an ordinary-sized woman standing at the same distance. She spoke in warm and soft tones that, like the almost-unheard music in the air, lulled the senses. Her smile was beautiful but sad. Her dress was a milky cornflower blue, and so heavily garnished with ribbons, flowers and lace that she ought to look absurd, but did not. In the same way that Rumple wrapped dark power about him, so closely and so fiercely that it was almost tangible, this fairy was tangibly powerful. Tiny as she was, the world reshaped itself around Belle with this fairy as its new centre, and everything else became dulled in her presence.

The stories told of how beguiling they could be to the unwary, and how mischievous. And Rumpelstiltskin spoke as though fairies were the most evil creatures he could imagine.

"You're the one, aren't you?" Belle recovered the strength in her voice, comforted by her ability to see the danger in the complex beauty before her. "The fairy who meddled with Rumple, with Baelfire, and made him so angry." It was a wild guess, and yet not without justification. Belle had lived her twenty years without ever seeing a fairy, and now here a fairy was, furtively visiting Rumple's lands.

To her surprise, the fairy lowered her eyes and clasped her hands before her, gripping her wand convulsively as she nodded.

"I am."

Belle had not expected a straightforward reply. While she had not doubted that Rumple spoke the truth, she had suspected the truth to be more complicated than he'd told her.

"That's why he hates fairies so much," she mused aloud. It had not been a question, but the fairy nodded once more.

"I allowed myself to be ruled by compassion for the boy," she said, her eyes still downcast. "His wish was not within my power to grant, but I tried to do so anyway. The consequences have wrought more evil upon this land, and upon my kind, than anyone could have imagined."

"What do you mean?"

"The wrath of the Dark One has been visited upon my sisters these many years." Drifting to Belle's left with a rapid flutter of her wings, the fairy pointed her wand towards Wren's headstone. "And for each act of cruel vengeance, a trophy."

"The wand?" Rumple had made a niche for it in the stone. It might easily have been mistaken for a twig, there in the shadow. Had it been quietly fuelling the magic that had transformed the fresh grave into a place of weathered beauty? "It belonged to Wren's mother. He took in an orphaned baby. That wasn't cruel."

"Every time he has dealings with us he is driven by revenge," the fairy said, her voice hardening even as her expression spoke of sorrow. "This good woman's mother died a mortal, her heart bitter and her spirit broken. Her own vanity brought her to that sorry end. But _he_ first saw to it that she was lost to us, her sisters."

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Belle saw the rosy cheek twitch at hearing the name spoken aloud, and felt ashamed of herself for trying the small provocation to see what would happen. She did not trust this fairy, but neither did she think that the creature could actually lie. _Could_ they lie? "He's warned me to avoid you and your kind. I don't think he'll be pleased to learn you came here."

"I came for the wand. That I can enter his domain undetected confirms what I have suspected – that the power of the Dark One over this place has weakened immeasurably."

Belle's heart seemed to plunge all the way to her heels.

"Weakened?" she croaked. The fairy's brown eyes filled with reproach.

"There is only one power able to subdue the Dark One," she said. "The pure light of the truest love. A kiss." It was not a question.

Feeling like a traitor, Belle took another two steps backward. While they kept the secret, she had not shared her husband's apprehension of danger, but if others found out... if it could be guessed so easily...

"I don't know what you're talking about," she blurted, the fear choosing her words. She wasn't a very good liar. She wanted to run, faster than anyone could possibly run, back to the castle. She wanted to throw herself between Rumple and the world and protect him with her life. She could hardly catch a breath for the fierce urgency of it. Could the fairy sense _that_ wish? "Or what you want with me."

"Only the wand, child." The fairy tried to soothe her. "Whatever he has told you, we fairies bear no malice. I come only to claim what is ours."

"No." Belle shook her head. "No, you didn't need to show yourself for that. You want him to know that you were here but you're afraid to face him."

"Your heart is pure, Belle." The fairy drifted nearer again. "Pure enough to turn him from the curse that he clung to rather than be with his son. It would be a terrible thing if his darkness were to taint such a beacon of light. You will need all of your courage and goodness to keep him on this new path, and to be true to your own."

"Why _did_ you meddle if you weren't supposed to?" Belle folded her arms, then caught herself doing it and made herself stand up straight. "Why didn't you help Baelfire before his father was cursed in the first place? I'm sure Rumple wished and wished that there was another way. I know my husband," she added, and the words startled her. She did know him. In some ways, in unexpected ways that threaded around the remaining mysteries of him, she _did_ know Rumple's heart. "He was a desperate man who took the only way he saw to save his child."

"Destiny ties our hands. We can guide a person back to their proper path, aid them in their proper journey, but that is all. To interfere otherwise has consequences that we cannot foresee. It will not be cheated."

"You mean..." Belle waved her hands, trying to put words to the absurdity of it. "You mean that you should only grant a wish if it was supposed to happen _anyway_?"

The fairy closed her eyes for a few moments. Her eyelids were painted with something silver-blue that had the sheen of pearls. She nodded.

"In a manner of speaking. The consequences of tampering with Baelfire's destiny haunt the world to the present day. I had not the right. Were we all to act on our compassion there would be unimaginable chaos."

"Well, we're going to get him back. Rumple doesn't care if destiny likes it or not, and neither do I." Aware that she sounded like a wildly bragging child, Belle blushed. The fairy's shoulders drooped and the beats of her wings became slower, causing her to bob gently in place. She was hoping that a pure-hearted wife would lead Rumple down a different path, not follow him into yet more darkness. Well, Belle hoped that too! "If there's a better way than the one he has planned, I expect the fairies know of it. Or can find it. Or have friends who can. Why don't you help put right what you made wrong?"

"Even if there were a way... I cannot interfere again. It can only lead to more harm."

"Then what are you doing here?" Belle saw that she had touched a nerve. "He said there's almost no power left in that wand. Why not leave it where it is?"

"Even a little magic can be misused."

"He used it to charm a bird to sing at her burial. Did you know that? Then he made this tree grow and let the ground take Wren's bones gently, and this place become beautiful, because he loved her more than he could admit to himself."

"I did not know." They were silent for a while, both looking down at Wren's grave. The fairy was the first to speak again. "His love for you is great. To drive out the curse of the Dark One... that is extraordinary. You must be extraordinary. I confess I thought him no longer capable of such feeling. He has destroyed many of my sisters without remorse."

In her mind, Belle saw Rumple's collection of strange treasures. So many small objects scattered about his castle, and worthless to him except for the power they represented. Was there a cupboard somewhere filled with fairy wands? She shivered. As much as she knew he loved his son, and loved her, she knew him to be capable of that also.

"His anger frightens me," she said, and a moment later realised that she _had_ said it, and to Rumple's sworn enemy of all people. "I mean..."

"The darkness will try to draw him back. I once hoped that the love of a child would anchor him to his humanity. Now I hope that the love of a wife may preserve him. Perhaps Baelfire may yet see his wish come true."

Belle narrowed her eyes. She had not spent these weeks married to the Spinner for nothing. Words _mattered_. They would matter every bit as much to this fairy.

"What was it, exactly? Baelfire's wish?"

"To have his father back, just as he was before he slew the Dark One."

Perhaps that had seemed possible to a little boy, and even to a fairy. To Belle, mortal and grown up and changing a little every day, it was obvious that a person could never go back to being who they once were. Not even if wishes could tear down worlds, or bring back the dead, or turn back the days to erase the person you'd become in the meanwhile. If they could, no-one would ever look forward.

Quietly, skirting the mossy mound of the grave, Belle picked up the wand.

"I could make a deal," she said, speaking slowly to give her thoughts time to unfold. She felt no regret at taking the wand from its resting place, and paused to let herself know why. "Wren distrusted magic. No, she _scorned_ it. I don't think she'd want this here with her. And I think that she'd want to help him find his son, if she knew about it. I'm Rumpelstiltskin's wife. I could make a deal with you for this wand. I don't think that you can take it unless I give it to you. Can you?" She blinked and looked up at the fairy, who was watching her with wide eyes and a wary expression.

"No," the fairy said, quietly. "I cannot."

Nodding, Belle thrust out her hand, offering the wand. Her skin tingled ever so slightly where it touched her. Gingerly, the fairy reached out to touch the wood, and then with one of those blurred moments of magic that Belle's brain refused to remember properly, the wand was tiny and grasped in the fairy's tiny hand instead. The creature looked relieved, flustered, although she tried to hide it.

"Thank you, Belle."

"I think you already made a sort of deal," Belle replied. It wasn't thanks she wanted. "With Baelfire. Please don't punish him for the things his father has done to your kind. Please help me find a way that harms no-one. A way to bring Rumple to this land without magic."

"I can't--"

"He'll take whichever path leads him to his son. Light or dark." Belle's breath caught in her throat, half formed thoughts becoming a blur of choking emotion. No fairy had come when she wished her mother and brother to live. No fairy had come when she wished for salvation for her home and her loved ones. _Rumpelstiltskin_ had come to save them, just as he had answered the call of a dying woman to save her child. His motives had been selfish but he had _come_. No benign power watched over Tullia or punished her father's dark deeds. How could she blame Rumple, blame _anyone_ , for turning towards the darkness when the light turned its back on them and blamed _destiny_? "There must be some way."

Even if there was one, what was to stop the fairy telling the whole world that the Dark One was no more? Rumple had done terrible things and he meant to do more, and how could she blame anyone who tried to stop him by force of arms or magic? How much magic did he have, how much strength, to defend himself if his enemies came now? The thought of it made Belle feel sick to the pit of her stomach.

"Delay him," the fairy whispered, flitting close. The almost-unheard music sounded briefly inside Belle's very skull, at odds with the soft and desperate whisper that tickled her ear. Who did the fairy fear would hear her? "Without Regina's despair his plans cannot bear fruit. Delay him, and we may find another way before all is lost. I... I will try."

Belle turned to face her, to protest at this half-promise, but found herself quite alone amongst the graves.

 _Delay him?_ She put a hand to her breast and felt herself breathing hard, as if she had not drawn a full breath in the whole time she had been speaking with the fairy. The fairy who _knew._

Suddenly she understood, heart and bones, what she had only known in her head until now; that Rumple's fear of being seen to be weak was grounded in reason. As terrible as the power of his curse had been, he had more often traded on people's fear of him rather than rely on the magic itself for protection. If the fairy told his enemies that his curse had been broken...

Belle did run. Only for a little way, until she was out of breath and had made herself hot and frantic and tearful with frustration; long enough to convince herself that to run back to the Dark Castle would leave her too exhausted to do the very thing that she so desperately longed to do – to protect her husband from all imagined harm. By the time her feet found the first cobbles of Odstone town, she had forced reason to smother her panic, and allowed common sense to propel her along at a brisk walk instead. Nor would she stop at the inn and take out James's horse again before he had even been settled in a stall. She would walk home and use the time to think, and hope that she had some idea of what to do by the time she arrived.

Would they have to flee the castle? She could not imagine Rumpelstiltskin hiding, somehow. In her heart of hearts, Belle had not really come to terms with his diminished magic, or with how the loss had diminished and changed him. He had tried to go on as though little had changed, but every day the struggle wound him up tighter. Each fresh battle left him weaker than before, more desperate, and not only struggling to make do with his new magic but grieving for the mastery that he'd lost.

It had seemed such a blessing when their kiss undid his curse. But where Belle saw hope and opportunity, Rumple saw danger and terror. They'd both been right, and Rumple's take on events was suddenly the more pertinent. Ever since her arrival in Odstone, unseen forces had tested her husband's strength. They had not been untouchable while he bore the curse and all the power that went with it. Now, if the secret was out, they were in mortal danger. It wasn't herself Belle was afraid for.

Sara interrupted her hasty departure, stepping in front of her and giving her a lopsided, questioning smile.

"You look hot and bothered, Lady," she said, cheerfully. "Is all well with you?"

"Sara." Belle stared at the woman, unable to give all of her attention. Her thoughts were a whirlpool, and she felt as if a physical force were trying to drag her feet towards home. She could not rest until she saw with her own eyes that Rumple was safe. But her mind always sought for the practical solution, for something helpful to do in a crisis, and just as Sara's expression faltered into uncertainty, Belle grinned. The woman all but took a step back at the sight of it. "Sara. You still have all my measurements, don't you?" Still out of breath, and close to laughing as she remembered how nervous she had been about her appearance the first time Rumple brought her to Odstone, Belle looked down at her crushed linen skirt. Her right stocking had sagged and wrinkled about her ankle. She was covered in small seeds from the grasses around the graveyard.

"Of course." The last thing Sara had been expecting was a question about the dressmaking.

"I think it might be a good idea if you make me another new outfit," Belle said, calming herself with an effort when she noticed the other woman's growing alarm at her strangeness. "Something I can have an adventure in. You know. Breeches and a jerkin. Leather and homespun. Something that won't snag on holly bushes or get in the way when I mount a horse." Why-ever had she gone to the trouble of riding side-saddle? As if Rumple cared for custom and propriety! As if he wouldn't grin his wicked grin to see her mount astride, petticoats bunched about her knees! Belle almost laughed when she thought of how he might react to seeing her in tight breeches.

"...As you please, Lady," Sarah managed, trying not to stare. Her startlement was giving way to genuine worry, and Belle touched her arm, grateful. "You're... You'll be riding to your father's wedding then?"

It was a valiantly sensible effort to make sense of Belle's odd mood, and it reassured her somehow that Sara remained level-headed when her own head was in a spin.

"Perhaps I will. Oh! And I'll need a really good pair of boots."

The terror had her buoyed up almost to the point of laughter, now. Belle hurried on, not wanting to be in town if the overwhelming feeling spilled over into tears. At the moment she felt nearer to laughter, the brittle and terrible kind. She forced herself to put her energy into a rapid and breathless walk home, instead.

There was a moment of relief when she emerged from the shadows of the trees and saw the castle for the first time. It was still only early evening, but she could make out a moving shadow in the window of Rumple's turret workroom, and the faint yellow warmth of candlelight. The room had been dark and empty when she tried to take him tea earlier. He was no longer hiding from her, then. For the first time since the fairy mentioned true love's kiss, Belle felt able to steady herself.

Work on the castle's gatehouse was almost complete. The men made way for her, all respectful nods and murmurs of greeting, but Harper Follet was there too and took his time in moving aside, making sure to catch her eye as he did so. His eyes always wandered where his hands would clearly like to follow, his smile full of the unspoken question that also lit up his eyes, and it left Belle feeling peculiar. The man had done her no harm. Quite likely he _meant_ her no harm, and only hoped that she was an unhappy bride in search of... of what? Belle found it difficult to imagine sharing her bed, her body, with anyone but Rumple. She could not see the allure of a passing stranger for Follet either. Yet the very fact the he would contemplate it without being cautious of Rumpelstiltskin's wrath told her that he was reckless, and reckless people were dangerous.

Belle forced herself not to hurry across the courtyard, but the skin on the back of her neck crawled with the unwelcome awareness of the man's lingering, suggestive gaze.

As soon as the doors were shut, she abandoned the pretence and ran up the stairs two at a time. The kittens had spilled out from her room and were sprawled on the little landing, with Smoke sitting watch on the step just above. Belle stepped carefully between them and carried on upwards, her mind emptying of any thought but the need to see Rumple standing there among his potions and papers, safe and well.

Almost in tears, she took the final steep and twisting flight up to his turret room. She heard him call to her, but sheer momentum had carried her to the top of the staircase before his words caught up with her:

"Belle, no, wait!"

Rumpelstiltskin stumbled to his feet, cursing, as Belle was brought up short by the sight of him surrounded by... By what? It looked like a mist, a faint grey cloud of something that occasionally sparked with miniature lightning. It _felt_ like magic, different from his and different again from that of the fairy she had just encountered.

Then she saw that with every breath the wispy grey stuff was going into him. He breathed it in; it vanished into the pores of his skin; it crept into his eyes and his ears, and from the centre of the diminishing cloud her husband stared at her in guilty surprise, his hands fumbling shut the lid of a very familiar iron pot.


	124. Three Card Trick

Relief overwhelmed everything else. Rumple stood there unharmed, and nothing else mattered.

Belle noticed his flinch as she hurried to his side, felt him start when she put her arms around his neck and held on tightly. He patted her back nervously, not knowing what to make of a frantic hug where he had expected a scolding.

"Belle? What's happened?"

She shook her head and tightened her arms. The terror that had propelled her home was draining away and leaving her weak in the knees and light in the head. How could she begin to explain the passion, the fear, or the way the world had seemed to lurch at the thought of losing him? Just for a few moments, all she wanted was to hold her Rumple close and know in her bones that he was safe. But she couldn't keep so much emotion corked up inside her.

"I was so afraid," she blurted, the words muffled against his cheek. They were the wrong words. Belle knew it at once, Rumple stiffening again and pushing her gently but firmly away to arm's length. His narrowed eyes warned of the danger to anyone who made his wife afraid, and Belle flinched herself, because that look had meant death before. And it would again.

"Who's frightened you?" he demanded. "What's happened to you. Tell me!"

"It's nothing like that," she said quickly, yearning to hold him close to her a while longer before she had to find the words. "I was frightened for you. Suddenly I was so afraid to lose you, and..."

"For me?" Rumple's expression twisted in that pained way that she had come to know so well. He longed to understand her and was anxious that he did not. But he knew her well enough by now to know when words had failed her for the moment, and perhaps — Belle hoped, oh how she hoped — well enough to believe that she sought and found her comfort in _him_. Bracing his shoulders against the rough stone wall for support, he propped his cane against the window sill and offered his arms. "Come here."

She went to him and relaxed at last, reassured by how he squeezed her in his arms; by his tender understanding of her faults, her needs. In a moment she would be able to explain to him what had brought her here in such a state. Just here, just now, it felt so good to hug him and be certain that he was safe.

As he held her, stroked her hair, Belle became aware of the magic that she had seen enveloping him when she burst in. It tickled her senses, nothing at all like the contained storm of the Dark One's power, yet still _magic_. Her mind always tried to put the sensations in terms of the five familiar senses, turning them to nonsense, but once she allowed for that, stopped trying to put words to how it felt when magic touched her, the perceptions made a kind of sense to her deepest intuition. She had been able to sense the mood of his power while he remained cursed, and to sense that it was alive in Rumple — something so vast than no vessel made of mere flesh could fully contain it.

This magic that tickled her senses now didn't lend itself to such visceral impressions; it was simply there, a quiescent power where Rumple's dark magic had been somehow always _waiting_. Her curiosity about the difference was slowly edged out by the disquiet that had been her first reaction upon seeing him shrouded in a magical mist. What had he done to himself? And, more importantly, what would it cost him?

Rumple held her by the shoulders when she finally released him. He searched her eyes, far less calm than he had forced himself to pretend.

"What's happened?" He kept his voice gentle, but his thumbs dug in hard and betrayed his urgency. "You went into town?"

"Yes." He hated even for her to risk that much, but loved her too much to contest her freedom. Belle hadn't understood why before. She had known it, considered it, but the true understanding that had come to her as she feared for Rumple's life had gone bone deep. "Prince James left me one of his horses." Rumple's eyebrows rose, wondering what his wife had done to deserve the gift, and Belle added, quickly, "Gaston couldn't ride."

"Ah." He nodded, pleased that one small something had begun to make sense to him.

"So I took the horse to be stabled at the tavern."

Rumple nodded again. This time, Belle saw his lips tighten as he refrained from some nervy quip or comment. His grip on her shoulders became uncomfortable. Just as Belle thought to protest or to twist away, Rumple noticed his hold on her and hastily let go. He got his cane under him and straightened, his free hand clenched by his side as though to keep it out of further mischief.

"You were gone for a long time," he said, almost airily, pretending an intense interest in the contents of his work table.

"You were nowhere to be found when I left," she reminded him, and the words came out with a sharpness, an accusation that she didn't even feel. How did he provoke her so?! With an inward groan, Belle pulled herself back from the temptation to quarrel. It was so easy to needle him when they were at odds about something, afraid of something or struggling to understand something. The trouble was that they were _always_ at odds, afraid, or struggling to understand. Tart words and accusing looks came too easily now. Habit, almost. "I was just as afraid for you," she explained. Tried to explain. At least her words sounded loving this time.

"This morning?" Rumple gestured vaguely towards the stairs, hiding his embarrassment behind a scowl that ill-suited his features. He so hated her to think him weak. "There'll be no more of that, I assure you. There's lifetimes worth of magic inside this castle. I'll be strong again."

He said that last with a note of challenge; a note of finality. His collapse had made up his mind and he had no intention of allowing Belle to persuade him otherwise. She touched the iron pot, the one that he had used to trap the magic that he'd drawn out of her when they visited her father.

"But..." She stopped and chose her words with care, not wanting to confront or to accuse. "It hurt you. This magic hurts you."

"No." Rumple tossed his head, a smirk of bitter triumph replacing his scowl of defiance. "It hurts the Dark One."

 _Well,_ thought Belle, with a sense of sinking defeat that she could not afford to dwell on. _That's something._

"How safe?"

"Belle—"

"How safe are you, with this magic?"

"I'm not going to argue this with you. It's done. This morning—"

Belle laid her hand on his arm, very gently. He was trembling, and she realised that he must be facing the same inner struggle that she had just acknowledged in herself. Since their tragedy they had fallen into the habit of misunderstanding, of needling one another with their fears and disappointments. When not doing that in the heat of the moment, they had become so cautious with one another that everything was... It was like he had told her marriage could so easily be — _all elbows and dashed hopes._ But neither of them wanted it go on that way.

"I'm not arguing," she assured him. "I want to know how much protection this gives you."

Rumple gave her a puzzled look that bordered on suspicion. He knew when he wasn't being given the whole of the truth. Belle had supposed that to be one of his powers, the particular gifts of the Dark One, but the gift seemed to be Rumple's own. Or perhaps he simply knew his wife better than either of them would have thought possible on the day of their wedding and could read it in her face?

"Compared to what I was? This is nothing." He gave the pot a scornful glance. "I promised you safety. Now all I can promise is to try my best to keep you safe."

"That isn't what worries me."

"Which is why it worries _me!_ One of us should think of your safety!"

Again there was that sense of pained regret lingering after the hot words, and Belle in her turn had to fight down the irritation that flared far too easily whenever he snapped or evaded.

"I _meant_ ," she began, with such care that she might have been picking her way through a mire, "That something happened in town, and that's what worries me. And why I'm asking the question."

"What happened? Were you in danger?" The very thought of it left him pale and panicked. There was their common ground, even when they were so hopelessly clumsy with their words that they barely seemed to know a common tongue. The expression on his face mirrored everything that she had felt after speaking with the fairy.

"No," she promised, quickly. And then, because something cautioned her to be direct and exact in how she broke this news, she added, "I don't think so. There was a fairy."

The mere word turned his eyes to ice.

"What?"

"She found me at Wren's grave. She said she wanted the wand, but I think she..." Belle found it difficult to recall the details of the conversation, now. She had the most startling, powerful impressions, but it was as though she had been left with the distillation of memory. The exact words that the fairy had said to her were slipping away. "I'm forgetting her!"

Rumple seemed mollified by her indignation, but in place of the cold rage was a growing, anxious agitation. He tapped a finger on the golden bird's head of his cane.

"In Odstone. In _my_ lands? They wouldn't dare. Unless..."

"Yes, she _knew,_ " Belle stressed, the panic rising in her once more. "Rumple, she knew. I think she was warning me."

"What did she ask of you?" Where Belle might have expected his terrible anger, his murderous rage, Rumple spoke quietly. But not calmly. He gripped the edge of the bench, staring down at his tools while his knuckles turned white with the effort of self-restraint.

"The wand. Wren's mother's wand."

"What else?"

"Nothing." She had to stop and think about that — to make sure that it was the truth amidst her muddled impressions of those minutes by the graveside. "I think that was an excuse so she could warn me that she knew about your broken curse. What use is a spent wand to her? I mean, she did want it, but I'm sure that isn't why she came to me."

"Did she tell you her name?"

"...No." Again, Belle had to search deep inside herself to make sure that she remembered true. "But she was the one who tried to help Baelfire. She admitted it when I asked her." Rumpelstiltskin stared at her for so long, his expression unreadable, that she looked for more to say just to break the uneasy silence. "I think she truly regrets what happened."

"Oh, I made sure that she regretted it." Rumple's sudden snarl made Belle jump. He shoved hard at the bench as he straightened, rattling his bottles and jars and almost overbalancing himself. "Don't believe her," he warned, jabbing his finger towards her to punctuate his words. "Don't believe a _single_ word those creatures say. Whatever she promised you, it _won't_ be worth the cost."

"Rumple..." He barely noticed when she took his wavering hand between both of her own.

"How dare she? How dare she approach you? Here! In my lands!"

"Rumple." Belle squeezed his hand, waiting for him to realise that she had touched him. To remember a world beyond his own red rage. "It's all right. I didn't trust her, I remembered your warnings about the fairies. Rumple." He'd relaxed his arm enough for her to bring his hand to her lips and kiss his knuckles. Afterwards, she held their joined hands against her right cheek, noticing again that he had ribbons from their aborted game bound around his wrist. "I was so frightened when she knew about your curse. She knew that _I'd_ been the one you kissed, your true love."

"Well, I've made no secret of my lovely new wife," Rumple said, managing to speak tenderly for her sake. He still breathed too quickly. "Who else would I be kissing?"

Belle answered that with a watery smile. Her insides flipped over just as they always had when he spoke that way, but what had been a pleasant sensation was too muddled up with this new fear and her healing wounds to be enjoyable now. Her father had been right to caution her. As the wife of the Dark One she had been a weakness that might be exploited. That had not seemed such a terrible thing while he had the power at his fingertips, when he was all but untouchable and certain to outlive his bride no matter what became of her, but what now? He had made enemies with the same careless ease with which he'd spun straw into gold. They were his enemies still, and Rumple was mortal. Mortal.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she confessed, her arms falling to her sides. "For a moment I felt as though I could... I don't know. Put on armour and defend you against everyone and everything. Protect you somehow just because I love you. But look at me."

He was looking at her, caught completely off guard by her words. He had gone perfectly still.

"Protect me?"

"I know, it's stupid," she blurted, her cheeks flaring hot. She had to look away because he continued to stare at her, his lips slightly parted and his expression unreadable. "Your enemies have magic and secrets, and all I have is love and... And good intentions!" And as overwhelming as her protective love had been a short while ago, Belle felt a growing despair start to take its place. "I'd die for you," she whispered, shrugging. "But what use is _that?_ "

"Oh, Belle." His expression was so strange, so strained, that it took her several moments to understand that he was touched by her words and lost for any of his own.

"So, the secret is out. One fairy has it, anyway." She took a deep breath and made herself stand up straight and speak with determination. She knew that it made her sound bossy and stubborn, but also that it could pass for courage when she needed it to.

Rumple was quiet for a long time, staring at Belle to begin with, then past her and out of the window.

"Did you confirm her suspicion?"

"What?"

"She came believing the curse to be broken. Did she learn the truth? Did you tell her what had happened?"

"I..." Had she? Belle pushed down the flutter of panic beneath her breastbone at the struggle to remember. She _could_ remember if she pushed through the pleasant fog that wanted the memories to stay blurred and comfortable, like the memories of a trifling thing that happened very long ago. "No. No, I challenged her. Got her to admit that she was the one who meddled with you and Baelfire, and that she never really granted him his wish. And I... put her in my debt."

It was Rumple's turn to ask, "What?"

"My nurse told those sorts of stories when I was little. Elves and goblins, you know. Snatching children who strayed from the path in the woods. And I'm sure there were stories about fairies. She said that they couldn't lie, or leave a debt unpaid, or a favour unreturned. I gave this fairy the wand from Wren's grave, because she wanted it and couldn't just take it, but... but I reminded her that she hadn't granted your son his wish, only made things far worse. She's indebted to me then, isn't she? For giving her the wand. And I made her remember her debt to Baelfire, too."

"You entrapped the _Blue Fairy_ based on half-remembered bedtime tales?" His incredulity reminded her of how he used to speak to her when she first came to the castle, when he found her behaviour incomprehensible.

"I don't know about _entrapped_ ," Belle began, but stopped when she heard herself. That was exactly how her Nanna Alys would have put it. Her nursemaid had told the old tales with a wicked relish, but she had believed them too. And she'd distrusted magic even more than Wren did. "I didn't lie either, I'm a terrible liar, but I didn't admit the truth." Belle made a face and looked down at her hands. It had _felt_ like lying. "No. I'm sure I didn't tell her anything more than she knew already, about our kiss breaking the curse. She knew that. I asked her questions and she answered them."

"She did?"

"Yes."

"It seems that I was lucky to come out of our little deal with my shirt," said Rumple, dryly.

"Our little deal?" Belle had to chuckle at that. Her life, her future, their love, this _mess_. Their _little deal._ She twisted the ring on her finger. "I did get quite a good price. And you got more than you bargained for."

"I did that."

The warm moment passed too soon, but they were hand in hand when it did.

"What are we going to do?" Belle gestured at his books and tools, and at the iron pot that had tipped onto its side when Rumple jolted the table. "I don't think that fairy means to use what she knows, no matter what you did to her sisters, but others will find out. They'll come looking for revenge, or glory, or..." Rumple's hand tightened for a moment, squashing hers, then relaxed again.

"Perhaps." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, her hand, her ring. "Can you learn to lie better?"

"I hope not!" she answered, automatically making a jest of it, but he was perfectly serious. This was not the sober weariness that had consumed him since the curse broke. He watched her with a clear and steady gaze, the pad of his thumb playing all the while over her skin. "Lie about what?"

He squeezed her hand again, deliberately this time, then let go.

"I never told you about my father." The sudden brightness of his tone was as false as it was brittle. Rumple didn't look at her, but made himself busy at the end of the bench, packing small bottles of carefully labelled liquids into a box lined with straw. "He could lie like nobody else I ever met. To my mother. To me. Especially to himself. But the thing about Papa was that you wanted to believe him. He told the lies you wanted to hear. He could lie with such _sincerity_."

He'd been smiling as he spoke, a fixed and forced smile that quavered, edged with tears. Belle saw the telltale glint of the candlelight in his eyes. "Ever lose a penny at thimblerig? Snatch a strap? Find the lady?" Belle nodded, but she wasn't sure he noticed. "Well it's not about hiding the pea or palming the lady. No, it's _believing_ the lie. He taught me. Believing your own lie until everyone around you believes it too. 'It's just a game.' 'What's the harm?' 'What have you got to lose, eh?' I didn't know how well I'd learned my lessons until I met you. You knew that it was all a lie. All of it."

"Rumple—" He held up a hand, an unspoken plea for her silence.

"I swore to myself that I'd be a better man than my father, then turned my life into... into a three card trick, just so's I could believe it. Call it my inheritance. It's in my bones. Did I tell you that Bae can capture a likeness just like that?" He snapped his fingers. Belle shook her head, thrown that he would suddenly say so much about the past when he had always guarded it behind those fortress walls of pain. "He has it from his mother. From my father, I learned how to lie so well that I hardly know I'm doing it."

When it seemed that he would say nothing more, when his hands had gone still in the box of straw, Belle went closer to him.

"Are you saying that we can cheat our way out of danger?"

"Maybe for long enough. That's the trick, d'you see? It only has to work for long enough that you get away with their purse. By the time the spell wears off the circus has moved on."

"My father has people who cheat at gambling put in the stocks."

"Even if they have a wailing, helpless wee boy in tow?" Rumple spoke playfully, a taste of his old mocking pantomime, but he couldn't hide the rawness beneath the words.

"...oh. I see." Belle did. And Rumple was right, her father would give such a pair the benefit of the doubt, just so long as they didn't try their tricks a second time before moving on. "I can't imagine you wailing."

"It worked well until I was too big to pass for helpless."

"What happened then?"

"He moved on." Rumple snapped the box shut and put both hands over the inlaid lid.

"Perhaps you did learn his tricks," Belle said, sure that he didn't intend to tell her anything more. "But you're not him. You could never be so heartless. That was the lie that I saw through on our wedding night—that you had no heart or feelings at all." She leaned across the corner of the table, bending until she could catch his eye. "Maybe you'd convinced yourself that there was no longer a man beneath the monster, but you didn't want to believe it."

"Everyone but you believes it. They can go on believing it. A lie they'll _want_ to believe. That my little wife was more than I bargained for. That she beat me at my own game."

Lost, Belle shook her head.

"I've never played any game with you, Rumple." She thought about the ribbons he wore and blushed. It wasn't a lie, but nor was it the complete truth. "Not without letting you win," she amended, and was quietly thrilled when Rumple flushed too.

"I know. You take marriage very seriously. You wanted to do it properly." Now he was teasing her, but his eyes were warm with fondness. "But think about it. Who wants to believe that? The Blue Fairy? Your Gaston and the Prince? Your people? No." Leaning heavily on his cane, he shuffled around the end of the table to stand in front of her. "You married a monster because he left you no choice, and you bested him at his own game. It doesn't matter that you weren't even trying, or that it was your beauty that defeated the beast." He rested his left hand against her breast, and Belle understood with another inward lurch of muddled emotion, that he spoke not of her looks but of an inward beauty. He spoke of her heart. "Hardly even a lie."

"I had a choice." Her voice broke as she spoke. As much as he could sometimes provoke her very worst nature, Rumple could also fill her to choking with this unstoppable swell of joy. Not a bright and laughing joy; this went so much deeper, into the wordless place where her sobs of sorrow or passion were born from. "I made my own choice for my own reasons, and then I _chose_ to try to make our marriage work." Having said as much, Belle wasn't sure why she'd felt the need to make that passionate affirmation. But that choice, the first of her life that truly mattered, had been a source of strength and quiet pride; of dignity when she had needed it and of certainty when Rumpelstiltskin's ambivalence might have washed her choice away. She would not have it belittled or denied.

"That's how you defeated the Dark One." Rumple wanted to kiss her. It startled Belle that she knew that without him making any move to embrace her. His gaze went to her lips and then he'd catch himself and stop it, almost managing to hide his reaction but not quite. The pupils of his eyes widened making his fondness smoulder with unspoken promise.

Belle forgot to breathe for a moment.

"At his own game."

"And when the monster least expected it, when he was fool enough to take your strength for weakness, you discovered this."

The dagger appeared in his hand. Belle's hand flew to her throat and she gasped, taking half a step away. How she _despised_ that object. She had never hated another person; had not known herself to be capable of hatred, but what rose up in her at the sight of that black-hilted dagger could be nothing less. Even now, with Rumple freed from its curse, Belle could not escape the idea that the feeling was entirely mutual.

"I would never have used that to hurt you," she said, holding up her hands and backing away further while she shook her head in denial. She didn't even like to touch it!

"Belle." Rumple continued to hold the dagger out to her on his open palm. "With this you could've made me obey your every whim. And because you're _you_ , you'd be a kind mistress. Just and generous. More than equal to this much temptation."

What was he saying? What did he want her to do?

"You want me to pretend that true love's kiss never happened?" She gestured to the knife. "That I've forced you to..." This time she gestured to Rumpelstiltskin, down to his twisted foot and up to his mousy brown hair. "To play the husband?"

"That you tamed my power. Then who'll wonder why I don't use my magic? So long as you hold this, the Dark One is your creature. Harmless unless you command otherwise."

"A slave."

"Yes." Rumple pursed his lips, his persuasive enthusiasm for the idea faltering at the word. "My predecessor chose death over that. But while the Duke held this dagger, while the Dark One did his bidding, no-one crossed him. _No-one,_ Belle."

"You did." Belle had already said the words before she was conscious of the thought. "You crossed him, won the knife and slew the Dark One for his power. You can't think you'll be safe just because people think you're... tame!"

Rumple dropped his hand to his side, the blade hanging loosely in his hand. It still looked comfortable there. He knew the shape and the weight of it as well as the senses could know anything.

"I need them to think that I'm exactly what I was before." The first flush of enthusiasm for his own plan had been tempered by Belle's reluctance. That reassured her — that he wasn't simply being carried away by his fears, or by his longing to be as powerful as he had been as the Dark One. "And..." He stopped, thinking better of what he had been about to say, but then he caught Belle's eye and a tired smile caught up his mouth at the corners. "And it's best that you have this," he explained, closing the gap between them so that he could speak very quietly, but urgently. "I may not be its slave now, but this curse knows me inside out, blood and bone." He brought the blade up between them, turning his wrist to show her the side where the ghost of his name still flickered on the milky silver surface. Belle stared, then wrenched her gaze from the dagger and back to her husband's grim face. "It knows what sort of a man I am. It only has to wait. Wait until I'm desperate enough."

"I..."

"Belle, please," whispered Rumple, offering her the hilt of the dagger. "I need to win more time if I'm to find my boy. And I need you to help me be strong for him now, to take this from me now, because—" He swallowed as his words began to choke him. "Because I'm afraid that I won't be strong enough to give this up a second time. Not for Bae, not for my love. Not for anything. Please. I'm so afraid."

Dizzy with a rush of blood to her head, speechless, Belle nodded and took the dagger from him, then threw her arms back around his neck and hugged him even more fiercely than before.

The fairy had been wrong. Neither Rumpelstiltskin nor Belle could lead the other down a new path for right or wrong; they walked the same path together now, and not one that either of them had chosen. And Belle's mother had been wrong. She could be a comfort but she could _never_ be her husband's strength. All she could do was love him when his own strength faltered, and hope with all her heart that he would do the same for her.

Clutched in her hand, the thwarted power of the dagger seemed to Belle to throb in time with Rumple's racing heartbeat.


	125. A Particular Consummation

Belle sat on the workbench near the window, kicking her feet while she stared at the dagger in her hands. She half expected the thing to bite her.

"I think people will notice that it can't make up its mind about your name." She tilted the blade to catch the light, then back into shadow, frowning. "Even if it kept still it doesn't look..." she searched for the right way to describe what her senses told her about the way shadows ought to deepen the engraving but didn't. "Right."

"I know." Rumple had begun to pack another box with small bottles. He came to her side now and lowered his hand towards the blade, palm open and almost touching the metal. When he took it away, the ghost of his name had become a solid engraving. "That should fool the eye."

Belle made a face, not liking even to think of the dagger taking possession of his name again. Names had power and she loved this one. But...

"It doesn't look right," she declared, trusting her sense of the magic even if she couldn't interpret it properly. "Not like it did before. Not..."

"Real?"

"Yes."

"Hold on to that," he said, touching her elbow. "A glamour can fool your eyes but not your instincts. Trust them."

Belle thought about that. She remembered the spell that had sheltered the dagger's hiding place with an illusion, and how it had deceived her into thinking the other side of the castle derelict and unimportant. The Blue Fairy had looked tiny but her voice and her _presence_ had been too big; Belle had been wary of her beauty, her demure smile—of the allure of her. And there was the way Rumple could still make himself look as he had before the curse broke. Of course she _knew_ that wasn't real, that he had to work at it, and she minded so little which of his faces she saw that she'd given it little thought, but...

"It felt like this whenever I talked with the genie," she said, slowly, thinking aloud. "I was suspicious of what I saw and heard, but it wasn't anything he said or did. It just felt wrong. He felt wrong, here, in a birdcage. That wasn't..."

"Quite real?"

"Or quite right. Like this." She turned the dagger over in her lap, then over again to show his name. The engraving looked seamless, a physical reality, but before the curse was broken it had looked... more than real? No, that was silly! Nothing could be more real than reality... could it? But perhaps it could at that. The dagger was the symbol of the curse and it was also the thing itself. Did that make it doubly real? And now it was only half as real as it had been? "I don't understand," she sighed.

Rumple touched her cheek, stroking with his thumb.

"Yes, you do." Such faith in her. Such tenderness in the way he looked at her. Belle closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his palm, then turned her head and kissed it, grateful. Her faith in herself was badly shaken.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course you can." He let his hand fall to her shoulder.

"I've always said you were no monster, but the truth is I didn't know what a monster looked like until today." She took a steadying breath. Rumpelstiltskin's whole body had tensed at the word. "Dacey Tavish is a monster. He didn't need magic or some curse to be one. He's a monster, Rumple, and I'm frightened. Not of him," she explained quickly, before he could misunderstand. "Of what he'll do to his family. Of making things worse instead of helping." She laughed, bitterly. "That's what the fairy was talking about. Being too afraid to do anything in case it makes things worse instead of better."

"You had quite the chat with her." He didn't make a question of it, but Belle knew all too well what nightmares he was capable of spinning out of his own suspicion and fear. She _had_ to tell him everything about her encounter with the fairy, even though she had not had the time to understand it properly for herself.

"I was angry. With Tavish, with myself. With Wren for dying!" She shook her head. "With you. So I wasn't very nice to her."

"Glad to hear it."

"But I told her that if she could find a way to let you cross to where Baelfire went, she owes it to him to finish what she started. She's afraid of doing more and making things even worse, just like I am with Tavish."

"What did she say?"

"That she'd try." Belle took a deep breath. The next bit was the thing she was afraid to say to him. "That I should try to delay your plans while she looks."

"Delay me." Rumple laughed, bitterly. "Oh yes, now she only has to wait for me to grow old and die, the twisted little glow-worm."

"She only has to go and tell everyone you ever crossed that she thinks your curse is broken," Belle pointed out. "And you wouldn't get the chance to grow old. But I don't think she will."

"We'll see."

There was more he wanted to say on the subject, Belle could see that. He held back only so as not to upset her again. But he had asked her for this; for her ability to hope when he could not and to see the world through younger eyes. Could he trust her to do so, even against his better judgement?

"I'll be wary of her," she promised. "I was today. But you want the same thing that Baelfire wanted, don't you? The land without magic? To be with him there?"

"To be with him," Rumple snapped, then grimaced, turning his face away from her while he reined in his temper. The effort left him shaken and grim. "And with you. But without magic? Too weak to protect my own family? No, I never wanted that! I never will."

He looked shocked that he had said the words out loud—as though they had escaped from some place deep inside where he had been able to deny them until now. He was shocked that they were true and wretched in anticipation of her scorn. But Belle felt only the familiar ache that came from loving him so much that his pain could hurt her too. If that was the truth of him then it was one they had no choice but to face. Together.

"Here." She grabbed for his hand, the fierce protectiveness swelling up in her again at the sight of his struggle. "You're Baelfire's father," she said, almost choking on her sorrow for him. "I can't make that be enough for you." Rumple hung his head. "But you brought me here to help you keep that man you once were alive in all the darkness. I'll do that, I'll help you. And I can tell you your son's truest wish. The fairy told me. He wished that he could have you back just as you were before this curse. He _loved_ you just as you were without the power it gave you. You were enough for him all by yourself. You were everything he wanted. All by yourself."

He looked at her at last, beginning to understand that her words weren't any kind of condemnation. Then tears welled up in his eyes and he shook his head, desperation driving out that shred of hope. His face was agony.

"No."

"I love you," Belle told him, drawing him closer to her when he tried to pull his hand away. "I want you to be happy and I know that only your son can give you that. I'd stay here with you, Rumple. As the Dark One again or without any magic at all, hidden away spinning flax for pennies for the rest of our lives if it kept you safe. With a big brood of children or none at all. I'd love you. But I don't think you'd be happy until you made things right with your son."

"No." Rumple squeezed her hand. "That's why you need to keep this. I know you'll think of Bae if I... I'm too weak."

"I will."

"And find him, if I can't?"

"Rumple—"

"Would you, though? If my past catches up with me before I get the chance?"

"I won't stop trying." Belle pulled a face, trying to hide an embarrassed smirk that didn't fit the intensity of the moment. "I'm sort of his mother, aren't I?"

She'd won a smile from him at last.

"Nothing would make me happier than that," Rumple said. He kissed her hand. "And you?"

"What?"

"Would any of that make you happy?"

"I don't know." Belle put the dagger aside and grasped the front of Rumple's shirt. _And what does Belle want for Belle's sake when all's said and done?_ "But I'll tell you when I find out. I'm still busy finding out how to be your wife."

A gentle pull at his shirt and Rumple stooped to kiss her just as she'd wanted, just as if they'd planned it. No words were good enough to express the tenderness she felt towards him, but a kiss could say all of it and give her his answer too. It was all there. His gratitude, his desperation and his fear coming to mingle with her love, her doubt. Even her anger, that ugly undercurrent to everything that she hated even to acknowledge, submitted itself to the naked sharing of a deep and hungry kiss.

Rumple's cane clattered to the floor unheeded. He put his arms around her instead, leaned his weight into her and groaned when Belle let him between her knees. She was startled herself; she'd managed to forget how easily it all came to her when she gave in to her desires. And this was no base physical desire but the need to be as close with him as she could be so that together— _together_ —they could drive away the demons of doubt.

Kissing wouldn't be enough. This wasn't one of their awkward games of teasing and discovering. This was how they loved, how they had forged their trust, feeling without questioning. Belle would have let the kiss go on forever, arms and legs wrapped jealously about him, but they ran out of breath and had to surface a moment. To see one another. To hesitate.

She put her fingers against his lips before he could speak the apology that she could already see in his eyes. "Don't," she whispered, and found a new confession to offer up, becoming clear to her only in the moment before she shared it with Rumpelstiltskin. "I've missed you wanting me."

"You're confusing restraint with a lack of desire," he protested, but softly. "But if you've missed my impatience then you seem to have found it again."

Belle couldn't help wondering, as they sank back into the delicious kissing with a little less fever this time, holding one another tight, if Rumple had found his impatience inside that flask of trapped magic.

Forbidden to speak his doubts, Rumple followed her lead while Belle followed where the kissing led and lost herself in how good it felt to be touched. For all that she'd forbidden doubt, she was glad of his restraint because as her yearning became that familiar, physical ache down below she felt only a heartbeat away from panic; from the joy of losing herself to their shared love becoming the terror of it instead. He gentled her, slowed her, concentrating always on kissing her, mouth to mouth and sweet with unfulfilled longing. The denial added fresh fuel to the fire of wanting him, building urgency, until she had to have more of him and kissed his cheek, his hair, his neck, his throat and then his shoulder, pushing aside the silk in her desperation to know more of his skin.

Rumple did want her. She didn't even need to look down for the evidence of that, because he made those small sounds that she had always loved so—the ones that seemed to escape despite his best efforts to keep them hidden away inside. She hadn't even known that she missed them until she caught herself doing everything in her power to _provoke_ them. Clasping his hand over her left breast made him gasp, staring down at their hands, fingers tightening until the squeeze was almost painful and made Belle laugh—a stuttering laugh that was almost a groan.

"Rumple..." She shook, reaching for his shirt buttons. For the first time she noticed that each one was carved from shell, black against the black silk, each one an acorn. Before she could dwell on the strangeness of not having noticed before, Belle was caught up in kissing the bare skin that she exposed, button by button. Rumple's hand fell away from her breast to hang limply at his side and she knew, just knew, that if she looked up now then his head would be thrown back, his throat exposed. Beautiful. Holding it in her mind's eye, Belle tugged his shirt loose from his belt and then indulged herself with kiss after kiss to his chest until her back ached from bending so awkwardly and her lips felt strange from the coarseness of his sparse, new hair.

Only when she gave up and straightened did she realise that she had been gripping his backside with both hands the whole while and driving her husband to distraction. He swayed on his feet, head still tilted back, keeping himself steady by holding her arms with hands grown damp with sweat. He swallowed, came back to himself. Straightened and gazed down at her, so full of love and wonder.

"Have you had your fill, Mistress?" Shaken as he was, he managed to give the words that note of lazy seduction that had so often filled her with sweet shivers before. They did now. The shivers went all the way between her legs and made her fidget on the bench.

Belle shook her head. Tugged her skirts up above her knees. Watched Rumple's face become perfectly still while she guided his hand again, this time to the top of her thighs. Entranced, he brushed his knuckle against her thatch of hair, crisp beneath the cotton. He breathed through his mouth, noisy and quick, and flinched when she pressed her hand over the bulge in his breeches. He was all the way hard for her. She'd known that he would be; that his present need matched perfectly with her own.

"Do you have enough magic for clothes?" She hooked two fingers behind his belt and pulled, gulping because that made him grab her thigh to keep his balance, and his thumb went all the way down to where she burned.

"You forbade magic in our bed," he murmured, but smiling.

"We aren't _in_ bed." More mindful of not overbalancing him, Belle pulled him closer to her using her heels behind his thighs. "If I have to learn how to cheat we might as well start now."

She'd half expected him to refuse but Rumple kissed her again instead. He got his hands beneath her buttocks and pulled her to meet him at the edge of the bench, then went still with his lips against hers while he worked enough magic to cheat their clothing out of their way. Belle giggled, her suddenly-bare legs feeling as though she'd been tickled. She had only to lean back a little and take her weight on the heels of her hands to offer herself, but Rumple followed her movement, leaning over her, and it was his hand that caressed between her legs. He found her slippery, ready, but he toyed with her just as he would if she were not, supporting himself with his left hand against the table while his right teased below and he sought her mouth to kiss. Belle had to curl herself to meet him, a strain on muscles that she'd quite forgotten about, but as their lips met he pushed his fingers inside her and made her see stars.

How had she been afraid that she would never feel this wonderful anticipation again? What had seemed wrung out of her by her hurt and sorrow had been put back by the reminder of what she stood to lose, and the passion that had driven her home in a protective frenzy had been just this, just another aspect of love that craved its particular consummation.

Rumple meant to bring her pleasure with his hand, but his tender efforts became another torment of denial that left her riding the edge of the release she needed. She wanted to share it all with him, freed for a little while from their elbows and dashed hopes.

"Please," she whispered, finding her voice unsteady thanks to his ministering hand. "All of you."

He hesitated, his slick hand gripping her thigh, and Belle almost whimpered at the prospect of having to persuade him. But once he shook back his hair and straightened a little so that she could see his face, she understood that the hesitation was a practical one. He wasn't certain that they _could_ , not as they were, not with his bad leg, and the very last thing she wanted was for his fear of weakness to rear its ugly head.

Belle lay back among the bottles and books, beckoning to him with both hands, and suddenly pictured herself, skirts bunched at her hips, flushed in the face and wet below; a sight to take her husband's breath away, and it did. His lips stayed parted and his pupils were dark pools of appreciation, and for all that his loose shirt covered his modesty it could not conceal the twitch of his cock beneath.

He came to her. Helped her fidget herself nearer the edge. Leaned over her and placed his hands flat either side of her, fingers splayed. Hissed through his teeth when Belle trapped him there with her legs, ankles crossed behind his back. They shared a grin that gave way to more of that stuttering, excited laughter. And then he took her, pushing deep, and Belle's back arched away from the table. Bliss!

When she wasn't too lost in simply feeling him, Belle watched him and touched him. Sweat trickling down his face with the unaccustomed effort, or with the effort of waiting for her; eyes closed, but sometimes fluttering open to watch her in turn, as though to make certain she was really there. He was so lost. In her. For her. With her too, for when she needed him to thrust harder and faster to complete her, he met her need without so much as a gesture passing between them and did it harder still while she came beneath him, her hands clawing fruitlessly at the wooden table and her back once again arching away from it as she spasmed and shook.

Rumple slowed then, lowering himself to his forearms and whispering "yes" as he found either relief from the strain or some greater pleasure in the change of angle. Belle wanted to pay attention just as she always had, so that she could learn all the ways of giving him back the pleasure he'd given her, but a selfish lassitude was overcoming her. She ran her hands over him, his shoulders, his back, and loosened her clinging hold with her legs so that he could move more freely. That left her feet waving in the air, but it was a joyful absurdity and she smiled to see them there, swaying as he enjoyed her.

Enchanted, Belle put her hand to his cheek and fussed with his hair, and shivered inside when Rumple kissed her wrist with all the hunger that he was unable to bring to her mouth. A kiss, another kiss, and then the next one became an open-mouthed sob of passion, gusty against her skin and as delicious as his last, jerking thrusts deep inside her.

She wanted nothing more than to lie there, to take his weight, to hold him and indulge herself in the delicious, comfortable glow of togetherness. But Rumple slid his hands beneath her shoulders and drew her with him when he straightened, staggering a little. Only then, with a pang of guilt that pierced her happy daze, did Belle realise that he had been sparing his bad foot this whole time and taking all his weight on the other. While he clearly shared in her contented glow, he was far from being comfortable. She waited for him to lean his weight against the edge of the table, then circled him with her arms and looked up at his face with a grimace of apology.

"The magic you took in doesn't help the pain?" He shook his head, petting her hair with every sign of dreamy satisfaction in what they had just done together. "I should have thought of it. I'm sorry."

"Sorry." Rumple shook his head again, the word a soft chuckle of amazement at her. He stroked the hair away from her cheek with slow, slow care. "For this?"

"For forgetting," she said, because the truth was all that she wanted here. "Not for this. But..." Belle heaved a sigh, the first pang of guilt joined by a second, darker one. "I'll need to make up the medicine Wren gave me." Gods, gods and stars, but she hadn't even _thought!_

"No need for that." Rumple slid his hand between them and Belle felt magic whisper over her. _In_ her. It was more gentle than even the mildest summer breeze. "At least I can protect you in this. It's as though I was never near you."

Belle nodded, but slowly. Uncertainly. "Thank you." She fidgeted, not wanting the tender moment with him to end. She didn't want to let the pain back in to poison the love they'd made; this love that was still theirs in spite of all that had happened. She had to believe that it could survive _anything_ if it had survived that shattered faith.

She fidgeted again on the bench, meaning to hug him and rest her head against his chest a while, but her hand knocked the hilt of the forgotten dagger and sent it spinning dangerously towards the edge. Rumple caught it with a reflex faster than ought to be possible, the hilt snapping cleanly into his right palm.

They both stared at it. The dagger, in his hand as though it belonged.

"You've made it jealous," Rumple quipped, almost concealing how that lightning quick grab had unnerved him. Belle gripped the front of his shirt and leaned nearer to him, still keeping her eye on his outstretched hand. "Imagine what you might have done with this."

"I wouldn't have done anything."

"I mean it. _Imagine_ what you could've done. The Dark One in your power."

"Games," Belle sighed, resting her brow against his chest. He stroked her hair and set the knife back down on the bench beside her.

"Games can be amusing." He shook back his cuff to show her the ribbon around his wrist again. "You needn't imagine anything cruel. Look, the Dark One is clearly besotted with you."

"I'll try," she promised, leaning back. She could not hide inside a tender moment forever. Rumple moved awkwardly to one side, his clothes in disarray, and rested his backside against the bench beside her so that he could lift his bad foot from the ground. Belle rearranged her skirt, feeling odd without her underthings. "Suppose I'd only _commanded_ you to be besotted with me?"

"Now _that_ the dagger cannot do, nor all the power of the Dark One. Magic can't make you love someone."

"It can make you think that you do."

"There is that. It never ends well."

The conversation appealed to Rumple's sense of humour, she could see. It just made her uneasy.

"It was enough to heal your leg. What was different about that magic? Why can't you heal yourself now? You said magic even made it worse. Why?"

"Good question."

Not one that he had an answer to, then. With another sigh of regret, Belle hopped down from the table and waited to be sure that her knees intended to support her weight. She would never get used to the way the pleasure of being with him shook her, wrung her out, contented her and left her on the edge of fresh anticipation all at the same time. She would never get used to how reason surrendered in the face of her passion for him, either. She really ought to have remembered about Wren's pouch of powder before she fell to temptation.

Perhaps it was that she hadn't wanted to remember, because doing so would force her also to remember the reasons _why_.

Belle composed herself while she slowly went and retrieved Rumple's fallen walking stick. She shared a shy little smile with him as she put it back into his hand. She was not the only one who had thrown all caution to the wind. And she was not the only one to be so wrung out and contented by the hasty consummation of their love.

With his cane to steady him, Rumple pulled her firmly against his body and sought a sweet, slow kiss. She would have pressed herself close and tried to shut out the world just a little longer, but she saw the dagger there behind him and could not force herself to forget about it again. He watched her pick it up, watched her every move, his hand tightening against her back before he let her go.

"Will you do this? Keep it safe? Help me to hide in plain sight a while yet?"

"Yes." It still did look wrong, his name, sitting there as though slightly separate from the blade. But how many people had seen it whilst his name was deep in the metal and so tangibly inseparable? "I'll protect this one lie. You need time to find the way to your son."

Nodding, Rumple touched her cheek with wordless gratitude.

Recalling his tearful plea for her help, how could she give him anything less? But something else that he had said struck her now and made her frown.

"What did you mean, 'give this up a second time'? It has no power over you now."

"It can't control me, no. But magic like that requires a living vessel to fulfil its potential. I'm still tied to that dagger. Or rather I think it's still tied to me." He indicated the blade with a nod of his head, the strain telling in both his face and his voice. "Names have power and I'm a weak man. Keep it close, sweetheart." Rumple touched her cheek again, and this time his hand shook. "Save me from myself."

It was such a pathetic, desperate request—the last resort of a man who feared himself more than he feared anyone or anything else. Belle's eyes filled up with tears and her heart with the urge to protect him, and this time that wasn't a fruitless and frustrated urge. She _could_ protect him, and let out a damp little laugh when she could not contain the well of emotion without bursting.

Rumple had tried so hard to protect her from everything since she became his wife. From shame, from harm and most of all from himself. Always from himself.

And now he was asking her to protect him from the monsters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter was last edited on 19 December 2015]


	126. Monsters

"You'll need..." Rumple hesitated, eyes travelling between the dagger in Belle's hands and the rest of her. His gaze was businesslike and yet appreciative enough to send tiny shivers down her spine. "Ah, yes."

He took her by the waist and turned her to face him, squarely. Then, moving his hands a little way from her body but keeping them just above her hips, he concentrated. Belle felt the tickle of magic, then an unpleasant pressure at her waist, like someone was tightening a rope there. Before she had time to look down and see what he was doing, the discomfort was gone. The oily purple mist of his magic took shape, becoming a belt of tan leather that supported a jewelled scabbard for the knife. Like the hilt of the dagger, the scabbard was an unpolished and textured black. Like the dagger, the jewels were of blood red.

"There." Rumple pressed a kiss to her brow. "Safe as could be."

Belle doubted that. She eased the dagger into its new sheath. The inside was lined with velvet of that same blood red. It silenced the blade. She felt much better once it was out of sight.

"Thank you," she said, although she wasn't quite sure what she was thanking him for. For their lovemaking; for his show of trust; for his painful honesty about his fears. For being hers. Perhaps for all of that. She was as grateful as she was afraid.

Rumple admired his handiwork a moment, then turned away to retrieve his cane.

"Now, tell me of this monster you've discovered in Odstone."

Belle hesitated, wishing that she'd held her tongue before. She hadn't meant to blurt out her distress about Tavish like that, because Rumple's solution to that problem would be a simple one. Worse, she could not find it in herself to want Dacey Tavish spared. She'd sworn to herself never to be the self-indulgent mistress who ran to her powerful husband to settle a grievance. She'd sworn to Odstone that she wanted justice for them all—a law that didn't require them to call upon the castle to protect themselves or deal fairly with one another.

"Belle?" Rumple looked so calm now. So... so _harmless_ as her lover that it was difficult to hold the memory of last night, and of his dreadful triumph when the genie betrayed himself. Of how satisfied he had been in the killing and of how hideous it had been to see. Just for that moment, a monster in her bed. Laughing.

But Rumple had just offered her his absolute trust. He'd placed his every hope in her now. He'd even trusted her to take up his quest, should he fall before ever finding his son. It was all that she had ever wanted of him. How could she possibly refuse to trust him in her turn?

She took a slow, calming breath.

"Dacey Tavish. The man who dropped the fairy gold into the well, whose sons all died." She waited for a gesture of understanding, never sure that he paid enough attention to Odstone to remember anybody's name, and never sure whether or not his disinterest in what went on there was feigned or real.

Rumple nodded. "You locked him up for beating his wife."

"Yes." Belle steeled herself for what might follow her words. "His daughter told me today that she's pregnant. By her father." Her shoulders sank along with her heart; she knew how her naive trust in the world amused him, but just now she didn't care if he saw her laid bare and punished for her hopes. She couldn't even care if he thought her a fool. She shared her misery with him. "Her own father, Rumple. He's more monster than you ever could be, and all I can think of is revenge, not justice."

To her surprise there was no answering smirk. No quip. No 'told you so'. Rumple leaned against the window frame, one fingertip tapping the head of his cane as he regarded her.

"They can be the same thing. Justice and vengeance. Why not?"

"No. No, justice would be peace and safety for Tullia and her family. To stop this ever happening again, to them or to anyone."

"That you cannot do, my love. Not even for one little town." Where she had expected his impatience, his gloating, Rumple spoke kindly enough to the woman he loved. "But slay your monster and he harms no-one else. Makes him an example to deter others. Justice could do a lot worse than that."

"You'd do it if I asked, wouldn't you? You'd kill him."

"In a heartbeat. If I didn't know that it would upset you I'd do it now. In the village square while his daughter watched. And the world would be the better for it, believe me."

"But you won't go behind my back?"

"No. Odstone is yours." Rumple raised a warning finger, his expression hardening. "Unless he should threaten _you_."

"Yes." Belle lowered her gaze, nodding. "I know." Odstone was hers but she... she was _his_. He would think nothing of taking a man's life if she asked it, or for her protection. Like the dagger, that was more power than she wanted to carry with her. She didn't know the limits of it. She needed to. "You looked like you enjoyed killing the genie," she said, with a calmness that bewildered her. They spoke of death. Murder. Of her terror and revulsion last night. Yet her words were not an accusation. To her horror, Belle was _curious_. "Did you? Do you _enjoy_ killing people?"

Rumple's brief hesitation was weighted with the things that he chose not to say.

"You know the answer to that," he said instead. Kindly. "You always knew that you struck a deal with darkness, my love."

She had to try to understand. She _had_ to. Her true love, her husband, this man whom she adored and desired—he enjoyed killing anyone he thought deserving of death. He enjoyed power and believed in demonstrating it. True love had driven the curse out of him but this remained. If she was ever to know him—truly know him—or to help him reconcile with the boy who'd feared the darkness in him then she would have to understand.

"Is this what you were telling me, when you insisted that you were a monster?"

"No. You know as well as I do that this world has no use for the likes of Tavish. How is it monstrous to remove him?"

"But to enjoy his death," Belle stressed, going to stand beside him. "To revel in it. Bloodlust. _That's_ monstrous."

"Well, where d'you think the magic comes from?" Rumple lifted his left hand and rubbed his thumb against his forefingers. A glow of magic built around his hand as he did so. "To master magic you need something equally as strong on the inside to focus your will. Bloodlust does very nicely." He pointed at her with the glowing hand. "Don't confuse it with pleasure. That's too elusive, too malleable. Magic takes something pure and uncomplicated. Something readily on hand."

Some of his hair had become tucked up in his collar during their exertions. Her fingers itched to touch it, to smooth it out across his shoulders. She could hear her own heartbeat in the terrible silence.

"Love is stronger than anything else," she said. "It has to be. It broke your curse. You defeated the Dark One with _love!_ "

"That wasn't something I willed," he said, and Belle's heart sank. "I just stopped willing it otherwise. And now look at me." He gestured to himself—head and chest and feet. Mortality and frailty and fear. "Love is many things. The purest magic, yes, and powerful. But to love someone leaves you weak with the fear of losing them. The _memory_ of losing them." He thumped his fist over his heart. "I _can't_ work magic from my weaknesses, Belle. That would destroy me."

Belle nodded. Regina had said as much to her, all those weeks ago; that Rumpelstiltskin had told her that love was weakness. As strongly as he loved, he truly believed it. But fear wasn't the same thing as weakness. Fear was what gave you strength when you needed it the most—to run, to fight, to protect, to survive.

"And this is no time for you to be without magic."

Startled, Rumple stared at her before touching her arm in gratitude.

"No. It's not."

"And..." Belle closed her eyes, leaned beside him against the cold wall. "And that's how you do it. Keep that bloodlust alive in you." She'd thought that if she said it aloud it might make some sense to her. It didn't.

"You'd prefer my remorse? That I hesitate in the face of necessity, torn by these doubts that tear at you now?" He tapped her above her right breast, two fingers. "That I lose sleep over what's necessary? Over a man who rapes his child? I've had my fill of that. Power, Belle. Power is not having a use for all that. Deciding what needs to be done and doing it."

Now he was mocking her. Not unkindly, but with a kind of pity. He was certain that she could never understand. Belle feared that he was right.

"I don't think taking a life ought to be that easy. It ought to matter more than that. Like... like marriage vows and oaths, and wedding nights. And wishes. You _know_ those things all matter because there's magic in them. Surely a death, _any_ death, must be just as important?"

"Even this man's?"

"Yes."

"I see." And Belle thought that he really did see her meaning, even if he could not bring himself to agree. Daring to look up and see his little smile, she could find no hint of mockery in it. "I'd not thought of it that way." He caught her left hand with his and lifted it so that he could kiss her ring. "Magic in all things and a price for everything, yes?"

"Yes." Wrong-footed by the lack of a quarrel, Belle was no longer sure what it was she was trying to prove! Even as she'd said that about oaths and vows, she'd realised that they were made and broken easily every day, and not by monsters. By ordinary people, because they were afraid or in need, coerced, or simply selfish and blind to the needs of others. People wished all the time, meaning nothing whatsoever by it, and consummation was very often nothing like the solemn ceremony of her own wedding night. Magic was where you found it. Where you _made_ it. Did people make their own monsters in the same way?

At least she and Rumple could agree, across this gulf of difference, that Dacey Tavish was one.

A sideways glance told her that her husband had arrived at the same conclusion at the same moment.

"I really can tell you anything, can't I?" His whisper was hushed with awe. Awe of _her_.

"I think so. Yes." She kissed his cheek, lingering just long enough to show that she was in no hurry to leave him. "I'll see you later."

Their shared smile was shy, burdened with all that lay behind them and what was yet to come. But Belle left feeling elated that they were able to talk so candidly about what stood between them, and optimistic that they would be able to go on as they had now begun.

She placed her hand over the hanging sheath, unfamiliar with the way it knocked against her when she walked. She had never carried a weapon before, not even a knife to eat with, nor had she ever been entrusted with any object of such value as the dagger. Even if it couldn't bind Rumple's will any more it was a thing that had to be protected. Even from him, if she'd understood him correctly. In this, his fear was her ally.

Smoke was washing her kittens on the turn of the stairs outside Belle's room. Remembering Rumple's request to move the cats elsewhere, Belle fetched a basket and carefully put the kittens into it so that she could carry them downstairs. Smoke followed at her heel, curious and worried, but content to follow her family wherever they went.

In the marble hall, Belle hesitated and wondered which of the newly decorated rooms would be the best place for them. She chose the room with the desk and the muted colours, which had less furniture and therefore more space for the kittens to run about. It took her another two trips to bring everything downstairs, with Belle staggering back the last time under the weight of the heavy sandbox. While she'd made that final journey, the golden food bowl had refilled itself. Smoke was watching her kittens cluster keenly around a fish supper.

"Is everything to your liking, Lady Smoke?" Belle stroked her fur, head to tail, and was gratified when Smoke arched her back to meet the caress, the way she did with Rumple.

Belle crushed another couple of sheets of paper into balls and rolled them across the floor for the kittens to discover later. They would need to grow up to be good mousers to earn their keep at her father's castle.

The chore finished, Belle suddenly felt worn out. She had been busy all day after a poor night's sleep, and making love with Rumple had drained her pleasantly. Thinking of it, she felt the pang of regret again, not for succumbing to her passion for him but for failing to think first of the consequences. Rumple promised to prevent a child, and because he had been wrong before she found herself obliged to offer her trust in that promise now. She trusted the promise well enough, knowing that Rumple no more wanted a child at this moment than she did, but she trusted magic not at all to keep his promises for him.

For a moment she was tempted to run to her room, take out the pouch of crushed herbs that Wren had made for her and make up the little pills as she'd been instructed. But Wren hadn't even promised her that she could prevent children that way—only that they would be fewer. And if she turned to the herbs then, either way, she would never know whether or not Rumple had protected her after all.

She chose distraction, pushing down the dark well of her fears and the unwelcome memory of her lost child. They were moving forward, she and Rumple, and for the moment it seemed too dangerous to glance back.

Distraction.

Of all the new rooms, it was the library that called out to her this evening. She could make good use of her time. Even if Rumple had kept back the most powerful, the most dangerous of his collection, there would be something about the dagger, wouldn't there? If she had to carry it about with her then she needed to understand the responsibility. Nobody could use it to enslave Rumple, not now—they'd proven that. But what else could the dagger do to him? To anyone? And what exactly was Rumple asking her to pretend? How _did_ someone enslave the Dark One?

At least she could hope for an answer to that. The man who bore the curse before Rumple had been enslaved by the dagger, and the legend of it was alive within Gaston's family. It must have been written about.

The spacious library shelves, all sorted by subject, would take her a lifetime to work through. If they were to journey to the land without magic to find Rumple's boy then there would probably never be the time. Would they have books there? That gave her pause. If a land could be without magic might it also be without writing? Speech? _Air?_

She went straight to the locked cupboard and traced the shape of a heart with her fingertip, liking how it tickled inside her. It wasn't just a symbol, that magical lock; it wasn't the shape that she drew, but the fact that she loved him that made the spell complete. So soon after their loving, Belle could _feel_ that magic at work, a tug inside her almost as pleasurable as his touch, and she had to close her eyes a moment before she opened the double doors. No bloodlust had powered _that_ magic. Did he even know that he'd worked this magic with their love instead?

There was magic in these books. Belle opened one at random, expecting to see spells. Instead she saw the cramped handwriting of someone's journal, half unfathomable between the old, old language and the inky mess that the writer had made. She was about to put it back when she recognised the words 'Dark One'. Returning her attention to the beginning of the sentence, Belle hazarded enough of a translation to understand that the writer wrote about themselves. It was not Rumpelstiltskin's handwriting, which had a curious regularity half-hidden in his apparent carelessness with the pen. His penmanship was deft, dainty. The author of these pages had snapped their quill, splattered and smudged—even put their pen right through the parchment, writing with brute force and ham fist.

Belle put the book back carefully and took out the one beside it, which was taller and whose spine crumbled into feathery fragments even as she touched it. She could understand this one—a book of potions and poisons from Agrabah, its native script written side by side with some early form of the common tongue, and richly illustrated. This scribe had taken tremendous care to rule lines before they wrote, illuminating the first letter of each recipe in gold leaf and ironstone red. Most of the ingredients were unrecognisable to her in either language but thanks to Wren's drawings she knew a number of the plants that appeared to be common to magic and medicine.

The books were beautiful. She could be so easily tempted in this room, Belle knew. She could pick up book after book and simply lose herself, hiding from every hard truth in the world. Rumple would indulge her in that. Oh, but he would, and he would love to indulge her more than she'd ever allowed him to. Dresses, jewels, feasts and fancies. All the lavishings of love, in their bed and out of it. Magic for their pleasure. He would weave such a spell of happiness around her if she only allowed it. If she only stopped questioning and let it be _easy_. But would she still be Belle, then? And would he have dared give such a woman as that the dagger of the Dark One?

The next book she chose all but came apart in her hands. Belle groaned with regret, sad to see any book damaged, but it was only time that ailed this one. Carrying it carefully to a table, Belle could see that it might not be such a disaster. The pages were falling loose from the binding even as she walked, but the vellum itself didn't crumble. It was the binding that had failed. The ink was a little faded, the pages worn and grubby from use. If she was careful then the book could be saved.

She turned over the front board and could see that it had once been set with gems or metalwork. Each embellishment had left its dent in the dry old leather and—yes, there—had been picked out with something sharp, cutting deeply around the remains of ancient glue. Who would rob a book so valuable that it was decorated with gems, but leave behind the book itself? Not Rumple, she was sure; not the man who spent his leisure time spinning gold from straw and could buy himself the entire world by now.

Beneath the ruined old cover, the binding of the thick pages was older even than that. It was sewn with gut, hardened and brittle now, and both the trimming of the pages and the work of sewing them together had been done crudely.

Belle's mouth had gone dry. She'd often dreamed of books like this, reeking of mildew and mystery and magic, promising her revelations, only to find that most of them contained things that were ordinary and unsurprising. 

Not _this_ book. As with the other book, Belle couldn't decipher all of the words; it was an obscure usage of the old tongue. But she could deduce enough to know that this text was written by the Dark One, long ago. It was a treatise on the subject of vengeance and a thinly veiled threat to one man, his captor, the Duke of the Frontlands. It was the very threat that Rumpelstiltskin made good when he first gained the power of the dagger and destroyed Gaston's ancestors.

At first Belle thought she was reading the words of a madman, but as she got to grips with the language she understood that the author was entirely and chillingly sane. Revenge was a subject near to his heart, beloved to him. In places, the text read like a seduction. She wondered if the long-ago Duke had read these words, knew of this implacable promise that enslaving the most powerful being in the world would cost him everything. Not only his position, his fortune and his life, but his dynasty and his posterity too.

That same Duke had sent the children of Rumple's village to war. The vengeful hatred of his powerful slave had combined with Rumple's terror of being powerless—a father's terror of loss—and Rumple had slaughtered and slaughtered until his son was safe again from the moment the power became his. How easily the darkness must have slipped into his soul, riding on that desperate fear of his and propelled by his predecessor's hate.

But Rumple had told her something else. He'd stopped that war, brought the child soldiers home from the front lines and cured the plague that returned with them. He _had_ used his power for the greater good, for more than protecting his own family, even as he lost himself. He'd done what he believed in then, and had never become... this. Belle pushed the book away from her, revolted by so much hatred. Written by one with magic in his veins, the words were all but poison to the eyes. Rumple wouldn't have left her the book if he thought it dangerous, but it would be just like him to leave her something that he knew she would find too horrible to read.

But read it she would. Later. She needed to know all that she could of the Dark One, now.

Still trying not to shudder, to imagine that her skin crawled over her bones, Belle went to the kitchen. Little enough needed checking. Assured of her goodwill and knowing that she lacked servants, the townsfolk now sent stews, puddings, cakes and cured meats along with the raw ingredients for her kitchen. She suspected the kindness of the women in that, rather than Janek's efficiency. And she would have to deserve that kindness soon enough by dealing once and for all with Dacey Tavish. She did shudder, then.

Leaving a meal to heat in the oven, Belle took a candle and followed the passage towards the dungeons. She had not been down there since Gaston's first imprisonment, and only realised as she descended the gritty steps that she had been baulking from doing so.

The place was like a pin that kept her ugly memories held fast, all together. Her breath came short, just as it had when she came to tend Gaston's wounds, and she could feel again Rumple's hateful accusation, his grasping hands, and the growing cramps that had heralded the loss of their child. Even the way her footsteps sounded on the stone made her remember it, and so vividly, and it was because it was here that she had felt most alone. Not on the road to Odstone or in Wren's care. Here below the castle, after he accused her, after the shock when it began to feel real. It was here that her heart had broken.

Rumple had told her weeks ago that his gold was stored in the dungeons and that she should help herself. Without realising it, Belle had put off this moment rather than facing this or, worse, explaining her reluctance to him so that she could avoid coming down here at all.

She couldn't do that to him. If she knew nothing else, she knew that Rumple already felt guilt and shame enough for a lifetime about what he'd said and done that day.

 _It's just a passageway. Just a place._ Her lips moved to the thought, but her voice failed her. Past the cell where she'd found Gaston, there was an immovable looking iron door. It opened as she reached towards it, creaking just as ominously as ought to be expected of the gateway to Rumpelstiltskin's treasure.

Her candle flickered. If it went out now then she would be in absolute darkness! The way back was plain—she need only turn about and walk with her hand to the wall to retrace her steps, but she really did not want to be left among her black memories without any light.

 _Courage._ Where had her courage gone? Belle watched the flame until it steadied and then moved on, ignoring the panic she felt. It was remembered, not real, and she had a job to do. Just as she had survived her fear on her wedding day, on her wedding _night_ , by facing what needed to be done, she would do this. She would come again and again until the dungeon was nothing to her, only stone and chilly air, no more significant to her than any other place.

There were tears in her eyes all the same.

A steep flight of steps plunged just beyond the iron door. The light of the candle was barely enough to make it safe; to try robbing Rumpelstiltskin under cover of darkness would lead only to sudden death. The steps were narrow, the wall to her left damp and the drop to her right so dangerous that she could feel it pulling it her, warning and tempting all at once. Only when she reached the bottom did the room light up to greet her, torches bursting into flame in sconces along every wall. It was not a very large room, perhaps half the size of her kitchen. It seemed to have been cut from the bedrock rather than built of stone. Another iron gate was set into the opposite wall, and blackness lay beyond it.

Belle had thought to find... perhaps a chest for gold and one for silver then several for copper coin and sundry valuables, as she'd seen in her father's treasury. The chest which Sir Maurice kept for gold coins could fit in Belle's lap while she herself could fit inside the chest made to store silver. Rumpelstiltskin had filled the entire room with chests, haphazardly arranged and no two alike. Belle left her candle on the stairs and wandered to the centre of the room, staring about her. Here and there an open chest stood, all but overflowing with coin or treasure or cloth of gold. If the other chests held as much then Rumple must have more gold in this one room than her own kingdom had combined.

She thought of how they had offered him gold, her father and the councilmen. Had they called in every debt, sold every possession, title and tract of land, they might eventually have filled two of these chests with gold. Instead, they had offered him what could be readily obtained—perhaps twice what would fit inside the small chest that Belle could hold in her lap. She had known that he thought the offer valueless, and ridiculous when it was well known that he spun gold from straw, but she'd not known the extent of it until now. Rumpelstiltskin found gold beautiful and that was all the value it had for him.

Did he still spin his gold? She hadn't seen him doing it lately, and had given it no thought. He'd been so weary, so fixated on his work. Spinning had been his chief pleasure when she came to his castle, and his only recreation. How had she not thought to ask him about something that mattered so very much?

"Oh, Rumple." Kneeling, Belle ran her hand over the nearest mound of coins. They were of an unfamiliar size, wider and thicker than any from her own kingdom or here, where they mainly used the coinage of King Leopold. She picked one up, turned it over to see the minting and saw the head of Midas there. The king who'd wanted only gold, until gold was all he could have.

She turned to another chest and tried the latch. There was no padlock. Not so long ago, Rumpelstiltskin would have enjoyed the thought that somebody might come and try to rob his castle. He would make the taking of the gold easy enough, wouldn't he? He'd allow them to get just so far, just until they began to think that they were safe, and then...

This chest held silver, and Belle filled her purse with the smallest pieces she could find. She took one of the gold pieces only to study it better in daylight, and realised that, like poor King Midas, she had grown so accustomed to gold that she couldn't see the value in it any more. Only when Rumple made her a jewel because he loved her did she think anything of his gold. Even Odstone, long used to their master, preferred to deal in weights of silver.

Still, it would be useful in the land with no magic. Rumple might fear to be without magic there, but he needn't fear being poor or powerless. Gold was beautiful anywhere, and desirable to anyone who didn't have it. She looked around a while for a chest that contained the local gold coinage, then chose the smallest of those coins—tiny slivers that had been impressed with three snowdrops on the one face and the coat of arms of King Leopold on the other.

With enough to pay her tradespeople, to pay Sara and Gillard and to do whatever was necessary for Tullia and her family, Belle went back upstairs. The torches went dark the moment she reached the top of the steep stairs, leaving her nervously cupping her candlelight on her way back to the castle proper.

She thought very deliberately about the kings and their coins on the way, aware that she was doing it to crowd out the memories she didn't want. Leopold had chosen the snowdrop motif and no-one seemed to know why. His mint took great pains to see that the coinage was always sound and that image of the flowers crisp. And Midas, lonely Midas who could never touch anything without it turning to gold, bought war and conquest, while his people traded in goods. Some said that steel now had more real value in that kingdom than gold. Nobody said it, not of a king, but everyone knew that Midas had become a monster, his very touch poison to what was truly precious.

Belle exhaled noisily, relieved to reach her kitchen without the misery of the dungeon catching up with her again. She laughed at herself, a thin and nervous laugh, and blew out the candle. She took the purse from her pocket and dropped it onto the table, and only then heard Rumple's limping footsteps on the kitchen stairs.

They stared at each other, both startled to meet like this, until Rumple looked past her to the snuffed candle and the purse of money, and smiled his approval.

"You found it."

"Yes." She felt self-conscious about it, more even than when she'd asked him for coin. Then she felt self-conscious about her upset in the dungeon passage, and saw his face fall in concern. "What brings you to the kitchen?" she asked, before he could say anything.

"I'm hungry. It smells good." He sounded apologetic. Surprised. So was Belle, but she managed not to show it.

"Did the magic give you an appetite, or me?" Already on her way to the oven, to see how near to ready the meal was, Belle wondered again if it was the magic that had given him such an appetite _for_ her. The change in him, the new energy about him, was quite startling. "It's a lamb and potato pie. Don't worry, I didn't make it."

She pulled the hot dish from the oven with her hand wrapped in her apron, dropping it onto the hotplate just as it began to hurt. Turning, blowing on her fingers, Belle saw Rumple fetch a flagon from a shelf, then return again for two glasses. He seemed perfectly used to managing things with only one hand, the other clenched firmly on the head of his cane.

He caught her watching him. Set the glasses down and straightened, watching her in return.

"I'm glad you came down," she said, heartfelt. "I'm glad we talked. Glad we made love." She blushed, but didn't care. Rumple smiled, just softly, attentive to her every word. "You do make me happy, Rumple."

Nodding, he seemed unable to answer her. Belle knew the feeling well. Instead, Rumple came to her and stroked her cheek, gazing into her eyes so that she could be in no doubt that he was glad too. Then they kissed, so easily, his hand falling to her shoulder while hers slid up his back to bury itself in his hair, and the kiss said everything that their words could not.


	127. Secrets

In the kitchen, Belle thought dazedly. Like the first time, the first real time they reached for one another, unheeding. Rumple on a kitchen chair, his head thrown back to expose his neck, moaning in bliss all because of her. Belle wrapped around him, riding him, utterly shameless in her greed for nearness.

Afterwards, Rumple clutched her close and buried his face against her neck for so long that Belle began to grow drowsy there. She listened to the sound of their breathing, slowing, calming to the barest whisper. If only they never had to let go.

Close and calm, Belle could barely sense the new magic about him. It was hard to hold on to the awareness of it for more than a moment. Borrowed magic, finite, but it had restored his vigour in an instant. Could that be a bad thing when he had been so weary and desperate before?

When they parted, Belle leaning back to watch his eyes and clasping her hands behind his neck, Rumple smiled, lashes lowered, a coy little smirk warming his expression.

"Such an appetite, wife."

"Not only mine," Belle laughed, delighted by him, by them and what they became when they were truly together. It hardly mattered that their dinner had gone cold. "I'd better feed you up."

"You had at that," he murmured, glancing at their forgotten meal. Then he sighed, tensing his muscles as if to rise, and the wonder of the moment was broken. They were separate again, Belle and Rumpelstiltskin, and the world pressed in on them from all sides. She slid from his lap, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in her dishevelled dress and unlovely in her cooling perspiration. Rumple caught her hand and held her a moment, leaning forward to rest his right hand against her lower belly. A brief stir of gentle magic and there would be no child. That was what she wanted, demanded, and yet the thought of him taking away the evidence of his love... it made her sad. Another tiny loss to bear, that part of him that had for a few moments been hers.

"I do want your children," she said, hopelessly. Needlessly, because it felt dreadful to say nothing. "Our children. I do."

"I know." To Rumple it was no different than wiping away his seed had he left it on her skin. She was sure of that, and glad of it. "There," he said, cheerfully.

She turned away, loosening her hair and retying it without much care. She wasn't sure she liked this new procedure, such a pragmatic ending to their wondrous loving. But would she like the nuisance of the daily herbs any better, or the constant worry that they might not work for her? No. She couldn't live in dread of it happening again. Not until there was a space in Rumple's life for the child.

Belle's next breath was choked short when she muffled a cry, and her hands fell to her sides as though weighted with lead. Wren's notes about those who came to her for herbs:

_The girl not yet a woman who wishes not to conceive a child but will not be left alone in her bed._

She'd meant _Tullia_. Wren had all but _told_ her, as near as she could without betraying a confidence, and warned her not to gaze at Odstone in the narrow mirror of her own experience. Grateful that Rumple couldn't see her face, Belle took several deep breaths to compose herself before she faced him again.

"From what I've read in Wren's notes, the village women would envy me a husband who could just magic it away afterwards."

"No-one envies you, my love." He said it absently, mildly, leaning over to take his cane from the table before moving himself from the displaced chair where he sat to the one in front of his plate. He hadn't noticed how her voice wavered, the bright words forced. She lowered herself into her own chair, blowing out her cheeks as the day caught up with her all at once.

They needed to say more to each other, she knew, but not now. Not here. Rumple was intent on his meal, eating steadily without seeming to taste the food. It was the hole in his belly that interested him, not the meal.

"Are you hungry because of the magic you took?" When Rumple looked up at her, puzzled, Belle gave her own question a little more thought. "When I was hurt and you gave me medicine with magic in it, you said the magic needed to be fed. Is that why you have your appetite back?"

"I hadn't thought." She watched him consider it, then watched him put his thoughts away behind an easy quip. "I hope we've plenty in the larder."

"Plenty," she said dryly, too weary to press the issue now. Had he even _looked_ inside their larder? They had enough to feed Odstone. She glanced up at the tiny window. Still light out. Before she could convince herself that she ought to go back to the library, to that terrible book full of the Dark One's hatred, she yawned.

"A long day," Rumple said, pushing away his empty plate. He'd scraped it clean. "And you still need your rest." Touched that he was concerned for her, she felt slightly annoyed as well. She didn't want to think about why that might be. Not yet.

"It's a relief to see you eat, see you feeling so much better."

"No matter that magic is the cause?"

"You said you didn't feel truly alive without magic." She thought that she understood it now. Today had felt like surfacing when she hadn't even known she'd been trapped underwater; a sudden burst of clarity, of fresh thought, of joy in all of her senses. Even the pain, the guilt of her sudden realisation about Tullia was welcome, so sharp and clear, lending itself to her old sense of purpose. "How will you manage in a land with no magic at all?"

"I don't know." Rumple was calm, his hands still. It was an inevitability to him, that journey, not a possibility. Whatever the obstacles and whatever the cost, he would follow his son there. "I think..." As he hesitated, his right hand began to fidget on his knee. "I think it'll be better once the dagger has no influence over me. It... plays tricks." He raised the suddenly nervous hand and tapped his temple, catching her eye to see that she was following him then looking down at his plate.

"But you said it's not alive."

"No, it's not. But magic acts with purpose once used. The curse needs form. I'm still the easiest option. The most comfortable fit. And my predecessors have a certain... presence. _They_ had will, and the curse bears their impression." He rubbed his chin, fingernails catching on stubble with a scratching sound.

Longing to unbuckle the scabbard and hurl the dagger away from her, Belle made herself sit perfectly still until the rash urge passed. If Rumple felt better, safer, with the dagger in her keeping then that was that. She would help him no matter how her flesh crawled at the thought of it touching her.

"I can't imagine the courage it takes," she said, very quietly. "To resist something you want so much as this."

Rumple's startled look turned slowly to one of gratitude. He reached across the corner of the table, seeking her hand. Belle squeezed his, wrapped it in both of her own and held his gaze. For once he didn't seem to seek something hidden in her eyes. He simply saw her, glad that she was there.

"You're right," he said, looking away as if with an effort. "This is what my son would want. What he did want. What I failed to do for him then. He might forgive me for not finding a way to part with the curse, but if I took it back now I'm free of it? If I chose it again?" Rumple shook his head quickly, as thought to shake away the future he had just imagined, and before he could hide behind his eyelashes, Belle saw tears welling up. Frustration, she thought, more than grief or pain.

She hoped that he would say more, or at least that he would know he was welcome to do so. He needed to be reminded of that, her strange and wonderful husband—that even if she could offer no help, even if she lacked the understanding to advise, he could come to her simply for her love. For respite. As he had today, she realised, watching him shift their hands so that he could begin to toy with her gold ring. He had reached out for her in a moment of need when, even yesterday, he would have denied his need for her sake. Belle was glad. So glad.

"Does it never tempt you?" Rumple tilted his head, asking the question archly while his finger rubbed at the ring. Her thoughts on kisses, on how he'd felt between her thighs, Belle couldn't think for a moment what he meant. Not that, surely? He smiled as if he'd followed along with her thoughts. "Magic, Mistress. Has it never tempted you?"

"I don't have any magic."

"You can make use of it even so." He was teasing her, lending the words a hint of seduction that he knew make her insides flutter. "As I did today, borrowing what I lacked. Or with magical objects. Plants, as you did when you brewed the poppies for me. Doesn't that entice you?"

"I..." Belle snapped her mouth shut, frowning. "I've grown too used to having your castle wait on me. I liked being able to see my father with your magic looking glass, and being able to send him letters without a messenger." Rumple nodded, listening, watching his fingertip move across the back of her hand. "I liked being able to spare Wren the worst of her pain with a magic potion. Is that what you mean?"

It both was and it wasn't, she could see. Rumple was thoughtful, a crease above his nose as his frown set in.

"Some people might have looked for the advantage in your situation." He nodded towards the pouch of coins at her left elbow. "Gold. Magic. Power." Letting go of her, he reached past and took the purse she'd just filled from his coffers, weighed it in his palm for a moment, then tipped out the contents onto the table. He half-smiled, unsurprised. "You take so little when you could take it all."

It all depended what you called a little, Belle thought, but she didn't say it. He wasn't speaking of money, perhaps not even of magic, but of temptation. The temptation to compromise her integrity because life would be so, so much easier if she did.

"You might not have put as much thought into getting married as you should have," she said, fighting a smile, "but I'm sure you took care not to choose a woman who seemed likely to take you for all you were worth. How many dresses does one woman need?"

He didn't smile. He didn't want to be diverted from the question.

"And magic? Because there is another way. I allow the curse back in and you..." He pointed to the dagger at her hip. "You keep that. Keep me from using my power. Keep me honest."

"Keep you as a slave?" Appalled, Belle pushed her chair back. She didn't know if he was suggesting such a thing or merely testing her certainties. Her mind full of the ugly notion, she didn't care. "Rumple, I found what the one before you wrote about being a slave. About the Duke, about revenge. There's so much hatred and darkness written into those pages that I felt filthy just _touching_ it."

Rumple shrugged, his face carefully blank but not quite hiding the hunger in his curiosity.

"But you are my wife."

"And you'd trust me, would you?" She spread her arms, challenging him, her outrage already softening into exasperation, but he'd frightened her. It frightened her that he could even contemplate such a thing. "Not to make one misstep, one careless slip of the tongue, one foolish wish with this damned thing in my hand?" She slapped the dagger in its sheath, stinging her fingers.

"If anyone can be trusted with it, it's you."

"No!" Belle brought her hands down flat on the table, hard, making the coins jump and jangle and startling them both in her vehemence. "No-one can be trusted with it. Not with this magic and not with that much power over another person. What wouldn't I take from you if the reason seemed good enough at the time, if it seemed like the lesser of two evils? Rumple, _nobody_ is that strong. I don't give in to magic because I'm afraid that if I start that way then I won't be able to stop." A hiccoughing little sob as her shock ran out of breath, and then hot tears spilled down her cheeks, unexpected. "Just like you couldn't."

And there it was. Heaving a proper breath now that the flood of words had run dry, her fingers curling against the scrubbed wood, Belle knew the truth of what she'd said. If it dashed his hopes or ruined some new plan of his to find Baelfire then he still needed to know it, this truth. That his wife wasn't set apart, set above anyone else in her strength, her wisdom, her kindness, her goodness. She was only _stubborn_ , not strong, and she wasn't good, only afraid of making the wrong choices. "Don't ask me to be so perfect, Rumple," she whispered, wetly. "Please don't."

Stumbling a little in his haste, Rumple came to her. Wrapped his left arm about her while he gripped the back of a chair with his right. Squeezed her and rested his cheek against her hair, whispering his love, his apologies. He hadn't meant to upset her. He didn't ask that of her, it was only talk. His darling, his love. His voice like a tender caress. When had he learned to comfort her so well? Collecting herself with her hot face buried against his shirt, Belle recalled begging for his comfort not so very long ago, when the sight of her tears left him paralysed. Did he finally believe that a small upset could be forgiven and forgotten? Or had he simply resigned himself to managing a passionate and stormy wife?

Poor Rumple. However carefully he'd searched for a bride—and she still didn't know the truth of that—he'd definitely got more than he bargained for.

"I've made you all wet," she sniffled, determined to make amends for her outburst. She lifted her head and tried to smile.

"Again," he said, deadpan, his hand drifting lower to rest at the curve of her buttock. It took Belle a long moment to realise that he wasn't referring to her tears. Then she blushed so hard, so hot and suddenly that Rumple grinned with mischief.

"Oh!" Belle almost pushed him, just as she had in the past when he teased her, but she remembered in time that he balanced poorly without his stick. She settled for poking him in the chest. "You can't shock me any more, Rumpelstiltskin. I'm not your blushing bride any more. I'm just your wife. _Forever._ "

His grin didn't fade. "I think, wife," he said, hitching her nearer, "that I can still shock you." He gave her a kiss on the cheek, more hesitant than his play-acting suggested. Making sure that this was a welcome game. "I doubt you can imagine the half of what a man and a woman can do together, or alone. Or with more than tw—"

She pinched him beneath the ribs.

"I'm already blushing so how will you know if this is working?"

"Well, I only wanted to dry your tears." His smile became wry, apologetic. "I don't ask so much of you as that, do I?"

Belle rested her hand over his on the back of the chair.

"All this time I longed for you to believe in me. Now I wish that you believed in me a little less. You want to know why the magic never tempted me. That's why. Because it frightens me too much. Because I've seen the dark and lonely place it drove you to and I never want to go there, or know that I hurt people to smooth my own path in life. It terrifies me, Rumple."

Rumple nodded, taking that in. Then he spoke gently.

"I'm always telling you that fear is power," he said, nudging her briefly under the chin with his knuckle before groping for his walking stick. "But that fear, your fear? That's a power _you_ wield."

"Is anything strong enough against the Dark One? Really?" She gathered up their plates, carried them to the pump and rinsed them. Splashed cold water onto her face and dried herself on her apron. "If even true love's kiss can't destroy it, what can? What could end it once and for all?"

"The Dark One's death in a land with no magic would do it." Rumple toyed with his pipe, but left it on the mantelpiece unlit. "Nowhere for the magic to go. It wouldn't be destroyed, but it couldn't ever be restored. Not without..." He trailed off, thoughts turning inward. Belle would have prompted him to go on, but he straightened up, suddenly brisk, the moment gone. "Is there truly nothing I can give you? With all my gold and all this magic?" He gestured about him to her kitchen, his castle, offering her the world the way a courtier might offer a lady a rose.

Belle laughed. "You already did, silly. The library. A room full of books and someone to love me even if I forget myself reading and neglect you. What more could I possibly want?" In a way, she supposed, it would have been much simpler for him if she had come here and taken everything that he offered her. The riches, the feasts, the crown, the castle that obeyed her every desire. The potion to bring her pleasure in bed. Belle had demanded instead the one thing he held back, the thing that was hardest for him to give. His heart. "I don't want for anything."

"Regina's mother wanted magic. My first wife wanted..." Rumple waved a hand, words inadequate to the task until he blew out his cheeks and came up with, "a different husband." He tried to make a jest of it, but Belle recognised the bleakness behind his eyes. It was always there when he spoke of her.

"You _are_ my different husband," she reminded him. "I almost got Gaston." And Gaston would probably have given her a library if she'd asked for one, but then his mother would have chosen the books and scolded her for spending any time with them. "Have there been others? Other women who wanted things from you?" Strange. All of a sudden she wasn't afraid to ask that question, nor of his answer, nor of a refusal to answer. It was just a question. Something had eased between them amidst all this truth; something necessary had fallen into place. It was... comfortable.

"Jealous?" Rumple bumped his arm against hers, feigning a coy little smirk.

"A little. Mainly... curious. You still haven't told me how you came to be so good at pleasing a woman."

Her admission seemed to flatter him, to bring out that glimpse of boyish shyness in him that always made her heart ache with tenderness for him. He brushed his hand down her back, stirring her hair before resting his hand at the base of her spine.

"It's to be my secrets you take from me then? One by one." He scooped her closer to him, whispering next to her ear. "Not my money or my magic? My secrets. I can give you that." He brushed his lips against her earlobe while his hand smoothed her dress across her buttocks, causing Belle to make a sound that was half gulp, half squeak. "I'm glad I have _something_ you want."

She couldn't think when he spoke to her that way, his voice gone low and soft and rich with promise. It touched her in the exact same place that the magic lock on the book cabinet did, tugging at something in her that was less to do with her heart, or her loins, than with the centre of herself. Not desire. Deeper than that. How she wanted him. She longed for the shape of him, the sensation of his skin beneath her palms, the scent of his hair as it tickled her cheeks. There was the pleasure, of course, and that still astonished her, but to have him close, confiding, enjoying her...

"Rumple." It was a groan, pathetic with need and a helplessness that she could confess only to him, and he kissed her for an answer, tormenting her with tenderness when she could have plunged headlong with him into thoughtless passion. But that wasn't her Rumple. He savoured their love bite by bite, moment by moment, as a thing too precious to be believed.

Yet now... now he did believe in it, heart and soul and all that trust. Now he didn't hesitate in order to assure himself that she wanted his caresses, but trusted her to tell him if she did not. Belle would have traded the world for that difference, and with an inward shiver she wondered what else he might have to teach her, what he might confess to wanting of her, now that he wasn't afraid of frightening her away. He was right, she thought, losing her fingers in his soft hair and her breath in his kiss. She couldn't imagine what more there could be.

The pull of responsibility gave her pause for a moment when they parted for breath, clutching one another. She needed to return to the library, to write to her father with an important question, to arrange to speak with Janeck about the Tavishes. But all those things were elsewhere and her husband was here, pressed against her from hips to lips, and Belle was drunk with him and with the sheer relief of having him again.

"When I dreamed of this," he murmured, breathless against her cheek, "I carried you upstairs in my arms and laid you on the bed." He adjusted his grip on the cane, awkward as though he had suddenly remembered about it, realised that he couldn't possibly carry her now. "I was patient."

Belle made a dreamy 'mmm' of approval, letting her fingertips trail down his arm to join his hand atop the cane.

"Was I patient?"

"You were... beautiful. I laid you on a bed, not..." Rumple indicated the chair that was where they had left it, pulled far from the table in their haste to be together. "Not like this. Not like upstairs."

"A seduction," Belle realised, before he began to struggle for words. "You planned a romantic seduction."

"I hoped. With humble heart." Rumple nodded. His self-deprecation melted her own heart. "A new beginning. A better beginning than we had before. Slow." He drew circles on her back with a fingertip. "Patient." He said that word again with relish, making it sound like a seduction in itself.

"Oh," Belle managed, her breathing gone shallow.

"But here we are again. Debauched in the kitchen without your knickers."

She laughed.

"We can start again, if you like."

His mischief faded slowly from his smile, leaving only the fondness behind it.

"I'd like that. A chance to do things properly." He pinched her backside gently, emphasising the word. Her word. She was spellbound. "Will you marry me, wife?"

For a moment, Belle couldn't even take a breath. Couldn't tear herself away from staring into his eyes.

"Yes," she whispered. "Of course I'll marry you, Rumpelstiltskin."

Belle was sure that they would make love again there and then, or that Rumple would sweep her away in a cloud of magic to the bedroom and treat her to the promised patience, but instead he took a step backwards, balancing himself with care before propping his cane against the back of a chair. His hands shook a little as he reached beneath his jerkin and drew out a length of ribbon. It was no ribbon of hers, Belle could see at once. Too short for her hair, and woven of gossamer gold. It draped across the back of Rumple's weathered hand like the lightest silk.

"Forgive me if I don't kneel?"

"What?" Belle couldn't do anything more than follow along with this new game of his, amazed and overcome with love. Rumple nodded and gestured to her left hand, beckoning encouragingly. She held it out, dreamlike, and her husband caught it between his own and, closing his eyes, bent over it and left a kiss on the back of her knuckles. "Oh..."

He had to make sure of his balance again as he straightened, but never stopped looking at her hand in his. Deep in concentration, rapt in his devotion, he began to wind the short piece of ribbon around and around her ring finger, just above the narrow golden band he had given her after their wedding.

If only she'd known then, Belle thought, her lips parting as she caught a belated breath. If only she'd known then that she could love him so much as this. But she remembered this same feeling of wonder at watching him work at something; she remembered the tiny beginnings of hope and affection as he placed the ring upon her finger.

Her cheeks were wet with tears again, tears of a joy more helpless than any grief could be. Rumple glanced up, momentarily dismayed until he understood, and then he caught one on the tip of his finger, giving a little "Ah!" of inspiration, then a little laugh. Steadying her left hand in a firm grip, he carefully brought the teardrop over the ribbon and turned his hand to let it fall. The ribbon wound tighter about her finger, shining with a golden-white light that nearly dazzled her. When the glow faded, a second ring sat above the first, an intricate knotwork of gold set with a single, modest diamond.

"Oh, Rumple," she whispered, staring at it. When she brought her hand nearer to her face she was sure that she could see the glowing remnant of the magic in the stone. "Thank you."

Rumple smiled to himself as he reached for his cane. As soon as he had it under him, Belle surged towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. His laughter as he fought for balance was a warm gust against her skin, his hair a soft caress against her cheek. His free hand slid down her back and tightened to draw her closer against his body.

Love like this had to be stronger than any curse, Belle thought, giddy with relief and joy and gratitude. If magic was power, and love the most powerful magic, then a love like this could do _anything._


	128. The Ways of Love

"What is it you've been reading?"

"Hmm?" Still feeling that she was floating on air, Belle had to drag herself back to earth to cope with a simple question.

"Tales of the Dark One?"

"Oh." Finally managing to marshal her thoughts into some sort of order, Belle gestured ahead of them, towards the library doors. "From the locked cabinet. The one before you, the one the Duke imprisoned."

"Oh, he didn't imprison him." Rumple said it with a malicious relish which, in spite of herself, caught her imagination and left her longing to hear the story from his own lips. "With the dagger in his hand, he didn't need to."

"What was his name?"

"The Duke?" Rumple looked blank.

"The Dark One. The one you..." She hesitated, shaking her head, looking for the words to take back the question. Rumple finished for her.

"Murdered."

"Rumple..."

"His name was Zoso," he said, gently. He no more wanted to force them out of this tender spell than she did. "He liked to vent his impotence with that quill. Don't let his spleen give you bad dreams. He's hardly bedtime reading."

"I thought it was you who fathered the nightmares of the blameless."

He shrugged with exaggerated ease, pulling a comical grimace.

"Had the job a long time."

"Longer than Zoso?" Belle paused to taste the strange name, to fix it in her memory. She tried to imagine a face, a voice to match the venom written on those pages.

"Longer than any of them." Catching her under the chin with his fingertips, drawing her towards him, Rumple stole a quick kiss. "Be careful. A sorcerer's words can have power long after they're dead." He turned to go, to leave her there, and Belle's sense of loss for their loving moment together sat uneasily beside her satisfaction that he was content simply to warn her and go. He trusted her. Even after she'd confessed her fears to him, her weakness, he trusted her to manage this danger without him.

She was missing him, _them_ , before he even reached the door. Stealing another glance at her new ring, Belle called after him, archly, yet aware that she could not conceal a note of pleading.

"Will you come to my bed tonight, husband?"

Rumple turned about, framed by the open doors, and planted his cane in front of him, both hands atop the golden head. Joyous laughter lit his eyes, but his face was a mask of still sobriety. He was so much better at this game than she was!

"Well now. That's a forward question for a new bride."

She could never hope to match his performance, but Belle was happy to play her part.

"I'm no blushing maiden, sir. I know what's expected of a wife."

"Do you, now?" Lifting an eyebrow, Rumple touched his lips with the tip of his tongue. He looked her over, taking his time, leaving nothing of his thoughts to her imagination. "How very exciting." He bowed to her over the cane. "Until later then, wife."

An unrestrained grin broke across his face just as he stepped out of her sight, an expression such as she had never seen on him before.

Belle lifted her hand for another look at the new ring, intrigued by the light that seemed to live within the clear stone. She could see it as she moved her hand, then she'd blink and lose it—a sparkle not accounted for by the simple cut, the plain bezel setting amidst the interweaving pattern of gold bands. What had he caught there in her tear? Her happiness? Their love? That unmatched moment of togetherness they'd just shared? It was such a small thing, yet wearing it she felt stronger, armoured against anything.

Fortified by Rumple's promise of later, she forced herself to return to the words of Zoso, not even sure what it was she sought there. Some deeper insight into the nature of the curse? Rumple had tried and tried to explain it to her, yet magic went beyond words. His sensations, the power he'd lost, were diminished by language. They were beyond even these words, so laced with the old Dark One's bitterness that they felt alive. But did that mean that some of the magic was now pinned in these pages, a curse in and of itself, the Dark One missing a piece? Rumple had spent so long adding to that power, making use of any magic or opportunity that came to hand. Could he even tell, himself, where the power of his curse began and ended?

She had married a creature of magic. Not a sorcerer, not a gifted mortal, but a being set apart by this curse. Changed. With that stripped away, Rumple retained knowledge, experience, but lacked for the raw power of the Dark One. Where had it gone?

Dragging her eyes away from a particularly vivid threat against the long-dead Duke, Belle drew the dagger from its sheath. Rumple had made it well. It fitted the blade snugly enough that it wouldn't be tumbled out as she moved, yet it released at a pull. She stared at Rumple's name there, but remembered how it had looked before he cast a glamour over it; how his name had flickered there like a shadow cast by firelight, never still, never staying. As though the dagger were reaching for him and could not quite manage to catch hold. She sheathed the knife again, quickly.

Zoso had sought death rather than let it keep his name. But had that been because he could no longer bear the curse, or only because the Duke of the Frontlands held him in thrall?

It wouldn't be difficult, would it? Magic was all about the right words, the right intentions. You'd hold the dagger—Belle's hand drifted to the sheath at her hip—and command that under no circumstances was the Dark One to obtain the dagger again, nor act in any way from now on without one's blessing. He'd be helpless. And Rumple wanted her to pretend to have that power over him? How would they manage that unless he could pretend to hate her with the same fury that Zoso had scored into these pages?

Yet Rumple was right about one thing. It was a lie that his enemies would truly _want_ to believe.

It was a lie that would keep her father awake at night, fearing her in even greater danger than before, but it would have to be that convincing, wouldn't it? The reactions of others would sell the lie as nothing else could, so no-one could know the truth. In public, at least, even she and Rumple would need to believe it. That's what he'd been trying to tell her with the story about his father, the card games. Believe your own lie.

How could they? How could they _now,_ when merely to set eyes on one another filled them up with such happiness?

Fretting, Belle returned the broken book to the cabinet where she'd found it. Crouching to see the bottom shelves, she saw the scroll that held Odstone's laws, and the book of King Leopold's reforms that had so captured her imagination. Did Rumple think those books dangerous, to lock them away here? He probably did. All the scroll had told her was that Odstone's lord and master had the right to do as he pleased except in matters of tenancy, including the right to change the law itself. And Rumpelstiltskin had passed that authority to her. Made her lord and master.

What law for Dacey Tavish?

Biting her lip, Belle went to her writing room and gently evicted Smoke from the chair at her desk. She smoothed out a sheet of paper and sat for a long time, staring at it, twisting her glass pen between her fingertips. Finally, she dipped into the ink and wrote,

 _Father,_  
_What punishment in law for a man who violates his daughter and leaves her with child?_  
_Belle._

She couldn't bring herself to write more, to sully any private sentiment with this question, nor even to beg his forgiveness for sending him such a question at all. There must be other men in the world like Tavish, and they must be dealt with somehow, but she had never seen anything written down and had never been admitted when a case was heard. Perhaps that was how it was done, she thought, wiping her pen on a scrap of silk and placing the folded paper carefully into the magic box. Perhaps the law just looked away so that something could be done.

Rumple seemed to think that it should.

The kittens were trying to climb her skirts. Feeling tainted by the mere thought of Tavish, Belle indulged herself for a little while, playing with the kittens in her lap and on her desk before finding and rolling the balls of paper for them to catch. They scampered away into the shadows while their mother smugly resumed her place on Belle's chair.

Her legs felt heavy as she trudged upstairs. It would be nice to sit in bed with a book, a pleasant one, while she waited for her 'bridegroom'. Thinking only vaguely about washing herself and changing into a fresh nightgown, Belle smiled when she found the bathtub waiting for her, full and steaming. She might have thought that Rumple drew the water for his own use, but he had scattered it with red and white rose petals and fragrant oils, just like the tub he'd left for her use on their wedding night. A small wrought iron table held a flagon of mead and a goblet, a single candle in a lantern of coloured glass, a fresh bar of soap and dishes of fragrant dried herbs.

Smothering a giggle of sheer delight, Belle unbuckled her belt and scabbard and, unable to think of anywhere better, opted to place them out of sight in her trunk. She shed her clothing where she stood, leaving an untidy heap at the foot of the bed, and went to enjoy her bath.

Did Rumple mean her to wait for him just as she had that first night? At least she wasn't trapped in a silly dress this time.

She remembered being taken aback by the little room at the inn, so humble a place for a man of such power and reputed wealth. Later, she'd supposed he wanted to break their journey so that she might rest, but had that been it? He'd prepared this suite for her inside his great castle, again with every comfort on hand, but again, humble in size. As if he hadn't wanted to daunt her any more than the prospect of marriage itself daunted her, he'd offered her rooms that were homely.

But of course, he hadn't expected her to stay very long. Had he even expected to bring her the rest of the way from the inn after that night?

He'd hoped. Rumple might not like to admit it, perhaps couldn't even see it in himself, but hope lived in his heart, even then while he was alone with his curse. He'd managed to hope that his chosen bride might stay, and a part of his reluctance to touch her had been the simple fear of driving her away.

Anticipation that night hadn't been sweet, but tonight she longed for him. Her self-consciousness loosened by the mead, Belle tried rubbing between her legs. She didn't have the knack for it, or perhaps her own touch just couldn't excite her as much as Rumple's. It felt pleasant, gave her hot and cold chills, but it was no substitute for being with the man she loved. His fingers were magic, playing her as if she were an instrument, always knowing where to be and which note to strike. She couldn't quite come, not just from her own fingers, but if she thought about being with Rumple she could bring herself so close that she had to moan aloud, delight and frustration all in one as the peak eluded her but the pleasure drew out and out. It felt wonderful, for all that it left her perspiring and unsatisfied, and Belle dreamily imagined herself banking the fires of desire in readiness for Rumple, her body ready with the welcome she wished to give.

She used a wasteful number of towels to dry and wrap herself against the cooling air, dwelling on her anticipation in the pleasant fog of the strong mead. Would Rumple like it if she wore the nightdress she had worn on their wedding night? That night, she would have sworn that he didn't even notice what she wore. Now that she knew him, Belle was sure that Rumple could bring every detail into his mind's eye, from the subtle embroidery of daisies to the shape of the bloodstain he'd stolen away the next day. He preferred silk, gave her silk to wear, but he had made this their wedding night all over again. She laughed out loud as she went back into the bedroom to look for the gown in her trunk. It was already draped over the edge of the bed for her, pressed and pristine.

"Are you watching me, Rumpelstiltskin?" Belle looked around her, then shook her head with wonder. She didn't feel shy at the thought that he might be spying on her this evening. And he couldn't possibly be reading her mind as though it were an open book. She let the towels drop and shuffled quickly into the cotton nightgown before the chill could touch her. She'd specified every cut and stitch of the nightgown herself, wanting to be comfortable in it, but the garment felt alien to her—bulky and stiff. "I've got used to fine silk," she confessed to the air, to Rumple if he was listening, and to herself. "I hope they have nice cloth in the land without magic."

A present waited on the bed covers, hidden beneath the gown. Something larger than her hand, concealed inside a bag of red velvet with a golden drawstring tied into a bow. Belle picked it up and felt the shape of what was inside. Definitely a book, which brought a fresh smile to her lips. Hadn't she just told him that of all the gifts he might have given her, she loved the books the most? After her time in the library with the Dark One's darkest thoughts, she was glad to see any other book. She drew the book out of the bag and with it a note on folded, creamy paper, written in Rumple's spidery hand. It simply said, _'Bedtime reading.'_

She turned the book over in her hands, but the cover bore no title. Brown leather, it had been intricately embossed, front and back, with a border of roses and thorny stems, the buds picked out in gold leaf. 

Belle turned back the stiff cover, and then the first blank page within. She had seldom seen that, such a waste of paper, but when she turned the blank page she understood at once why it was there. Woodcut lovers were entwined and naked beneath the boughs of a spreading fruit tree, the woman's legs wrapped behind the man's thighs and her bare breasts proud while he arched over her, buttocks clenched and dimpled with the effort. It was difficult to tear her eyes away from the couple to read the two large words illuminated in the space beside them. It was a foreign script, the sweep and flow of writings from Agrabah in ornate and unfamiliar calligraphy, and it took her a moment to grope for the words and then their translation. _The Ways of Love_. Beneath that, in a much smaller and simpler hand, it read, _"The many comfortable, auspicious and most pleasurable ways of begetting children."_

"Oh, my goodness.” Belle turned to the first page and stared. Then she turned another, and another. The pages looked old, yellowed and uneven at the edges, but the binding was so fresh that she could smell the new leather. Each hand-coloured plate was separated by a fine sheet of tissue, protecting the colours. There were no words. This book didn't need any.

Tearing herself away from the drawings, Belle looked again at the cover. Rumple had given her the motif before, the rose with its thorn, and she realised with a pang of tenderness that he must have had the book bound so just for her. It would go unnoticed on any shelf, in any trunk, even in her lap, being so plain and brown. But inside…

Even when she'd asked him if there was a book to teach her how to love him, she couldn't possibly have imagined one like _this_. It left nothing to the imagination. Unable to stop herself, Belle flipped the pages, greedy for the next image before she had even studied the one in front of her. When she reached the middle of the book, one of her green ribbons fell out and slithered onto the bed. The couple on that page were merely kissing. At least, she thought so at first glance. Looking closer, Belle realised that each of the lovers had one hand buried inside their own loose, colourful clothing, exposing just a little flesh. The woman gripped herself between the legs, her hand cupped between shapely thighs, while the man clutched at his cock. They were lost in their kiss, their eyes closed to reveal a smear of vivid blue on the woman's eyelids. Another spot of colour showed the flush of her cheek, the only brightness on the page save where the head of the man's cock had been painted a cheery scarlet to complement his lady's blushing glow. Rumple's never looked like that. She'd be worried about him if it did!

Replacing the ribbon, smoothing it into the crease with her fingertip, Belle sat down and gazed at the image for a while. Why this one? Rumple did nothing without thought, without meaning, so he had meant her to see that he marked this one page, and this the most restrained of the acts of love shown in the book. Flipping back to the beginning, Belle saw the same, unchanging expression on the faces of the couple from the title page; pleasant, almost surprised, ripe with good humour and yet calm. Only in the image of the kissing lovers did the expression change to something softer, something that conveyed the loss of sense and self that Belle recognised as passion. Was that how she looked when it happened? Only on this one page did the businesslike lovers, so intent on dealing with one another's bodies, surrender to something deeper in one another. And touched themselves as they did so. Which was he showing her?

Rumple had asked that of her; that she touch herself, tell him how it felt. The thought of it excited him. Belle had only felt silly, exposed and awkward, clumsy, and he hadn't pressed her. He'd never pressed her with his wants, nor tried to repeat any act of love that wasn't met with her full and vocal appreciation. He'd been shy of asking for her mouth on his cock, his very reticence about asking her clue as to how much her refusal would have disappointed him. He loved that she shared his enjoyment of that intimacy. Yet it was never entirely a physical act itself that delighted him; he could have sought his pleasures with any woman, and one who knew better how to please him with her body than Belle did. No, Rumple sought this instead; this moment in the picture where eyes slipped closed and expressions softened into unguarded trust. Togetherness. How odd that the artist had captured it only where the imagined lovers were so… separate.

At least, Belle supposed that they were imagined. Who would pose for portraits like these?

She got into bed and made a slope with her knees to support the book. As the title page had promised, the drawings had, until that middle page, been concerned with all the ways a man might enter a woman to make her pregnant. One way or another, he was set to leave his seed inside her body. None of those poses had seemed outrageous to her, even if some looked very uncomfortable, but beyond the middle of the book, the smiling couple became contortionists, and rather less likely to get a child as a result of their efforts. On one page the woman knelt, her hand gripping the man's proud cock with its reddened head, about to put it into her mouth. On the next, she hunched atop him and faced his feet, her privates available to his mouth and hands while his member went deep into hers. She was somehow still smiling that strange, impersonal smile as she swallowed him.

On the next page, the man mounted her from behind on all-fours, the drawing at pains to show that he was inserting himself between her buttocks. Belle thought that the lady looked a bit perplexed in that one, and no wonder.

Was this gift Rumple's attempt to prove that she was not yet as worldly and unshockable as she had claimed? She wasn't shocked. If he'd given her this book on their wedding night, she would only have felt daunted by it and embarrassed by her hopeless ignorance. She had confidence in Rumple's acceptance, now, and in her ability to meet his expectations as a husband and a lover, but the latter half of the book still widened her eyes and filled her with doubt. Some of the positions the inky lovers adopted looked suffocating. One or two of them appeared to be physically impossible, except perhaps for those acrobatic entertainers who could fold themselves in two or tie their own limbs in knots.

Was this gift part of Rumple's imagined seduction of his 'new' bride? He enjoyed teasing her, earning her blushes and then banishing them with the warmth of his love. She hoped he wouldn't mind that, while she found the book illuminating, astonishing and extremely interesting, it made her rather more uncomfortable than excited. And it wasn't because she'd discovered some new depth of prudery or modesty in herself, nor because the depiction of the act dismayed her, but because of the bland expression on those painted faces. So calm, so... absent. It wasn't at all as she felt lovers should be, whether they were gazing at one another over a shared meal or tying themselves in a knot of limbs in bed. Rumple never looked so unmoved when he made love to her. Not even when she walked into a room or smiled at him. She hoped he never did.

She thought of how he'd looked, and how he'd looked _at_ her, in the kitchen as she lowered herself onto his cock before holding herself still so as to see his eyes, his pleasure. The sight of him had filled her heart. Perhaps no artist could capture such an expression as that, such honest beauty as that. And then he'd said her name, caressed her cheek and brushed away the straying locks of hair, drawn her head towards his for a kiss, and they'd forgotten everything but the drive for pleasure in one another, and for one another.

The thought of _him_ titillated her readily enough, that memory-image in her mind's eye catching easily at the threads of yearning she'd plucked to a torment in the bath. Belle sank back against the headboard, shuffling pillows behind her until she was comfortable. The marvellous book slid from her knees and fell shut beside her, looking perfectly innocent in its plain binding.

Running her fingers over the embossing, Belle thought with a sad pang of the beautiful gown he'd created for her with similar embroidery, lost at the King's feast. Roses in bud and long, twining stems of leaf and thorn, like nothing that was real in nature, and yet lovely. Roses for gifts, roses for a motif when he gave her jewels. Even the clasps of her silk robe were tiny roses, and all because he thought their beauty matchless. Like hers. It was more apt even than that. Their love had not been without its thorns. Not for either of them.

In love with his cleverness, with the unspoken depths of him, Belle placed her right hand on the book and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she held out her left hand against the backdrop of the bedclothes and studied the rings on her finger. The knotwork of the new ring reminded her of the interweaving stems of the thorny roses, complicated as true love. Her first ring, below it, contrasted in its perfect, unbroken simplicity; a blunt and unequivocal statement of Rumple's honourable intentions. It should hardly surprise her, Belle supposed, that Rumpelstiltskin had such an exquisite eye for symbols. He'd given her a fitting one for their wedding, and now a fitting one for the love that had grown between them ever since; grown as it would, wild and tangled, woven with rich possibility and shadow, snagged with barbs, always their mystery.

"Admiring your jewels?"

Belle jumped, not having heard his footsteps nor the knock of his cane on the floor. Rumple stood as he had downstairs, the cane planted before him and his hands folded on top, smiling with a trace of wickedness. She had half expected to see him as he'd been when they married, olive-green and curls, eyes like nothing human. He could still capture that old self in his voice, and do it so well that he hardly needed the mask.

"I was admiring your cleverness, actually." She waited for him to register the unexpected compliment, to see the tiny loss of composure that her flattery always caused him. He stood a little taller, pleased. "Are you going to start sneaking up on me again?"

"Yes," Rumple answered, baldly. He put his left hand behind his back for a moment and then produced a dark red rose, its long, curved stem mirroring the very pattern that she had just been thinking about. "May I come in?"

"You may." Belle watched him approach the bed, moving around the end of it to reach her side. His limp was as heavy as ever and his movements as awkward; he could only have used magic to reach her door without her hearing him. He sat beside her on the bed, proffering the rose between thumb and forefinger.

"Sweetheart."

"Thank you." She breathed the scent of the barely-opened rose, resting it against her cheek as an ornament to her coy smile. It was what was expected when offered a rose and a term of endearment; she knew how to play this game of innocence and seduction, knew it in her blood, although until today she had hardly known it. And she was long past her innocence now. Whatever would she have done if he'd charmed and romanced her on their wedding night? His skittish reluctance had confused and mortified her then, but Belle had to admit now that she would have felt insulted had he approached her with false flattery, with endearments that he couldn't possibly mean. It had been honest between them. Pure. She sniffed the rose again, then lowered it carefully to her lap. She didn't want it to get squashed when he kissed her. "It's beautiful.

"You're beautiful." Rumple began to reach out to her, then returned his hand to his cane. "I should have told you that. On our wedding night." He looked anxiously into her eyes for a moment, to see how she took the words. "I didn't want you to think I saw only your beauty." His lip almost trembled as he caught himself, hesitating over words he wasn't sure of. "I didn't want you to believe that such a thing might move me. But it did, you did. I hadn't spoken gentle words in so long. Thought kind thoughts. And you were _so_ beautiful." He phrased it as an apology, sorrow lining his face, but the tender compliment touched Belle to the heart. At her expression, Rumple touched her cheek with his fingertips. He found a lock of her hair and drew it between thumb and forefinger. He looked as though he'd never touched her before, and longed to do so now. She felt desired and full of desire; the desire to wrap him up in herself and in her love, yet she was frozen and speechless under his intense gaze. She heard her own breathing, shallow and shaky, and had to swallow to loosen her throat. "May I kiss you, Lady Belle?"

Belle could only manage a wordless noise of assent, a hasty nod; couldn't hope to convey her true sentiment, which was that if her husband didn't kiss her this instant, she felt she might die. They leaned in to meet halfway, Rumple twisted awkwardly to reach her, and as their lips met Belle started and snatched back, staring down at her stinging hand. The rose had thorns, slender and sneaky, and one had pushed deeply into the pad of her finger as she leaned forward to kiss him.

Rumple took her hand, took the rose from her and set it aside, raised her hand to his lips and—Belle gasped as she had not when she felt the thorn break her skin—dabbed away the bead of blood with his tongue before kissing the sore spot, his eyes fluttering closed.

"There." He opened his eyes again, but kept her hand tucked up against his chin, his lashes lowered. "All better." His warm breath tickled her skin with each word. "Beauty can be very dangerous."

"Am I dangerous?"

"Seductively so." He leaned near again, near enough to whisper. "Do you like your new book?"

"If you'd given me this on our wedding night I think I might have run away," she confessed, laughing. She pushed her hand beneath his hair, beneath his collar, just to feel the heat of his skin against hers. "So might you."

"You're probably right." Rumple reached up for the hand that clasped him behind the neck, catching at the frill of her cuff, a touch that never quite came. "What would have seduced you?"

"Oh." Belle tried to think. It wasn't easy with him leaning so near, speaking so quietly in such a deep voice, his intentions plain. She wanted to say kindness, but Rumple hadn't been unkind to her. She wanted to say his desire, but no. She had seen desire in other men and not been seduced by it; it appealed to her, in and of itself, no more than did the bland smiles in the book of lovers. "I think… to share something of you. To see that you wanted me to share something of myself in return."

The familiar creases around his eyes deepened further in his frown. He didn't understand, but he listened intently, toying with her cuff all the while. Belle wished that she had something less elusive to offer him; some longed-for missed opportunity of hers that they could play out together here, tonight. But they couldn't go back to a time before they were lovers. She could hardly even remember how life felt before she had Rumpelstiltskin imprinted on her heart, occupying the centre of her thoughts. "I love you so much. It hurts. Here." She placed her palm over her breasts, the heel of her hand pressed between them. "It aches when I'm with you and it aches when I'm not."

His smile was helpless, immediate, almost as broad and unguarded as the one she'd glimpsed downstairs. Whatever slow seduction he'd planned, Rumple simply pulled her towards him and kissed her instead; no peck, no hesitant exploration, no tease but a fierce and full kiss that burned with desire, one that would only have alarmed his maidenly new bride. It didn't alarm her now. Instead it caught hold of those banked fires in her loins and belly and caused them to flare, making her moan aloud with the intensity of her desire.

"So eager," Rumple murmured, lips against hers, appreciative. "Did the book excite you?"

So, he hadn't been watching her earlier.

"Just my husband." This near, she couldn't miss the hitch in his breathing or the sound of him swallowing, fighting for mastery of himself. Belle teased his hair with two fingertips, then touched the bare skin above his shirt buttons. "Just my Rumple. I was thinking about you. In the bath." Shy of spelling it out, she dropped a hand into her lap instead, smoothing it over the blanket in just the right place. She smirked at his sharply indrawn breath, thrilled with it.

He was still twisting himself awkwardly to face her, still gripping his cane tightly in his right hand. Belle took it from him, placed it carefully on the bed beside her book and the rose. Easing herself out of bed to stand before him, she drew him to face her and then, when he was gazing up at her with bright eyes and parted lips, began to unbutton his shirt.

She didn't hurry, lingering over each button, pausing to truly see him. His silken-smooth hair, his jaw without a shadow of a beard, his pupils large with lust. But his expression was soft, as it always softened when he looked to her for love. And it was trusting above all. His incredulity at her was all gone, his fear that she would… what? Turn on him even as they kissed? Suddenly find that, after all, his body repelled her? Rumple knew better now, and all of his attention was on her, on this moment, on enjoying this. He'd been under her spell from the moment she hinted about what she'd done in the bath.

"Tell me what you planned. For our reunion. What you've been imagining." Belle trailed her fingertips along his jaw, then down to brush the hair of his chest where she'd exposed his flesh. "And in return, I'll tell you what I did in the bath while I was waiting for you."

Rumple's breathing faltered again, a breathy gasp between parted lips, and he grasped her waist, his palms damp and hot through the cotton. "Sweetheart," he said again, stricken in blissful awe of her, and the sound of his voice was as good as a caress, as sweet as a kiss. And then he told her.


	129. Pillow Talk

"Do you know what I wanted to do most? On our wedding night?" Rumple waited for a mute shake of her head. "Touch your hair. Kiss you." He drew her down to sit on his left knee, hand firm at her waist, and touched her hair now. He curled a hank of it around his right hand, staring at it as he did so. "These past weeks I've waited for you to shut me out. Waited to lose this. He allowed the hair to slither from his hand and then brought his fingertips to her lips, tickling where he touched so lightly, until Belle stilled his fingers with a kiss. "But I dared to hope. I longed for you." Rumple sounded almost disbelieving of himself.

Settling closer to his body, resting her arm across the back of his neck, Belle listened. She was greedy for his words, his confessions.

"I thought about seducing you. Carrying you here to our room where I'd kiss you until you were clinging to me, then undress you a little bit at a time. Unlace you. Touch you through your underclothes, kiss you everywhere." Rumple's concentration on a memory softened with a lopsided little smile. His voice mellowed with a chuckle. " _Everywhere_ , until you couldn't bear the silk against your skin a moment longer, until you couldn't bear not to feel my mouth on your skin, your breasts, your cunt." At Belle's indrawn breath, Rumple cupped her breast and gave a slow squeeze, making her shudder. "I wish I'd done that before I ever took you. Done that for hours until you felt no hesitation, no shame, no fear. Kissed you there, licked, sucked, found out that sweet wanton girl with my tongue."

"You... wish?" It was all Belle could do not to whimper. Rumple had barely touched her, but there was his voice, deep and assured, and the warmth of his thigh beneath her. It was as good as any magic spell, better than any potion.

"I." Rumple tweaked her right nipple. "Wish." Her left. Belle bit her bottom lip and sighed, almost an "oh" of wonder. She tried not to squirm. "I'd madden you with it until you begged me to stop, until you were flushed all over and shaking with pleasure, and only then my fingers. Inside you, a pale shadow of your true desire, but enough. You'd come, and I'd watch you twist and claw at the sheet, the way you dig in your heels and strain for more of my hand. Oh, so beautiful." Seeing her stunned expression, Rumple grinned and kissed her on the lips with relish. Belle pressed back desperately, barely able to control her own movements she was so captivated, so inflamed by his words. She recalled his voice, reading to her, and the sensual touch of a feather quill against her skin, and the memory of that longing only added to her hunger for him now. She buried her fingers in his hair and kissed him fiercely, urgently.

Tightening his arm about her waist, Rumple gave her what she craved, his mouth, warm and welcoming, until she was leaking her longing through her nightgown, pressed so tightly against his leather-clad thigh. She could hardly bear this! But it was wonderful, he was so wonderful, his kisses and his words.

"What then?" she begged, when she could bear to leave off kissing him a moment. She crossed her wrists behind his neck, hanging on tightly. "What do you do to me after that?" Belle was startled at the sound of her own voice, so thin, so pleading, trembling as though he had her in fear and not frantic with desire.

Rumple made an appreciative little sound in his throat, quiet and intimate.

"Then, my love, I fuck you. But gently. There's no hurry. I lie on top of you and hold my breath so that I can hear you gasp as I enter you, at how much you love to be filled with my cock. Your body grasps for me, makes me welcome, as if we were moulded to be the perfect fit. And you feel perfect, always so perfect. Matchless. Better than magic, or, no, perhaps it feels like the most exquisite magic there is. I can hardly bear it, but I can never stop. You feel too good, your legs wrapped around mine, the way you pull at me with your hands and heels, showing me just how you want to be fucked, and how badly."

A ragged sigh, almost a shuddering gasp. Her own, Belle realised, and found that she was shaking in his arms just as she had at first, her entire body come alive to the hunger in his words. She'd pressed her knees tightly together, crossed her ankles as she fought the urge to simply rub herself against his lap. If he didn't touch her soon she'd faint, she'd burn, she'd... She'd forget herself and use her own hand to end the torment. Belle tried to laugh, but didn't have the breath. Rumple gave her another kiss, this one a soft tease, and rubbed at her nipple until she was grasping for him, inside, just the way he'd described. "Use your hand," he whispered, nuzzling against her ear. "You're so wet, I can feel you. It must ache. Like these." He pinched and pulled her hard nipple, not so hard that it hurt, but enough that she arched her back in a confused mixture of bliss and protest. "Use your hand, love, you're so beautiful. Let me see how much you love to come, how much you need to come."

Whatever rational and reasoning piece of Belle's mind was hanging on wailed that it was unfair that he could do this to her with mere words. Wasn't he hard and desperate for her touch? Didn't he need to feel her hand, her mouth, her... her cunt? Oh, that word, and the dripping relish with which he'd said it! But she was lost in the spell he'd woven and reason was a mere whimpering echo beyond the pulsing, consuming _need_.

Wetting her mouth, swallowing amidst the hasty breaths, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Belle began tugging at the fabric of her nightgown. Rumple helped her at once. Where she jerked and dragged at the fabric with sweating, trembling hands, he brought one hand sliding lazily up the exposed skin of her leg, her knee, her thigh, and merely pushed at the cloth. She convulsed in his lap, for a moment sure that she was already coming, but the overwhelming sensation ebbed just as it had in the bath, keeping her just short of the bliss that Rumple could give her so easily.

He pushed a hand between her thighs, sticky and slick with her wanting, parting them. Her own hand went there at once, as though to fill the void he'd opened, and she could hardly bear her first brush of dry skin over slippery nub. Belle sucked in a sharp breath, let out a helpless "mmm", and Rumple squeezed her closer to him.

"That's the way. Touch yourself."

Hardly able to bear it, yet utterly incapable of restraining herself, Belle pushed her whole hand down between her legs, cupping herself as though she could somehow contain her need. Rumple kissed her temple, her cheek, watching eagerly and breathing excitedly; he loved this as much as Belle loved his untempered confessions of lust. She gripped her fistful of nightgown and pulled it closer to her belly, revealing more to him, and then made herself look down to see the effect for herself. Her thighs glistened, her triangle of crisp curls concealing very little of the swollen and sticky excitement below. When she moved her hand, put two fingers alongside the pleasure spot the way Rumple did, her whole body seemed to throb in answer to the pressure. She couldn't stay silent, but her cry was muffled by tightly-pressed lips, sounding more like a sob of protest than an expression of overwhelming pleasure.

"You need to come. Make yourself come." For all the steady, deep-voiced assurance of him, the last word rose on the hint of a question, of uncertainty. He would push her no further than this; if she hesitated, he would kiss her, give himself to her pleasure, spare her the exposure of being asked to bare her very soul to him.

Belle leaned back, forcing him to take her weight on his arm and—she heard him gasp—help her lower herself onto the mattress beside him. His lap wouldn't do for this, for all that it brought back sweet memories. She needed to draw up her knees to reach better, to expose herself to gaze and touch alike.

Through a blur of heat and need, Belle saw Rumple's expression as he straightened up after delivering her safely into her chosen position. His mouth was open, his hair out of place, his eyes sweeping her up and down, trying to devour all of her at once. Belle placed one foot behind his back, her knee resting softly against him so that she could feel him begin to shake as she had; as he had on their wedding night. Carefully, deliberately, making a dainty show for him, she stretched the cramp out of her left leg, regathered her nightgown away from her thighs, and placed her foot on his lap. He could do nothing but look, short of twisting himself awkwardly towards her and escaping the captivity of her feet. He could see her foreshortened, Belle supposed; knee, thigh, thatch, then a blank of virginal cotton until he came to her face, to her tumbled hair. His awestruck face was beautiful.

Comfortable now, she touched herself as she had in the bathtub; a tickling caress to her inner thighs, her fingernails raking through the curls, then fingertips across her lower belly, hidden from his sight beneath the bulk of her clothing. Transfixed, Rumple followed the movement of her hand, but when she stilled herself, he looked to her face, met her eyes. They shared a grin; his almost sheepish at having unexpectedly had his own way, hers feeble with lust and breathlessness. He stroked her leg, unable to contain his affection as sternly as he could contain his lust, and as she pushed her two fingers down into her silken folds again, his caressing hand was her guide to how her movements affected him.

She couldn't help but squeeze her eyes shut as she coaxed her pleasure towards the peak that had eluded her earlier. Rumple's warm palm glided against her outer thigh, faltering when she tensed or twisted, or bucked her hips towards her hand. The less she contained herself the more he trembled.

Containing herself was impossible. The steady rubbing became the centre of her world, the promise of relief, and the fire building in her lower belly demanded quenching. She couldn't stop herself, couldn't concentrate any longer on showing Rumple what he longed to see, nor worry about how she must look in her state of greedy abandon.

_Wanton,_ she managed to think to herself, just as her fingers slid inside. She was so slick, so eager to receive the full thickness of his cock, that her first sensation was that of frustration. But her body tightened around the welcome intrusion, urging her on, deeper, until she could go no further. Her imagination flashed her jumbled images, thoughts, memories; of Rumple's hand there, his fingers deep inside, and how he'd crook his fingertips inward—like that—to deepen her pleasure.

Belle cried out, dragging her free arm across her eyes, shoving the stiffening fingers back into her hair. Her back arched away from the mattress, Rumple's fingers digging suddenly into the flesh of her thigh, and he spoke... she couldn't understand... couldn't... but his voice... And then Rumple's words were drowned out by her shouts of ecstasy as it broke inside her, broke over her in those unstoppable waves of perfection and release.

Slumping back to the bedclothes, panting, still making helpless little sounds in her throat as the peak of pleasure ebbed, Belle didn't even know what she'd been doing with her hand in those final moments. Rumple's steely grip on her leg had almost hurt, the unfamiliar sensation only adding to her bliss, but now he was stroking her softly again, soothing, telling her that she was beautiful.

Glowing, open to him, she felt beautiful. Arms limp by her sides, Belle craned her neck and peered down at herself to see that he'd been right. She did flush, not quite everywhere, but her breasts were mottled with deep colour. Her nipples, hard enough almost to hurt since Rumple teased them, had begun to soften and flatten into the twin mounds of her small breasts. Hauling her nightdress up still further so that it was bundled beneath her chin, Belle touched one changing breast, curiously, and then remembered that she was being watched and blinked up at Rumple, her hand still resting over her right breast, frozen as if he'd caught her stealing sweets.

"Beautiful," he said, turning over onto his hip so that he could face her, there between her open legs. "Have you had enough?"

"Enough?" It was all Belle could manage, to echo him. She had no thoughts. No ideas. She liked to look at him, her Rumple, with his hair falling in soft curtains down his cheeks as he bent himself down , leathers creaking, and gave her a moist kiss just above her navel. "Oh," she said, but again she was only going through the motions of surprise. Rumple, kissing her bare flesh, his hair tickling her sides, his hand moving to support her thigh as he kissed lower, then lower, then nuzzled at her curls. Her sharp, indrawn breath as his tongue paid a flashing visit to the swollen mound beneath, so sensitised now that her body could scarcely comprehend the sensation of touch. Rumple's greedy murmur, his left shoulder pushing against the back of her other thigh as he strained nearer, kissing her on secret lips and then swirling with his tongue, as though she were something delectable. Her whimpers—were they whimpers?—and the curling of her toes as she felt him seek deeper with his hot tongue.

He couldn't go further, awkwardly positioned as he was, but rather than move, Rumple denied them both and relished the fruitless effort to push his tongue down deeper than he could reach. Belle gripped her breast. Liked it. Recalled that she had another hand, empty, and watched as it found its way to her left breast to match the right. Kneading. Squeezing. Wouldn't Rumple like to see that? He loved to touch them. Suck them, just as he was sucking her sweet nub now. And the urgency was building again, for all that her senses seemed senseless. That thing, that sucking, she wanted that, just there, while she crushed her own breasts with her own hands and---oh, stars, oh stars—dragged her thumb across a stiffening nipple the way Rumple sometimes did.

"Yes," was all she could manage, and she moaned when Rumple lifted his head in answer, gazing at her with eyes that were near black in the depths of his lust. He moaned too, seeing how she toyed with herself, but then he understood and, torn between feasting his eyes and feasting his mouth, buried himself once more between her straining thighs. "Fuck me, after," Belle pleaded, and his fingernails dug hard into her thigh, a convulsive movement accompanied by a deep groan that vibrated deliciously against her soft flesh. He licked, sucked, nudged at her with a naughty tongue, licked, sucked, nudged, then once again strove to push his tongue towards her entrance. This time Belle remembered that she had legs. Braced herself. Lifted herself to meet him and shuddered when his tongue reached her centre. A moment later, his fingers, filling her, fucking her, and his mouth returning to the sucking she'd urged him to give her.

Belle came, too breathless to cry out this time, but panting and squirming until her limbs failed her all at once and she collapsed onto the bed, deprived of all but his hand. He kept it moving, slower now, those clever fingers dipping deep then sliding out, and just as Belle mourned at the realisation that he would need to stop doing that in order to get his cock out, she felt magic. His clothes gone, his clumsy lunge as he climbed far enough onto the bed to cover her. Belle grasped at him, grappled with him, thrilled to find his skin hot and damp. She'd wrapped herself around him, unthinking, and her legs pinned him, his cock nudging unguided in the slick place between her thighs. With a tremendous effort of will, Belle loosened her hold on him so that he could move. Move closer. Move between. Grip his cock and angle it perfectly so that his first thrust took him right inside her.

The sounds they made were as one. Grunts of effort, sharp exclamations of excitement. Soon, groans of enjoyment, counterpoint to the sound of skin meeting slick skin in the rhythm of mutual joy.

She was urging him, she realised dimly, both with hands and feet, and then with demands, whispered with what little breath she could spare. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," and Rumple took his weight on his hands then, arching over her, his body taut with the effort of pleasing her, of delaying his own satisfaction. He was set-jawed and damp-browed, his eyes wrung shut in deepest, deepest concentration. "Oh, gods," Belle whimpered, spreading herself wider, as though it were possible to welcome him any deeper, to share any more of herself with her Rumple.

Rumple opened his eyes when she came, his movements halting as he tried to fix the sight of her in his mind's eye; the sight of her was enough and he cried out, joining her in completion.

He slumped in her arms, his breathing ragged and his body burning, and Belle hugged him to her tightly until their breathing slowed, their senses returning. Each of them had a leg hanging awkwardly over the side of the mattress and neither of them seemed to have sufficient strength left to do anything about it. Feeble wiggling and pushing turned into equally feeble sniggering at the state they were in, until discomfort set in and the only solution was for Rumple to roll away from her onto the mattress. Pulling herself up to sitting, drawing her knees up so that she could wriggle onto the bed more comfortably and join him, Belle noticed that Rumple gripped the thigh of his bad lag. He tried not to wince as he arranged himself. Tried not to let her see.

Rumple was naked, so she ought to be. Belle didn't stop to consider it; she simply struggled free of the voluminous cotton gown, so damp and dishevelled now as to be useless, and let it fall to the floor. That alone distracted Rumple from his discomfort, she was glad to see. He waited for her in the middle of the bed, lying on his left side, pushing inefficiently at the small collection of objects she'd left there earlier. His cane. Her rose. That naughty book. Belle pulled down a pillow from the head of the bed and placed the other things where it had been, then went to his outstretched arm.

Kissing. Languid, now, their lips strangely cool, and their skin. Rumple copied her earlier trick and covered her breast with his hand, feeling with his thumb as the peak of her nipple subsided to a comfortable, rosy disk. For once, the touch there didn't madden her, but it felt nice. Nicer, when he took the kissing there, collarbone, shoulder then breast, and teased as though to see if he could stir the stiff pucker back to life. When he sucked, a thread of sweetness pulled taut in her, connected from head to heels via her loins. It wasn't the consuming passion they'd shared a little while ago; it didn't take her out of herself. Belle could watch it happen, watch the top of Rumple's head as he indulged himself, and study how that thread tugged against her tenderness towards him. After a while, she lay on her back, head sunk in the pillow, and guided him to her right breast to see if the sensations began afresh. They were tamer a second time, but no less sweet.

"I'd like to touch myself while you do that. One time." It was a small enough confession compared to his, but Rumple lifted his head and his eyes were ablaze with approval. Muted approval. He looked even more shattered than she felt, even more spent than she had been. That seemed unfair, that he could make her come over and over and only enjoy it the once himself. Or could he? She'd never tried, if only because she had always been too sated to rouse herself to wondering about it. "It feels like the faintest echo of when you suck me down there. So good." Again the approval, and this time Rumple nodded, shared his crooked little smile with her, and came to kiss her on the lips. The hand which had cupped her breast slid on down towards her belly and she almost protested, amazed that he would try to excite her again, but he stopped instead with his fingers splayed against her lower abdomen, fingertips buried a little way into her curls. He held his breath as he worked the magic and this time... Belle couldn't put her finger on the difference. Was he more careful? More gentle? It felt nice, for all that he was taking something away. Then Rumple put his head on her chest, leaving the hand where it was, as though it were simply too much trouble to move it again.

"You could use magic to drive me quite mad with pleasure, couldn't you?" 

"Oh yes." Rumple settled himself more comfortably, and Belle laid her hand on his head, stroking his hair with her thumb. "I don't think it's actually possible to die of having too many orgasms."

"Orgasms?" Belle's drowsy mind was still as greedy as ever for unfamiliar words. Especially these.

"Coming."

"Sometimes it feels as though I might. Just before." She framed the new word in her thoughts, trying to accustom herself. "Do you feel like that?"

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't," he said, cheerfully, but sleepily. "I'll take my chances."

"So will I."

They lay silently for a while. Belle didn't know for how long. Long enough that Rumple reached out for the edge of the coverlet and pulled it over their legs, tucking her closer for the warmth. Once he would have warmed the room with magic, unthinking. Belle smiled.

"What price would there be?" she asked, not sure that he was even awake to hear her. Her answer was a drowsy, 'mmm?' "If we used magic. For our pleasure. Would the price be high?"

She waited. Thought that Rumple had fallen asleep, then felt him rally. Lift himself. A candle guttered out as he stared at her, the death throes of the flame casting strange shadows.

"I don't know," he admitted. "The cost tends to be..." He shrugged and gave her an ironical smile. "Proportionate? Apt?" He touched her cheek with his knuckles. "It's a small enough magic. Like the one I use to take away my seed."

"Would you like to? Use magic, I mean?" It was becoming more difficult speak, to straighten her thoughts and send them out, coherent. She wanted to sleep now.

"Yes." Rumple gave the word no weight. No passion. No apology. A simple statement of fact. "If ever you desire it too." And he pecked her on the brow, again on the lips, and snuggled up beside her to relax into sleep.

Before long, Belle joined him there.


	130. Hateful

The sun was in Belle's eyes, Rumple's face tucked against the back of her neck and his arm across her chest. She had a sense that when she moved there would be aches and pains, but for the moment she was comfortable and content. Rumple seemed deeply asleep, his body heavy against her back and his breathing soft, slow.

These moments didn't last. Marriage had taught her that. Each moment of happiness was precious, and to indulge herself by savouring them was... It was not only forgivable, but essential. Beyond this room, this castle, Belle had things to do. They were important. But they would all wait for Rumple to wake up in his own time, and for her to lie here and love the warmth of being held close. She shut her eyes against the sunlight and waited for Rumple to stir. A small shift in his position was her cue to reach back and slide her fingers through his hair, and she smiled when his hand strayed to her breast and squeezed by way of an unthinking answer.

"Good morning," she said, covering his possessive hand with hers. Her small fingers fitted neatly between his. Rumple answered with a drowsy grunt and a kiss to the back of her neck. All his good work in shaving himself so closely last night had come undone now, and his jaw was scratchy against her skin. "I'm not sure I can move."

Another grunt, this one amused.

"What do you know? You're twenty." It was a comfortable complaint. He sounded as though he could drift back to sleep.

He had a point. If their exertions had left her muscles sore, left her drowsy and uninterested in moving, it must be worse for him.

"How old are you? I mean, were you, when you were cursed?"

Taking a deep breath, halfheartedly stretching out his limbs before settling again and reclaiming her breast, Rumple shrugged.

"People couldn't count back then."

"Oh, rubbish!" She elbowed him in the ribs for such a barefaced lie, and Rumple laughed, that soft, honest chuckle that she adored.

"I really don't know. Forty? Forty-five? I didn't know my age when my father abandoned me."

"Oh." Sobered, sorry, Belle turned over to face him. They fitted their knees together in a warm, familiar puzzle; intimate without passion. They kissed, closing their eyes and prolonging the otherwise chaste press of dry lips. She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers interlaced against the back of his neck. Blinking in the stream of bright morning light, Rumple could conceal nothing. Grey-white hairs threaded through the mousy brown, heavy at his temples, and the careworn lines bit deep around his eyes. It was all beautiful to her, and little clue as to his physical age. Some of those lines spoke of centuries. "And since then?"

"Oh." He rested his brow against hers. "Hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds of years. I'm as ancient as the rocks and hills. At least." This time, even Rumple sniggered at the exaggeration, and Belle grinned so broadly that her cheeks hurt. "I was old enough to be your father, I know that."

Belle wrinkled her nose, urgently blocking out the pictures her ever-ready imagination leapt to supply.

"There are better ways of putting that."

"Oh, _now_ you want me to be all delicate and mealy-mouthed. You didn't last night. Last night you wanted me to be very, _very_ explicit."

"You didn't bring up my _father_ last night," she laughed, unprotesting as he rolled on top of her and gave a suggestive wiggle between her legs, pinning her hands to the pillow.

"You pity his young bride?"

"No! Only myself, when you make me think about my poor father... spooning!"

Pleased to have made her so thoroughly flustered and exasperated with so little effort, Rumple relented and kissed her instead of saying more. He sank down on top of her, a welcome weight against her belly. She began to encircle his legs with hers, but Rumple immediately snatched back, hissing through his teeth as he rolled away from her like he'd been bitten. He lay on his back beside her, his face contorted with pain and protest, one hand reaching ineffectually down the thigh of his bad leg.

"Rumple?" She sat up, leaning over him and laying her palm against his forehead. "What happened?"

He shook his head tightly, as though to say it was nothing, but his teeth remained clenched and the pain had brought tears to his eyes. Hating to be helpless, Belle stroked his face until he began to unknot his muscles, to breathe again. Rumple sank into the sheets, swiping the back of his wrist across his damp eyes with an irritated, dismissive gesture. He gripped her shoulder, then patted it.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." But it was passing. Belle breathed again. She put her hand over his, on his thigh, then carefully lowered hers to his knee. "Does it tighten up?"

"Yes."

She'd read a little about old injuries in Wren's papers. There were hot poultices, salves to be massaged into the protesting muscle, herbs to go in the bathwater. They all called for warmth. Gingerly, not sure that he would welcome her persistence, Belle crawled to the foot of the bed, set her back against the bedpost nearest the door, and, patting her lap, invited him to place his leg across hers. She half held, half steadied his lower leg as he complied, and heard him swallow back a pained curse as he surrendered the weight of his leg to her. He grabbed for some of the bedclothes and covered his nether parts, scowling. Belle spread the coverlet out further to cover his legs as well, leaving only the foot in her lap exposed. His toes were a sickly blue and too cold, and his foot twisted inward, strangely, every muscle taut.

"Does it hurt to touch?"

"Not now. Just..." Rumple heard his snappish tone and stopped short, breathing for patience. "Just don't try to bend anything, eh?"

"All right." She put her palm against the sole of his foot, moulding the shape of her hand to his contorted flesh, then carefully placed the other hand on the other side of his foot, sandwiching it with body heat. She could already feel his chilled lower leg drawing warmth from hers. After a little while, she could feel Rumple beginning to relax—to abandon the defensive stance and accept that he felt better for her care.

As much as she wanted to ask him if this was because of yesterday, because they'd been so vigorous in their loving, his grim expression prevented her. She didn't want to put the idea into his mind if it wasn't there already.

"Magic doesn't cure this," she said instead, thinking aloud. "But could it strengthen your boot so it supports you better?"

Rumple didn't even want her to say that much, she could see at once. But he nodded impatiently, not looking at her.

"Yes. But it doesn't help the pain."

Probably nothing could, Belle thought, grateful to see a little pinkness coming back to his toes. And no magic of Rumple's would help, that was for sure, not while he accused himself with the memory of what he'd done to earn the pain. Some things were stronger than a person's will. She resolved to say no more about it, to spare him more questions, but Rumple said, gruffly,

"She couldn't even look at it."

Thrown, Belle hazarded, "Milah?"

"You'd've thought I brought home the pox the way she—" But he couldn't say it. Couldn't give voice to that resentment in front of her, even now. It had festered at least as badly as this old wound, Belle thought, her heart brimming with impotent pity for him, and with useless anger at the woman who had scorned him so. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"No, I mean for..." He struggled up onto his elbows, looking at her at last. "For expecting the same treatment from you." Belle nodded, showed she was listening. "Most of me left all that behind," he explained, softening as though the realisation reassured him. "But the pain now, it reminds me. Like it was yesterday. I was without it so long."

"Of course." The wound never healed, he meant. The wound inside, forgotten but unhealed.

"Only... In bed. It was... It might be a problem." Rumple forced his way to the end of the statement and then held his breath, awaiting her reply.

"No," Belle said, stroking up the front of his leg towards his knee, tickling his hairs. "It won't." His expression became dubious, yet hopeful. "Not unless you want to try doing _everything_ in that book."

He shook his head in defeat and flopped back with a noisy sigh. His pessimism was no match for his new wife's stubborn optimism. He laughed, breathlessly, haltingly, and it was more relief than happiness. How long had this been preying on his mind, unspoken?

"Did you see the last drawing but one? I don't think I could _ever_ have done that. Not even with magic. Not even as the Dark One."

"I didn't get that far through the book," she laughed. "I didn't even _believe_ some of those drawings." Carefully, Belle cupped her left hand beneath his heel and used the other to feel his toes. "Warmer." They shared a brave, brief smile. "I wish I could take away the pain."

"You do."

Belle gave him a doubtful look, wanting anything but false assurances. Wanting to tell him that his honesty in sharing his doubts meant the world to her. But Rumple simply looked back at her until she understood and, flushing with pride and happiness, bowed her head over the foot she still cradled.

He didn't mean the pain in his leg.

~+~

Rumple had dressed and gone by the time Belle emerged from the bathing room, dragging a brush through her hair with more vigour than care.

She was glad, more or less, that the castle no longer obeyed her every whim, but there were times when she rather envied her husband's trick of dressing and grooming himself with a wave of one hand. Studying her wardrobe and pausing over yesterday's magical dress, the one so bulky behind that she hadn't been sure how to sit down in it, Belle wondered if Rumple chose his clothing, or if the magic he used merely suited the outfit to his present mood. She didn't mind that he'd taken to wearing black these past days. She didn't mind that at _all_.

Town today. Taking a deep breath in a search for inner strength, Belle pulled out one of her old dresses from home. A dull blueish-grey wool from throat to ankles, modest and practical, suited her purpose today, and helped her towards the appropriate mood. Calm. Dignified. Without show. Contained within herself and ready to work hard.

Belle wasn't entirely sure that she could pull it off, that seasoned calm. The townspeople had seen her in every state between grubby, crumpled linen and a satin ballgown; seen her everywhere between curious and friendly to fierce and outraged; even seen her on the verge of collapse as the women took her to Wren that terrible day. She wasn't sure any of it had made a difference to what they thought of her. In her heart of hearts, Belle suspected that they still thought of her as 'Rumpelstiltskin's wife', and remained baffled that she would want to do anything differently than before.

She spent a while putting up her hair with great care, using every pin she owned. Usually she didn't mind if wisps of her hair escaped here and there, but she knew that the carefree effect it gave was charming. Pretty, even. And the last thing she wanted was for Dacey Tavish to look upon her and see a carefree girl. He needed—the whole town needed—to see a woman who could lead them. Cool head. Clear mind. Straight back. Courage. Belle met her own gaze in the looking glass and saw her throat convulse as she swallowed, hard. Courage.

She carried her plain brown cloak over her arm, following the smell of smoked bacon towards the great room. Rumple would have risen to greet her when he heard her approach, still playing the part of her suitor, but she hurried her steps and put a hand on his shoulder before he had the chance to get his cane beneath him. She kissed his cheek as he subsided back into his chair, before taking her own seat to his left.

Rumple looked her over, his interest more practical than speculative. This dress, of all her dresses, left _everything_ to the imagination.

"Going out?"

"To town." Belle lifted the silver cover from her plate. There was no wasteful extravagance today; fried eggs and rashers of fatty bacon with a slice of blood pudding. She tried to watch Rumple without being noticed, to see if he'd show the same gusto for this meal as he had for the last. He ate it, anyway, plainly hungry enough, even if he was distracted.

"The man in prison. The cheese girl's father."

"Yes."

"I'll come with you."

Belle almost protested, wanting to spare him the bother out of mere habit, but she stopped herself. Chewed her food patiently for a while, and thought about it as she poured herself a cup of tea. She would welcome the company, even knowing as she did that he disapproved of her intentions in Odstone. Bravery was all very well, but you didn't need to do it all alone. 

Rumple, she noticed, was persevering with the tall pot of bitter coffee that he'd enjoyed so much before his curse broke. He looked more as though he were enduring it now, yet with such grim determination that he planned on liking it again by sheer force of will. He'd probably manage it, at that.

"Are you hoping he tries to harm me?" she asked, as lightly as she could manage. "So you can kill him?"

"It would save a lot of time and effort all round, wouldn't it?" He held up a placating hand before she could rise to the bait. "I'll leave his fate in your hands. And do anything you ask of me." He gestured towards her, below the table, and she looked down expecting to see that she'd spotted her clean dress with egg. "You forgot something."

She gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth. One night, not even one whole _day_ entrusted with it, and she'd forgotten the knife!

"I put it in my trunk," she admitted, shocked at her carelessness. At not having even _thought_ of it this morning!

"I know you did," he said, almost under his breath, and pushed away a plate so clean that it might have been scoured. He wasn't accusing her, criticising her. But he was concerned. He sat back with his cup in his left hand, the right resting along the arm of his chair. "I think it knows what we're about."

"You... You think it made me forget?"

"Helped. Possibly." He waggled his fingers, more expressive than a shrug. "You _were_ somewhat distracted last night," he added, half smiling, as pleased with the memories as she was. "I don't think the townsfolk even know what the knife is. I doubt they've ever seen it. I forget. Just wear it. And if you ask me directly, command me, forbid me, I will obey you no matter how unfortunate your choice of words." His smile grew, but grew stranger. Sad and slightly strained. "Your humble servant." He inclined his body from the waist, an awkward, seated bow. "Let their own minds spin the tale."

"I suppose I should be glad that I need lessons in how to lie." Belle gave up on the remainder of her eggs, swapping her plate with her cup and saucer and topping up the tea. "I'm not sure I'm glad that you're such a confident teacher."

"But pretending can be so much _fun_ ," Rumple said, with exaggerated innocence and then a lascivious smirk that sent her mind and senses back to last night, to their saucy games. She couldn't argue.

She hurried about the castle after breakfast, collecting her purse from the kitchen and then retrieving the scabbard and blade from her trunk. Rumple stayed where he was, his head turning when she passed by, nursing his cup of the bitter black stuff.

More in hope than expectation, Belle went to check for a reply from her father. The kittens rushed to greet her, mewing, forcing her to pick her way between them and even to pluck one away when it tried to climb up her skirt. She put that one on her desk and sat down, fussing with it with her right hand while she opened her box with the left.

Her father's reply had arrived already. It was only a note, a small piece of paper rolled up and tied with string. The kitten lunged for the box, and Belle scooped him out of the way just in time. Rumple had forbidden her to let so much as one hair of her head fall into the box. She dreaded to think what would happen if a whole cat fell in!

"You were raised in a magic castle," she told the wriggling grey kitten, holding him eye to eye with her while his small feet paddled at the air. His guileless blue eyes were beginning to turn green. "You should know better." She dropped him gently to the floor with his brothers and untied the note.

_Belle,_  
_The law for rape is clear. The man is flogged until he's insensible, then must pay compensation to the lady's family or go to prison until he does. Incest is a matter for the gods. Any god must surely forsake such a man?_  
_Papa_

Belle stared at the writing, trying to quell a feeling of hopelessness. Compensation? Anything that Tavish could pay could come only from the purse and plates of his poor family in the first place—from his victims. And would flogging stop him beginning again with his younger daughters if he could not keep Tullia silent, or from punishing his wife if she took him back into her home? A man fearful enough of pain might learn a lifelong lesson from the lash, never wanting to know that pain again. A man used to numbing himself with drink would learn nothing but to become more numb, more callous. To hate the punishment and not his own crime.

"Wren was right. Rumple was right. I didn't understand what it meant, to help them." She still didn't. She didn't know what to do.

"What will you do?" Rumple's voice startled her to her feet. Like last night, his heavy limp had not betrayed Rumple's approach. He stood just inside the door, the kittens busily investigating his shiny black boots. His face softened at the sight of her dismay. "What does your father write?"

"That it's the law at home to flog men like Tavish. Have them compensate the family of the woman."

Rumple snorted, seeing the difficulty of that just as she had.

"Make your choice and then don't look back," he said, where Belle had expected a snide remark, or another offer to kill Tavish for her. "Whatever you do to him, or whatever mercy you grant him, you'll look weak if you mourn over it afterwards. And don't hesitate. They don't want to see your conscience, your goodness. They want you to make the problem go away so _they_ don't have to."

"That's your advice as my husband?"

Rumple shook his head, slightly impatient.

"My advice as the one who's known this town a long time, and people in general longer still. Make it easy for them to accept your decision. Or make them sort the matter out for themselves and bear the consequences. No compromise, no weakness, or they'll turn on you instead."

"Turn on me?" Belle stared at him, wondering if the world as viewed through Rumpelstiltskin's eyes looked anything at _all_ like the one she saw when she opened hers. Did he trust anything? Of course he did. He trusted magic. And he trusted Belle. "But I'm the Dark One's wife," she said, touching the hilt of the dagger at her waist. "How could they hurt me?"

Although his jaw tightened, Rumple gave a small bow in acknowledgement of that. He didn't want to argue with her, only to caution her. And he did look the part of the Dark One today. Even without changing his face, his layered outfit of scaled black leather and dull silver clasps was everything you'd expect of the Dark One, and more. All it needed was a cloak with a hood so that his eyes could pierce from the cover of shadow.

"I was going to walk there," she said, gesturing doubtfully to his cane. Even if he'd done as they discussed and strengthened his boot somehow, he was still in too much pain to walk far, surely?

"Don't underestimate the value of a convincing entrance," he advised, with a hint of amusement softening his sour expression. He did enjoy making an entrance, and Belle had to admit that he knew how to do it well. She nodded.

Rumple gestured to himself, down his body and then up again, and he was transformed. The cloak and wide hood of black, almost exactly as she had imagined it, and lined with silk of such a dark red that it barely contrasted with the black. A wide ribbon of the same fabric tied over the cloak's clasp, a foppish touch in an otherwise severe costume. He wore stiff gauntlets of black leather trimmed with silvered chain, so she could see little of the man himself without peering beneath the hood. The oiled curls. The over-large, amber irises. The olive-green skin textured like subtle scales. Belle touched his cheek, studying the face she'd grown to love, and the eyes which could hide so little.

Rumple took hold of the caressing hand and kissed it before he lowered it, holding it lightly.

"Even you wish I could go back," he said, very softly.

"No!" Shocked by the suggestion, Belle stared at him with her mouth open. "And if I did, I'd never wish a _curse_ on someone! Not even my worst enemy, never mind my true love!" She took a deep breath and calmed her outrage. She was going to need that for Dacey Tavish. "I miss it a little bit. How you looked. How you were. It was familiar, it was what I fell in love with and went to bed with, and what I saw when you first made love to me. That memory is here forever." She made a fist over her heart, waiting for him to nod his understanding. "And I _loved_ you as you were. But that isn't the same as wanting it _back_. This is better."

"Is it?" He indicated his leg with a contemptuous nod.

"Better than an evil soul-stealing curse? Yes, I think it is."

"Well, if you put it _that_ way," he said, sheepish, flustered by her enthusiasm for being his wife. "There's no accounting for taste."

He put his arm around her shoulders, cloak and all, and said,

"Ready?"

She just had time to screw her eyes shut and hold her breath before the magic enveloped them, whirling and smothering. She had no time at all to ask where he proposed to land them.

Belle had meant to call first upon Janek and then go with him to visit Dacey Tavish. Afterwards, she had wanted him to accompany her to visit Tullia and her family at home. That was the cautious and sensible way forward; to learn all that she could about what had been going on before making any decision about what needed to be done.

Rumple brought them instead to the tiny lockup where Tavish was kept. The stone outer walls were roughly two arm-lengths from the thick metal bars that confined a prisoner to a portion of the small room. The roof beams were low, made of oak so old and hard that it would be like iron to cut, and yet someone had taken the precaution of placing bars on every side of the rectangular cell, even sinking them into the dirt floor. Before anyone could think of escaping through a wall, or through the ceiling, or tunnelling out through the dirt, they would need to cut their way through inch-thick iron. It seemed excessive for such a small and quiet place as Odstone, but perhaps that was why there was no guard?

The room was lit by an oil lantern which hung well out of the prisoner's reach. Dacey Tavish had the choice of a wooden bench for a bunk or a low stool to sit on. Just as she had ordered, he had the basic comforts—two blankets, a pallet to soften the bench or the floor for sleeping, a grubby but generous pillow. He had a pitcher of water and another of milk, and the remains of what looked like porridge in a large bowl. She could smell other meals in the musty air; garlic and roasted meat.

Without rising from the stool, the man looked from Belle to Rumple and back again. He looked far healthier than when she'd seen him last, fuller in the face and clean, although not clean-shaven. He had no belt nor shoes, which made him look more ragged than he was.

"Come to let me out?" he asked, his disrespect tempered by fear. At least, sober, he had the sense to be afraid of someone who might turn him into a slug and step on him, if not to be courteous to that man's wife. "The farm'll be gone to shit by now and it's you to thank."

"You brought yourself here," Belle said, unruffled. She'd made sure that the farm would manage without him. She found it easy enough to be confident with Rumple's arm touching hers and his gloved fingers a whisper away from her grasp, and was so glad that she hadn't come alone. "But you're sober now. I wanted to see if you had anything better to say to me."

"Don't remember what I said before," Tavish shrugged. "Don't remember breaking any laws, either."

"Everyone knows that a man who raises his hand to his wife in Odstone had better watch out," she reminded him. "Lord Rumpelstiltskin prefers slugs and snails to wife-beaters."

"Yeah, we know plenty about... him." Tavish almost said the name, but recoiled from it. "That he'll come if magic threatens his place, they say that. But he didn't, did he? Let my boys die." His contempt transformed into something bleak then; something that she surely would have pitied if she didn't know exactly how the man treated his children. "There's those that say you've bewitched our master and poisoned old Wren for saying so."

Taken aback, Belle glanced up at Rumple, who remained impassive beneath his hood.

"I _bewitched_ the Dark One," she said, with deadpan deliberation, laying it on thick in case Tavish was too obtuse to grasp irony. "That would make me the most powerful woman in the world, wouldn't it?" Belle took two steps towards the bars and felt Rumple's unspoken protest. He almost reached out to draw her back. "He didn't arrive in time to help your sons because you didn't use gold to summon him. Magical bargains are very exact." Was that her first lie? They didn't know that it would have made a difference had Rumple come sooner. He'd struggled to save just one boy. Could he have reached them all, helped them all, if Belle hadn't kept him so long from home? "But I'm here to talk about your daughter. About Tullia."

Tavish spat on the dirt beside his bare feet.

"She's none of mine. Take her for your maidservant. I know you want her. Take her out of my sight."

"There's a child in her belly and she says that you put it there." Angry at his ease, Belle gripped the bars and didn't flinch when he jerked to his feet, as though the stool had suddenly become red hot beneath him. "I have no reason to disbelieve her and every reason to think that you're the sort of monster who'd rape his own child. You have until I leave to convince me that it isn't true."

Tavish thought of lunging at her, if you could call it thought. It was more a red rage, a bestial urge. He mastered it, proving to her that he could. If he chose to. If he thought his life depended on it. He hadn't the excuse of madness, then.

Tavish's gaze strayed past her to where Rumple stood, and Belle heard the creak of tight leather followed by the soft slither of cloth. Rumple had put back his hood.

"I'd do as she says," Rumple said, all mock-solicitude and barely-concealed loathing. "I'm already having a hard time not killing you."

"But you won't, if she says not." Tavish lifted his chin, scraping pride and defiance from somewhere. "She's not bewitched you, she's _gelded_ you."

Belle didn't even see what happened, Rumple moved so quickly. One moment he was behind her and Tavish was standing near the bars, sneering his fearful defiance; the next, Rumple's face and body were pressed up against the iron and he was ramming Tavish's head into one of the bars, holding him immobile as though he still possessed all the strength of the dagger.

"Don't give me ideas," Rumple breathed, his rage and a terrible promise distilled into four words of advice. "Don't."

He wasn't pretending. She could all but feel his fury. Belle swallowed back her fright, breathed to calm her throbbing heart, and took a step away from the bars herself. Rumple claimed not to care about Odstone, and perhaps he didn't when he was at home, when the villagers were distant figures, abstract to him. Here and now, with this animal insulting his wife and his virility, Rumple cared more than he could bear. Not for justice for Tullia and her mother, not even from stopping Tavish and men like him from chancing their hand, but he had some blazing notion of right and wrong burned into his heart. And he believed in retribution.

"Odstone is my land," she said, watching Tavish sweat as Rumple held him immobile by the back of the neck, his cheek mashed against the bar. "I've decided to bring new laws here, make things fair for everyone, to make it simple to know whether or not you're doing something that will merit a punishment, but you've forced me to deal with you too soon. By hitting your wife, and by raping your daughter," she clarified, in case he hadn't realised which of his actions she held to be a crime. "Law should be about proving a person guilty of a crime if they're accused. But the law we have today says that justice is swift, and almost all up to me if I choose to act over Janek and the council. My word is the law, today."

"Your land?" He rolled his eyes, unable to move far enough to look at Rumpelstiltskin.

"Because my flesh is hers," Rumple crooned in his ear, "and hers is mine." He pushed sharply through the bars, sending Tavish reeling back against the far wall, his knees folding under him when his shins met the wooden bench. He sat down, hard, raising a cloud of straw dust from the pallet which overhung the sides. "Frankly, I think you were all much safer under me." He hiked his leather-clad thumb over his shoulder in Belle's direction. "She _cares_."

He hadn't even dropped his cane, Belle realised, struggling to compose herself. That explosion of speed, of strength, and he hadn't even let go of it. Hadn't even used both hands to seize and restrain the man.

"Did you care when my boys died?" Tavish wouldn't be cowed. Perhaps he sensed that he had nothing to lose, or felt that he could brazen it out. "A man's family is his own business. We work and sweat, you take your tithe and keep us safe. That's the law, woman. That's all the law there is. Lulie's a devious little bitch and her mother is soft-witted and lazy. Go and tell them the law, see if I care. Under my roof, it's _my_ law."

"You don't deny it then?" Belle wouldn't let him move her from her point. _The_ point. If he denied impregnating Tullia then she had a dilemma; justice would demand proof. If he admitted it then she only needed to decide what punishment could possibly fit the crime. "That you beat your wife?"

"A man can strike his wife. There's no law!" Tavish shouted, but didn't try to get up from where Rumple's shove had landed him. "A man can shut up his wife!"

"And can a man lie with his own daughter?" Silence. "Against her will? Either way it's disgusting," Belle said. "But as my father reminded me, incest is a crime against the gods and against nature. The law doesn't lower itself to deal with that. Rape is very simple. That's a crime everywhere."

"Where Janek comes from, her family would have every right to castrate you, sell your tackle to the highest bidder while you watched, then cut off your head," Rumple supplied, conversational again. "It's not really the law, you understand. It's just how things are done there."

At last, Tavish looked a little pale. A little sick. A little worried.

"It's only her word," he muttered. "That scheming little slut gets everywhere. Every farm gate, every week off to market with her fancy cheese, who knows where she's been? Or who with?" He regained some of his belligerence as he spoke, sitting up straighter. "It's her word against mine."

"What reason have you given me to believe you instead of her? Or don't you think she'll stand and speak against you in front of others? Have you really forgotten the last time you were before me? Tullia _and_ your wife spoke against you."

"Some wife. Not come to see me. Not brought me so much as a loaf."

"People can be so thoughtless when you hit them," Rumple supplied, cheerfully. "Maybe if you'd left her able to walk unaided, she'd have given some thought to _your_ creature comforts." He made a little walking motion with his first two fingers as he said it, playful. Yet Belle had no sense that he was enjoying this. He was pretending to, and the old mask fitted him as easily as did the illusion of green flesh and flowing curls, but it wasn't real. Not this time. Not like his anger. It was a brittle mask.

"I think you've been well enough fed, Master Tavish," Belle said, coldly. "Better than you ever were while you were in drink, I expect."

"Once he could keep it down," Rumple murmured, to nobody in particular, but with relish.

"What would you know!" Tavish shot to his feet but stayed where he was, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides, his rage as impotent as it was ugly. "If you'd seen your boys die of that accursed Rot, you'd know! You'd drink until you couldn't feel any more, feel anything! What do you know, some hoity-toity chit of a girl from far away, knows no-one, knows nothing, comes here and tells us how to live?! What are you?!" Spittle flew as he spoke; he was almost retching with the hate. Belle saw Rumple raise his hand, ready to cut short the flow of poisonous words, but she went to his side and put her hand on top of his, on top of his cane. Tightened her fingers. Hateful as it was, this was the most truth she was ever going to provoke from Dacey Tavish. Rumple relaxed.

"You didn't hit your wife or rape your child before I came, is that it? It's my fault for coming here?"

Belle waited, spreading her hands to show that she wanted an answer. A vein throbbed at the man's temple as he spluttered, forced to use words where he'd long ago have resorted to his fists if only he could. He'd run out, but Belle had plenty. "Tullia's belly says otherwise," she said. "She can barely hide it any longer. Everyone will know soon. You were a monster _long_ before I came to Odstone, Dacey Tavish."

Her composure was failing her now, her voice shaking, because she'd made the mistake of thinking of Tullia; of the poor girl first denying the truth of her pregnancy and then concealing it, then brandishing it like a weapon in an appeal to her new mistress for help. Help that should have found her sooner, prevented this monstrosity in the first place. And Tavish's words had shown her something else that made it too immediate, too real to bear. The child Tullia carried would be a girl, because all the boys had died, even those unborn. Knowing that turned her disgust and outrage into something so ugly she could hardly bear to feel it. Knowing that made it real to her, the unborn child's features and tiny fingers and pitiful future, and she hated this man for his part in making it. Wanted him dead. Wanted to turn to Rumple, and say, "Kill him," in her rage, and knew that if she had the power, the magic, she'd have torn the man's throat out here and now as punishment for polluting the good clean earth with his breath.

She felt sick with disgust, and not all of it aimed at Dacey Tavish.

"Bring him with us," she rasped, hardly able to speak, to breathe, let alone manage courtesy. She saw Rumple as if through a mist. "To Janek. And then I must have Tullia and her mother to see me, but not in _his_ presence. I'll spare them that."

Rumple inclined his head, his face impassive but his eyes filled with private alarm. Had he ever seen her so angry, so near to losing control of herself? Belle looked away, not _wanting_ him to see it. He wrapped his travelling magic around them once again, and Belle gave herself gratefully to the moment of smothering nothingness that followed.


	131. Something to Lose

Belle couldn't stop shaking. Her anger bubbled in her blood, violent; sickening her and clouding her judgement when she needed it the most.

It was left to Rumple to organise her hasty demands, to make sense of them. He, in turn, dealt with the matter by summoning Janek from his apartments and ordering him to see to everything. It was an approach which would never even have occurred to Belle.

Janek hurried away, and Belle got the impression that he was as used to this sort of command as he was to being dragged from his home at inopportune moments by his master's whims. On this occasion, Belle could see that he had been dragged from his bath. His hair was still wet and his clothing stuck to his wet skin.

"Where do you want this one?" Rumple held Dacey Tavish by the arm, but as she focused her attention on them, Belle understood that it was only for the look of the thing. Tavish was held immobile, only his eyes moving, and frantic as he struggled fruitlessly against the magic that froze him solid. After a few moments, she saw that he wasn't even breathing, yet neither was he turning blue or becoming unconscious.

_That must be torment_ , she thought, and then sucked in a sharp breath of her own when she answered herself with a malicious, _Good._

"Um..." She couldn't hesitate. She couldn't let Tavish see weakness in her. Yet Belle felt a thread of panic beginning to weave through her rage; a flood of uncertainty and indecision. She hadn't prepared or planned; she'd reacted, allowed herself to be provoked into acting in haste, and now she had to make the best of it. "Behind the door to the stairs, out of sight." She indicated the small door beside the dais, the stairs up to Janek's home.

In answer, Rumple let go of the man and give him a sharp prod with one index finger. Stiff as a log and just as inert, Tavish began to topple sideways. Before he completed his fall, Rumple waved his hand and sent him away in a cloud of magic. There was a loud thud from the staircase behind the door.

They were alone, the dusty hall full of silence and shadows. Belle could hear herself breathing.

"What will you do with him?" Rumple reached for her arm, but drew back, unsure. He spoke as one might speak to a spooked horse, careful and light-voiced. Belle couldn't answer. Not only because she _had_ no answer, but because she couldn't master herself well enough to even speak. Her throat ached, dry and tight, while her chest heaved with each breath, with her fight for self-control.

She began to pace, up and down the short space between where Rumple waited and the dais. Acutely aware of herself, Belle heard the scuff of her soles on the boards and the whisper of her skirts each time she turned about to pace the other way. She looked for a way to understand her ugly mood, and found that she could only compare it to how she'd felt after they lost the baby, when Rumple begged her to stop crying. The need to scream or throw something, hit something, because she would surely explode if she tried to contain herself. But that outburst had been sharp with agony, confused by grief and guilt and betrayal. This rage at Tavish was without layers, without mitigation, without distraction. She hated him, and while some small part of herself stood apart from it, appalled, the rest of her was caught up in it and running headlong towards revenge.

It was that thought, that word, which stilled her. Belle stood with her toes against the edge of the dais, her head bowed, and looked at her hands. With an effort, she unclenched her fists. Her fingernails had scarred little half-moons into her palms.

"Rumple?"

He came to her side quickly, his cane and his limping step a short hop-skip to close the distance between them.

"Can you do magic? Here, today?" Even as she said it, Belle wished that she'd been clearer; forced herself to think of the words to ask Rumple if he was strong enough, if it would hurt him.

But before she could manage it, Rumple said,

"Yes." His voice was expressionless. Belle couldn't look at his face, not wanting him to see hers. She'd stood on her pride all this time, choosing anything but his magic. _Anything_ but his way. What would he think of her if she relented now and admitted that she could see no better solution? What would she become?

"You said once..." She had to stop almost as soon as she'd begun, to allow the evolving thought to catch up with her tongue. "You said that spells can follow a person around. Forever?"

"Certainly." Now Rumple's voice wavered with a hint of nervousness. "Belle?"

Belle had no idea what she would have said to him, had they not been interrupted by the arrival of two of Janek's bailiffs. She and Rumple turned as one to meet the new arrivals.

"The prisoner is in there," Belle said, pointing to the door. Her hand shook, and her voice as well. "One of you guard the top of the stairs. Guard Janek's wife, do you understand?"

These burly men were also used to taking orders without question. One took up station with his back to the connecting door while the other, presumably stepping over Tavish, tramped his way to the top of the stairs and stopped there to await further instructions.

"Why doesn't Tavish fear you?" Belle kept her voice low, leaning close so that only Rumple would hear her. "If it's fear of your magic that's kept the law here, why not him?"

Rumple shrugged, slowly. "He has nothing left to lose."

She pressed her lips together to stifle her first answer, the anger wanting its say. A man with a wife and daughters had plenty left to lose, by most people's measure. But Dacey Tavish was not most people. Most people walked a middle path in life, being both selfish and unselfish, weighing the world from moment to moment and responding to it as best as they were able. Rational. Aware. Careful, at least, not to turn the world against them. Tavish's treatment of his family had been monstrous long before Belle ever came to Odstone, it was true, but his misdeeds had been hidden enough that nobody dealt with him. Since she came, since the Rot and the coin in the well, since he buried his sons, Dacey Tavish had ceased to care about the world's opinion of him, about the future he might have wanted to protect. Was it only bravado that made it seem that he no longer cared what became of him; was it only that, confronted with a woman he could not cow with his fists, his frustration bordered on madness?

"How many others, Rumple? How many other cottages have a filthy little secret, one the whole town knows but chooses not to know about? Wren told me, she _told_ me that a beaten woman wouldn't come to you for justice, because you'd kill her husband, and then who puts food on the table for her children? She _told_ me!"

"She did?" Taken aback, Rumple seemed to recoil beneath his hood. He grimaced, not play-acting at all, but his words sounded carefree. "They only had to ask."

Belle's rage almost boiled over again—at him. She spun away, muffling a furious and wordless cry; knew without even being able to see that Rumple had reached after her with one hand, stopping just short of touching her. The anger blurred her vision, tried to stop her breath in her throat, yet the part of her that stood remote from it all was growing in strength. She could feel it guiding her, urging restraint, urging calm consideration. It felt like being torn in two.

"He's never going to touch them again," she said, turning and saying it to her husband, although really she was only thinking aloud. It sounded like a warning; low-voiced, dangerous and cold. "He thinks that the worst I can do is kill him, and that I don't have the courage to do even that. He's wrong. He _does_ have something to lose."

Swallowing, hesitating, Rumple did put a hand on her arm this time. It was a placating gesture.

"This isn't like you." That was almost a question.

"No, it isn't," Belle agreed, managing to keep her heated reply to a sharp whisper. "It's like _you_ , except that you never helped them because you didn't care, and I will because I _do_!"

His face hardened, his lip almost curling, and he gripped her arm.

"I meant," he said, with strained patience, "that you should be careful that your thoughts are your own." Forceful as he had ever been towards her, he jerked her arm to her side, quickly transferred his grip to her wrist, and guided her hand firmly to the hilt of the dark dagger. "It _finds your weakness!_ " He, too, confined himself to a whisper, but the whisper of Rumpelstiltskin could chill the blood. "And yours is that you _care so much_."

With that, he let her go. Belle glanced uneasily behind him to where the bailiff stood, red-faced and urgently wishing that he didn't have eyes or ears in his head. He could have made out nothing of their words, she was quite sure, but that his master and mistress were arguing; he couldn't have missed that.

"You're wrong," she said, with a calm that she couldn't make real on the inside. "If I couldn't care the way I do, you'd still be alone in your dusty castle with no-one to love you. It takes more than you can imagine to make me this angry," she told him, finding a kind of pride in her own ferocity. "But don't think for one moment that I don't have it in me. I am _stronger_ than Dacey Tavish, because when he loses his temper he stops thinking and just acts out his will. He becomes something lower than the beasts, but I'm still _Belle_ , and your wife, and I'm strong enough to know the difference between my own weakness and some _curse!_ "

She'd all but run out of air as those words forced their way out of her. Through a giddy blur, she saw that Rumple's lips had parted slightly, his pupils grown large with passionate appreciation for her. He licked his lips and flashed his revealing half-smile.

"Well," he whispered, leaning in so that his cheek almost rested against hers. His gloved fingers stroked the back of her hand where she clutched the hilt of the dagger. "That's me told. And my curse too." He made a little sound deep in his throat, half groan and half growl. "Lovely."

The outburst had done nothing to stop Belle trembling, but her own words had somehow reassured her. This fury she felt wasn't in command of her; she didn't have to be driven by it or to justify it to herself. It might leave a sour taste in her mouth and put ugly ideas into her mind, but that was _all_ that the rage could force on her.

"Thank you," she said, haltingly. She needed to say something; something that sounded and felt like herself. "For being worried for me."

Rumple gave her a slight nod, his eyes never leaving her face as people began to enter the hall. Belle picked out a few familiar faces. Hadley, the Fitchetts and the innkeepers. All looked bewildered at being called here in the middle of a day's work, and as more and more filed in, the silence was replaced with the low murmur of worried, hushed talk.

"I've alarmed them," Belle said, and the moment of regret did more than anything else to subdue her irrational fury."

"They don't know what you want of them."

Belle nodded, touching Rumple's arm. She really _was_ grateful for his words, his warning to examine her rage to make quite sure it was her own. Even for his shameless appreciation of her fiery speech, because Rumple's uncritical appreciation of her was more satisfying than any man's courteous flattery.

The anger that had made her tremble, made her feel that she might fly apart or shatter, was slowly strengthening into resolve. She still felt sick to her stomach at the thought of Dacey Tavish, but she trusted that sense of disgust to guide her better than her unthinking outrage.

Janek had fetched the magistrates. He spoke urgently with them as they entered the hall and wove their way through the growing crowd. Their expressions were sour; Janek's fearful. It took Belle several moments to understand that it was she who made him afraid today, not Rumpelstiltskin.

"I sent horses for the Tavish ladies. Is the man to be punished further?" Janek pulled off his velvet cap and looked from Belle to his master and back again, anxious. "For beating his wife?"

"Don't question your mistress," Rumple said, a lazy warning. His heavy, dark and concealing costume was unnerving people and there were whispers, nods towards the ebony walking cane. They were used to a lithe and quick master whose eyes could be everywhere. If they but knew it, they were used to the presence of his dark magic, to responding with instinctive alarm even if they had no sense of the cause. This was different, new, and it was dawning on Belle, as she mounted the dais and held up a hand to stop the magistrates joining her there, that Odstone did not like things that were new and different.

Belle stood behind the table, palms resting on the boards, and studied the townsfolk. More and more were arriving, drawn by word of mouth, by curiosity at all the fuss. She imagined the empty homes left behind them, the abandoned washing coppers and workshops.

How many of them believed what Tavish had said, about her killing Wren? About the Rot being her fault?

"You all know that I wanted to make a new law here," she said. She didn't try to raise her voice over the noise or to signal for quiet. Quiet descended, those at the front hushing those behind until everyone stood facing her, faces upturned, Rumpelstiltskin in their midst. "But today I must deal with an old crime, one that the law here has ignored, just as it ignored the beating of Mistress Tavish for so long." It took a moment, but then some people looked away and Belle knew just who had known and done nothing to help. She saw a hint of a smile beneath Rumple's hood. "I must deal with a crime that calls not only for justice, for punishment, but for a solution to be found. A way to make sure that it never happens again."

Now the townsfolk began to look at one another, each asking the other with their eyes if anyone knew what was going on.

"A man of Odstone has raped his daughter," she said, watching Janek and the magistrates then. Janek looked shocked, then aghast. The magistrates looked to each other, doubtful and afraid for their own skins. "I don't think his name matters at all. His daughter's name. I ask you what the law should do with this man, and what it should do to protect his daughter and their unborn child."

"Mistress," Janek protested, stepping forward a few paces. "These are the things for which we turn to our lord. That is how it has always been here."

"And who told Rumpelstiltskin that the girl was being raped? Who asked him to come and stop it?"

"My Lady!" Bewilderment and a growing outrage made Janek's voice unsteady. "The master just _knows_ when anyone breaks his law!"

Belle thought about that while, at the back of the room and unnoticed, Tullia and her mother hustled in two small girls in grubby smocks. Tullia looked frightened, her mother lost.

"It's within his power to know," Belle told Janek, kindly. "To watch you all go about your lives and swoop on your wrongdoings. But does he? Has he ever done that, can anyone remember it? Wren couldn't, she told me so."

_They only had to ask._ He meant it, Belle understood then. Rumpelstiltskin took his obligations more seriously than any man, because they were wrought with magic. All anyone had ever had to do was ask him to deal with Dacey Tavish, but Wren had been right. Who would risk involving him knowing that it was likely a death sentence? Who would, after seeing a wizard turn a man into a slug, think to ask him for a pension or a place in the castle to support their family? Ask him for any kindness or pity? She'd thought that Rumple was cruel, but she understood now. He simply hadn't seen the difficulty.

Nobody spoke up. Belle saw them look afraid, and it wasn't the fear of immediate harm but of a new uncertainty where, before, there had been certainty.

"Your new laws need to be fair to everyone, and do what they can to see that nobody suffers without recourse. It's far too late for that, today. I'm here to decide how a man must be punished, and how he must be stopped."

Belle hadn't been certain whether to name the parties at all. As she'd taken her place before them, as she'd decided that this was the last time the castle would dictate their lives, it hadn't seemed important who the man was and it had crossed her mind to spare Tullia the shame of a public announcement. But, with her mother clutching at her arm, Tullia spoke over the heads of the crowd. She sounded incredulous, hopeful, and barely afraid.

"Do you mean about me, my Lady?"

"Yes, I do."

As the onlookers turned heads over shoulders to see who had spoken, Rumple made his way to the corner of the room nearest the guarded door and leaned against the wall there, watchful. The guard at the door looked even more miserable than he had before.

"Come," Belle urged, beckoning Tullia towards her. Her mother didn't try to follow. She gathered the little ones against her legs, eyes darting everywhere, as though she feared someone might snatch her babies away.

Tullia only smiled with satisfaction when Belle offered a hand to help her step up onto the dais, meeting her at the end of the long table and taking her by the hand. Many people gasped.

"He's here, Tullia," Belle said quietly, for her ears alone. "And I won't make you confront him unless you want to. Unless that would help you.

"You believed me." The girl sounded amazed.

"Yes." And it wasn't just Belle's trusting nature, nor her revulsion for Dacey Tavish that made her sure Tullia had given her the truth yesterday. The townspeople might be too afraid to approach Rumpelstiltskin when they needed his help, but they were also too afraid to cross him. Or his wife. "Whatever happens next, you will come with me to the castle today. Your mother will have enough money and someone to help her in the house, I promise."

"And Pa?"

"He'll never be able to hurt any of you again."

Tullia nodded, her thin hand tightening in Belle's.

"He'll say it's not true."

Belle doubted that. Dacey Tavish would challenge his daughter's right to accuse him, and Belle's right to judge and command him; he was incensed that these women, these girls, had power over him. Or power at all.

"Sit here." Belle drew out the chair furthest from the stairs. Tullia hesitated, disbelieving, then arranged her stained skirts as she sat, the way a grand lady would. She didn't smile, but Belle could see her satisfaction at this turn of events.

Odstone, that part of it which had gathered in the town hall today, was shocked. Scandalised. Wide and wary eyes watched Belle for what she would do next. Composing herself, drawing strength from her outrage and from the simple trust of the girl beside her, Belle stood and faced them all again.

"Tomorrow, all of you will be responsible for justice in Odstone. But today, I have to stop a man who rapes his daughter, because he has other daughters. And so do many of you."

That reached them. Steadied them. Even Mistress Tavish looked at her two small girls with new eyes, her mouth falling open as if she hadn't considered the possibility that they might be her husband's next victims. How could that be? The frantic mother's eyes sought Tullia's, but Tullia had eyes only for Belle.

Without any signal from her—at a signal from Rumple, Belle realised—the bailiff opened the door and hauled Dacey Tavish into the light by the scruff of his neck.

_That man has daughters,_ Belle thought, seeing his face as he propelled the stumbling man to stand in front of the dais. _He'd beat Tavish with his fists if it were up to him._

"My Lady," the big man said, releasing Tavish and meeting her gaze. She could see gratitude in his confusion and disgust; gratitude that Belle was in charge of mending this, of stopping this. His words were both an acknowledgement and an appeal to her.

Belle turned her attention to Tullia, who watched her father with a stony disdain. She was above him now, up here on the dais beside the mistress. She liked it.

"Do you want to speak?" Belle asked her, gently. "You don't have to."

"My Lady!" Janek came forward, the picture of dismay. "There must be an accusation and an answer. You cannot just condemn him!"

"But my husband can?"

"He's..." Janek broke off, spreading his hands helplessly. He had no objection to being ordered about by a woman, Belle thought. It didn't mean that he was used to it, or that he welcomed someone new when he was used to dealing with her husband.

"He's the Dark One," Belle said, and she tasted the lie. She cringed inwardly at how very easy it was to say the words. "And now he has a wife."

She dared not glance at her husband. For a moment she could think only of his story about his father and the three card trick. Would anyone here notice the dagger at her hip, or know what it implied if they did? "If the Dark One can look his wife in the eye and acknowledge her as his equal, can he not expect you all to do the same?"

That was enough for Janek, who bowed and stepped back to stand with the other magistrates. But their faces were a picture of angry confusion, of resentment. One or two men looked mildly amused, enjoying the discomfort of those to whom such ideas were new and strange. Those women whose husband stood beside them looked at the ground, or at one another, as though not wanting to see their reaction to Belle's words.

_Odstone has lost so many sons,_ she thought, her defiance softened by her sorrow and guilt. _It's going to need its daughters, their strength._

"Tullia?" Belle saw the girl's fear. Not of her father, she thought, as much as being asked to articulate all that had been done to her in front of all these people; to put her pain into so many words, and make sure they were the right ones. "Do you want to say anything? I can say it for you if you want."

"Thank you, miss," the girl whispered. "You say it."

Belle gave her a reassuring smile, or rather she hoped she did. It was a strained effort to make her face obey her intention.

"Tullia told me yesterday that her father has made her pregnant," she said, loud enough for anyone present to hear her. "And Dacey Tavish tells me that his wife and daughters are his to do with as he pleases; that neither the law nor his mistress have any business interfering with his family." She looked briefly at the prisoner, and realised that he was no longer frozen by magic. He was afraid now. Had he thought she was bluffing? "He's wrong. He's never going to hurt his family again. I came here thinking that I could give Odstone justice, but I was wrong too. I can't decide what's just all on my own. That's up to you. All I can do here is help Tullia and keep her safe. Keep her little sisters safe."

"I never touched them!" Provoked beyond his silence at last, Tavish tried to struggle to his feet. Still bound at his ankles and wrists, he could only make a fruitless attempt until Belle nodded to the bailiff, who yanked him upright by the back of his jerkin.

"Only Tullia?" Belle managed to keep her tone cool, and knew that her gaze was icy. The monumental rage had left something pitiless in its wake. "And you think that excuses you?"

He'd set the trap himself, then walked into it. He knew that he couldn't answer her without condemning himself, and where a better man might have cursed himself for a fool, Dacey Tavish spat on the floor between them and cursed her instead.

"Bitch."

"Rumpelstiltskin would kill you with magic," Belle told him, startled that she was so unmoved by the vicious curse. "And probably no-one but your wife would miss you if I had you taken outside and hanged for what you've done to your daughter."

Mistress Tavish gave a moan, then, and the people standing nearest to her took hold of her beneath the elbows to steady her.

"Do it then," Tavish challenged. "If you've got the spine for it."

_How he must hate the world,_ Belle thought.

"I won't. I'm going to punish you instead."

Tavish became incredulous, mocking her with a leer. There were outbreaks of muttered protest in the crowd, and Tullia stiffened in her seat, fearful of Belle's intentions.

"Rumpelstiltskin." She let her hand drift to the hilt of the dagger, then softened her voice and looked at him as he peeled himself away from the wall, relaxed and elegant. "Husband. I need your magic."

"Slug or snail?" Placing himself behind Tavish's right shoulder, Rumple waggled the fingers of a gloved hand and spoke brightly. "I promise I won't step on him afterwards. Or I'll wipe up the mess." He sounded as if he offered her a choice of pretty gifts, over-eager to please his lady-love. It was a twisted pantomime, the old Rumpelstiltskin, but Belle almost laughed this time.

"I have a better idea," she said and, saying it, realised that her idea was the crueller one. That Rumpelstiltskin would love it. "If he ever tries to harm anyone ever again, in any way, the harm will fall on him instead."

Rumple cocked his head, the playful effect of the gesture lost on those who stood behind him. Then he giggled, bowed to her with a flourish of his free hand, and slapped Dacey Tavish on the back.

"That's the thing about men like you," he said, moving to stand in front of the prisoner. "You think that women are weak, when you think at all. I'm here to tell you, Mister Tavish, that a woman is any man's equal. My wife has fixed you without so much as perspiring. Maybe yours will take pity and have you back, because you can't hurt her now." He tugged off his gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. "But I _truly_ hope that you're going to try."

Belle could see the man's confusion. Tavish had braced himself for death, not for a life in which he must face the consequences of his actions, or even change his ways.

Dainty, so quickly that it was a blur, Rumple yanked a few hairs out of Tavish's head.

"Hold him," he told the bailiff as, all around him, a shocked gasp whispered through the onlookers. "My Lady, a hair?"

Startled, Belle found where her tight knot of hair had loosened, plucked one strand at her scalp and brought it to the edge of the dais, letting him take it from between her fingers. He passed his cane up to her in return, and Belle's heart skipped a beat as he turned without support to face the room. But he didn't stumble, and probably only she could see the effort it cost him.

Rumple worked like a conjurer, showy and half-smiling as he wrought his spell before an audience. He produced a cup out of nowhere, held the small bundle of hairs over it and, very gently, blew on them. They became brittle, crumbling into dust when he rubbed them between his thumb and fingers. He caught the dust in the cup, swirled it about in whatever liquid was inside, then grabbed Tavish by the hair without any warning. The bailiff held the man steady, his fear at being caught up in this subdued by his satisfaction at what was being done.

"Just a little drink," Rumple crooned to the man. "A wee dram? Her Ladyship's brew."

Tavish turned his face away, struggling fruitlessly, and Belle felt the ugliness of her earlier rage rear its head again, this time in enjoyment at seeing him afraid.

"You can't!"

"I can," Rumple said, and forced the copper cup between his lips. His jovial pantomime was over and he spoke icily, the words laced with disgust. "You don't need to drink it. Wear it all down your front if you want. I thought you might want one last drink, that's all." What didn't make it past Tavish's clenched teeth ran down his chin and neck, evaporating into a very faint pink mist. "Better make it your last. No telling what you might go and do to yourself if you were drunk, is there? It's done."

He dropped the cup, the clatter and roll of it on the floorboards the only sound in the room. He turned back to the dais and took his cane back from Belle, then bowed to her once more, this time in deep reverence.

"My Lady."

Belle hadn't expected it to be so quick, so easy. It hadn't been as easy for Rumple as he pretended, but only she could tell that he was any less steady on his feet than before; only she would notice his white-knuckled grip on his cane.

"Let the prisoner go," she told the bailiff, and catching the man's worried glance at the shackles, added, before the man could turn to Rumple, "Have his chains struck off at the forge and find him a bed. He may return to his wife and work their farm only if she allows it. The castle will support her and her daughters, in recompense for the years of neglect."

The townspeople had begun to talk among themselves; an agitated, unhappy buzz of conversation drowned out the sound of Mistress Tavish's weeping. She followed her husband as he was dragged away, her two daughters held firmly by the hand.

"You must make your own laws from now on," Belle told the crowd. "Make them fair to everyone. Make them to protect one another from harm, and to keep men like Dacey Tavish from easy temptation. Make them so that you don't _need_ to call on the castle, because a law that you're too afraid to turn to is worse than useless. And because all magic comes with a price," she added, her voice breaking with fatigue as relief overtook the day's storm of emotion. "And magic is _all_ we can give you that you cannot do just as well for yourselves, or better."

She wanted to sit down, and felt grateful when Tullia came and stood beside her, touching her arm in hesitant concern.

"We've always looked to the castle," said Hadley, and Belle could see that he spoke for many. For most. All eyes, everyone, turned to look at Rumpelstiltskin. To implore him to overrule his wife in this.

"Until you brought the lady here, all was well!" Belle didn't recognise the woman who called out from somewhere in the middle of the assembly. She looked frightened, ready to be angry but not yet so. "Since then--"

"Stop." Rumpelstiltskin held up his hand. He didn't raise his voice, but the command silenced them nonetheless. "Your mistress has spoken."

Belle grabbed for Tullia's hand as the familiar cloud of purple magic rose up around her, around all three of them, and smothered the sounds of the outcry in Odstone.

Back at the castle, catching the girl before she could fall to the marble tiles, Belle could think only of that sea of upturned faces and how they had turned away from her, from her good intentions, to look at Rumpelstiltskin.


	132. Choices

Unable to stand, Tullia leaned heavily against Belle and clutched her dress, front and back. She was half faint, and this wasn't the time to wonder if the cause was the magic, the shock, relief, fright or her growing baby.

"Rumple," Belle said. He'd arrived with his back to them, well hidden beneath the cloak and hood. When he turned, Belle could see his pinched face and thin lips; he was weary and refused to allow anyone but his wife to see it.

"In there," he suggested, and Belle felt a little magic in the air as Rumple raised his hand and gestured to her new sitting room. "Sleep and a few good meals." He was even using his words sparingly; she wondered what that last magic had cost him.

"For all of us," Belle answered with false cheer. "Come," she said, gently turning Tullia about and helping her towards the door. She was unsurprised to see that the high-backed couch had become a day bed, rich with cushions and draped with a quilt of bright silken patchwork. "You can rest here and I'll bring you something to eat."

"But..." It was all the protest the girl could manage. She plopped down hard on the quilt as soon as Belle stopped holding her up.

"We need a nice fire in here."

"Miss..."

"Lie down," Belle urged, crouching beside the bed and patting the pillow. Whatever it was Tullia wanted to say, she was unable to say it just now. "We'll talk all you like later, when you feel stronger. Lie down now and have a rest. You're safe now, I promise."

Subsiding, her eyes closing over unshed tears, Tullia seemed to be asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

_Poor thing._

Belle expected to find that Rumple had disappeared, eager to guard his secrets, but she found him in the great room, perched on the arm of a fireside chair. Both hands rested on the head of his cane and he had put back the smothering hood so she could see his face. She put her hand between his shoulders, doubting that he could even feel the gesture through his bulky clothing, and stooped to kiss him on the cheek.

"Do you plan on filling my castle with waifs and strays?" he asked, but mildly, as though he were merely interested.

"Hardly." Belle fussed with his hair, drawing it out from beneath his collar. "Thank you." She didn't know what she was grateful for. His unquestioning support? His magic, when she had no better solution? For trusting her to protect his secret, protect _him_ , in public? All of that, she thought, leaning in to be nearer to him. Rumple stretched his left arm around her waist and squeezed her there against his side.

"She's safe now," he said, musing aloud and idly stroking her hip. "I wouldn't have thought of it. Well done."

Smiling, Belle bent to kiss the top of his head. But Rumple suddenly leaned forward, cane falling against his inner thigh as he brought his fist against his lips, closing his eyes tightly.

"Rumple?" 

He couldn't answer her for a moment, locked in his discomfort, but then it eased and he waved away her concern with the smallest gesture. He looked queasy, although his disguise hid much of any pallor. He grasped his cane again, and his hand trembled.

"Choose her a room," he said, as though nothing had happened, but he sounded breathless and uncomfortable. "Well away from ours, if you please. She'll have whatever she needs." Uneasy, choosing almost against her better judgement to let the moment pass unquestioned, Belle moved out of his way when he stood up. "I'll see you later," he said, and left the room without looking back at her.

When she could no longer hear his footsteps on the stairs, Belle wrapped her arms about herself to contain a sudden shiver. She'd never felt anything like the watery, desperate sensation that filled her belly when she was worried for her husband. It bypassed her reasoning mind and gripped her body instead, as though she were a part of him and could not help but reflect any suffering or unhappiness of his.

But Rumple was steady enough on his feet, and calm. Belle had come to know and love a man who was all but invincible; now he was otherwise, and if that was a shock to her then it must be a hundred times worse for him.

She didn't hurry in preparing a meal. Tullia needed sleep more than anything, if Belle was any judge, and Rumple looked as though the sight of food might make him ill, so she laid out bread and cold meat that each of them could eat when they were hungry. Belle wasn't hungry, and it wasn't only her concern for Rumple that deadened her appetite. The dismay of the people of Odstone more than outweighed her relief at having dealt with Tullia's father.

In her stockinged feet so as not to wake the girl, Belle put a tray on a low table beside Tullia and then knelt to light the fire. She remembered her own first night in the castle; remembered that it only daunted her a little less because she'd been distracted by the thought of her new husband visiting her bed. The place had seemed vast and chilly to her then, and the touches of magic had alarmed her.

She sat and watched Tullia for a while, taking stock of her thin clothing and wasted look. The girl was fearfully young to become a mother; they would need to build her strength lest the growing child sap all her reserves and leave her with nothing for the birth.

When the room was warmer and the sleeper showed no signs of stirring, Belle went to fetch something to occupy herself. She couldn't face going back to the writings of the Dark One, so took a book at random from the library shelves.

She couldn't read. More than anything, Belle found herself wanting to go after Rumple and see that he was all right; to take him tea, to fuss. But he no longer hesitated to seek her affection when he wanted it, did he? As much as it might startle her, and as strange as it made her feel, she knew that he wanted to be alone now.

Still, she pictured him in her mind's eye instead of letting the words on the page absorb her. She saw him at his spinning wheel, lost in contemplation, and then at his workbench, once more drawing in magic that he could make his own. Then she remembered this morning, his sudden pain and his stiff reluctance to allow her to soothe him; how cold his twisted foot had felt in her hands and how his words had made her ache inside.

Belle had known little but kindness in her life; kindness had shaped her, _made_ her. What had cruelty done to Rumple, and to Tullia? If she could not fathom a father who would hurt and violate a daughter, no more could she comprehend a wife who would turn away when she saw her husband in pain. Had he _married_ such a woman knowing her for what she was, or had she changed after the wedding?

She had to admit that it would be difficult not to. She'd changed herself, and so had Rumple.

Another stinging pang gripped her. What ailed Rumple? Had she asked too much of his magic? Leaving aside the book, Belle went and fetched some of Wren's papers to read instead. She had written plenty about old wounds and about preventing new wounds from healing poorly. Whoever had aided Rumple when he injured his foot had been clumsy, or simply hadn't cared how a man would walk twenty years from now as long as he survived the bandaging and went away.

Unable to help Rumple when it came to magic, Belle sat by the fire and leafed through Wren's notes in search of something to help his pain instead.

It had grown dark before Tullia woke, confused and startled to find Belle beside her.

"Oh, miss, forgive me," she croaked, parched and groggy. "I'll go to the kitchen or, no, you've no dairy. I'll go to the kitchen."

"No," Belle soothed, sitting beside her on the low couch and putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You're not here to be a servant. Would you like something to eat?" She pointed to the tray, the bread and meat and the cup of weak beer. Somewhere in Wren's writing she'd seen that beer could be restorative, if used wisely; could be food, if there were no choice in the matter.

"For me?" The girl looked so frightened, so bewildered that Belle wanted to embrace her. But it was answers she needed, not comfort; she needed to know that the ground beneath her feet was not going to shift and throw her into worse troubles.

"Yes."

As she shook off sleep, Tullia found her hunger and sat with the plate on her knees, trying not to look around her as she ate every morsel.

"My husband decorated this room for me," Belle told her, not knowing how to put her at her ease. "The castle wasn't much of a home when I first came here."

"People..." Tullia stopped and looked sorry that she had even begun.

"Go on," Belle urged her, kindly.

"In town, people say the castle's dark and cold. That you hear screams. But when Jules came with the stove he said it was a palace, silk and velvet and carpet, and they'd the devil's job to not get soot on the nice things."

"I never heard screaming," Belle laughed. "Parts of the castle are abandoned and dark, and there are dungeons." The girl grimaced behind her cup of beer and Belle quickly added, "But there's nobody in them."

Steadier after her meal, Tullia smoothed her skirts over her lap and dared to meet Belle's eyes.

"Am I to stay here?"

"If you like." All at once it dawned on Belle that she had not given the girl the choice, any choice. "Please stay for tonight at least? We'll find you a room where you can be private, and a warmer dress."

"A room?" Tullia's whole face wrinkled up with her confused frown. "Private?" Perhaps one had no use for the word, Belle thought sadly, in a cramped and crowded cottage. "But I should sleep in the kitchen."

"You can if you want to," Belle said, feeling desperate to offer this girl choices. Any choices. "It's nice and warm. But you're not here as my servant. You're my guest and under my protection. You can have a nice room of your own and be comfortable. For as long as you like."

To Belle's surprise and relief, Tullia burst out laughing. There was a desperate edge to it, incredulous and shocked, but it left her smiling.

"Like a grand lady. Like the queen who comes in her black carriage."

Regina. Belle kept her face straight.

"I suppose she was my guest," she agreed, lightly. "And there was a prince, and before that the son of a duke. You're far more welcome in my home than any of them."

"And... the master?" The girl glanced anxiously over her shoulder, as though expecting to find Rumpelstiltskin looming in the doorway. "He isn't angry with me?"

"No. Why would he be?" Belle squeezed her shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong."

Tullia looked down at her thin hands.

"Wren said to tell you about everything," she said, her voice gone small. "Or tell the master."

"Everyone here has been too afraid to come to the castle," Belle reminded her. She wondered if Wren had offered to carry the message. "I thought I could change that, but I see now that I can't. Your brother was very brave to come just for a stove."

"Pa spent the gold Jules got for it. We'd have had real gold if he hadn't. Gold for the well. He only kept that big coin because the inn wouldn't change it."

Belle felt ashamed. She had known grief, known her share of troubles, but never grief piled upon grief as Tullia had known. Gold had so little value in Odstone that everyone sought silver; that seemed to be the cruellest of jokes, when gold might have saved their sons.

"I wish I'd known Jules," she said, knowing it for a feeble response. "Would you like to stay here tonight?"

"Yes."

Belle stood up and offered Tullia her hand.

"There are so many rooms. I started trying to sweep and dust them all, but there are whole wings I've never set foot in."

"Sweep?" Tullia looked scandalised. "You?"

"He didn't expect me to," Belle smiled. The memories of those first, hesitant days were so sweet now. "I wasn't very good at it."

It wouldn't be difficult to find a suitable room far away from the ones Rumple used each day. Belle led Tullia up the first flight of stairs and pointed upwards. "My room is there. You must always knock if you want me," she added, recalling Lotte's shock at walking in to find Rumpelstiltskin atop her. "And I will always knock at your door and wait for leave to come in."

It seemed to be a novel idea for the girl, but she nodded, studying her surroundings as though making an effort to remember.

"Let's try along here." The corridor leading from the first landing was darker than most, though not without candles to light the way. Tullia only jumped very slightly when they came alight in front of her eyes. Belle hadn't had any reason to set foot there since her brief campaign to evict the dust. She recalled that there had been a nice stained glass window at the far end, too small to give much light but with beautiful rich colours when the light outside was right. "Nobody else uses these rooms, or comes here at all. There's not so much light, but we aren't short of candles."

Tullia seemed to be in a trance as she made her way into the gloom, her fingertips trailing against one door and then another. The knobs were made of crystal here, and she was fascinated by them, gripping them without making any attempt to open the doors. Belle let her alone, following her a few paces behind. They reached the end of the corridor and the high window of stained glass before the girl turned, uncertain, and looked back at the three doors she had passed by.

"I don't know how to choose," she declared, so simply and honestly that Belle could have wept with heartbreak for her. But she tried to sound cheerful, joining Tullia in looking at the identical doors.

"There are lots of ways," she suggested. "You can close your eyes and point, and choose the one your finger leads to. Or open all the doors and see which room looks nicest. Or you could decide for no reason at all that one door suits you better than another." She touched Tullia's arm, gently. "There are other floors."

"I like this one," Tullia hazarded. Like Belle, she had noticed the panel of stained glass. She looked over her shoulder at it, then down at the floorboards. "It's quiet."

"Yes."

"And..." She almost dashed back to the nearest door, putting her hand to it eagerly as though she had just discovered something unexpected. "This one would be the quietest. It's the furthest away from where we came in."

"Yes." Belle stopped herself adding that the higher floors would be quieter still; allowed Tullia to follow her own thoughts to a conclusion.

"Can I choose this one?" Looking over her shoulder at Belle, Tullia looked as though she had never longed for anything more in her life than to be allowed to open this humble door.

"Yes, Tullia," whispered Belle, so moved that she was half afraid her rage would return; that she would take hold of some weapon, march back to Odstone and... "Yes, you can."

Belle had expected the room to be a drab disappointment, awaiting Rumpelstiltskin's attention. But he must have been watching them, because as Tullia swung the door open, a wave of golden light and magic went before her into the room. It transformed darkness into a warm and welcoming light, bare floorboards into a blue carpet, peeling walls into walnut panels and vibrant tapestries.

They both gasped, Tullia falling back only a single step in her surprise.

"Did you do that?" she squeaked, and Belle saw that she was amazed and impressed rather than afraid.

"Rumpelstiltskin," Belle told her, and even as she adored her husband for the generosity, she worried that this magic must have further tired him. It could have waited until morning, she knew, but maybe Rumple understood this girl better than she did. Tullia would never forget that moment, that miracle of change and beauty before her eyes in the instant that she made her free choice.

Burning with curiosity herself, Belle had to force herself to wait at the threshold rather than simply walk in behind Tullia. This was more than a room, now; it was Tullia's room, and she must know it. But Belle did allow herself to push the door wider and see more of what Rumple had done. The wall to her left had been solid, she was quite sure; now it had two connecting doors, just as Belle's room did. Magic being what it was, she couldn't be at all certain that those doors led into the same space that would be reached by choosing the next door along the corridor.

Tullia had reached the middle of the room, the middle of the carpet, and stopped to stare all about her. Finally, dazed, she turned to see Belle in the doorway, hurried back and caught her by the arm to pull her inside.

"There's a wardrobe," observed Belle, unsurprised. The new bed was far less ornate than her own, not so wide that two people could get lost in it, and with a canopy of decorative chiffon rather than practical, heavy drapery. The wardrobe, however, was at least as large as her own, its double doors each waiting with a shiny silver key in the lock. "You might not think it, but my husband is _very_ good at making dresses."

Again, the look Tullia gave her suggested that she had never had occasion to use the plural and was having to adapt her thinking to an entirely new idea.

"Dresses," she repeated, unable to fathom it. "Me?"

"Warm ones, I hope," Belle said, encouragingly. This room would be cosy enough with its log fire, and had no window to lose the heat, but nobody could comfortably go about a castle in the thin dress that Tullia wore. "Have a look?"

They both giggled because Belle sounded almost pleading. She might be less astonished by Rumple's magic than Tullia was, but she was no less excited to see what he'd created.

"Sara Fitchett's making you a dress," Tullia said. It was an observation, a statement of something that she knew and was pleased to know rather than an invitation to conversation, but Belle answered her.

"For my father's wedding. I wore a magical dress the last time I visited him. It didn't end well."

"Oh."

How trivial that seemed now, her humiliation at the king's feast, compared to what this girl had endured. She was glad that Tullia didn't ask her what had happened.

They each took hold of a silver key and, conspiratorial, turned them in the locks and let the doors fall open. Belle had been half expecting extravagance, but saw immediately that Rumple had been thoughtful in his choice. Two plain dresses hung on Tullia's side of the wardrobe, one with fuller skirts than the other. A plain cloak, full and warm. On Belle's side, a choice of petticoats and other layers, a simple corset, and two cotton nightdresses of pure white. One pair of soft shoes, one pair of short boots. She had no doubt that the drawer beneath had other necessities.

"Oh," Tullia said again, and this time it was a sigh. "I can't have these. Pa would..." She stopped herself, face crumpling in dismay, then confusion, and then her tears came.

Belle sat with her on the bed, not knowing how to comfort her. She knew better than to try to get the tears to stop, even when the sobs sounded as if they might break the girl's slender body in two; even when Tullia could barely suck in a breath. Her hand on Tullia's shoulder had no useful effect, nor her arm across the shaking shoulders, so Belle left her for a moment and opened the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. Yes, there were handkerchiefs; silk and cotton, all plain, and sturdy enough for real tears. She chose one and brought it to the bed, where Tullia had slumped onto her side, simply too exhausted to go on crying as she had been.

When there were only quiet hiccoughs, when the bed no longer shook beneath the girl, Belle pressed the handkerchief into her damp fist. It bought her an equally damp smile.

"You gave one to me once," said Tullia, and she made it sound as though Belle had given her the crown jewels. She looked at this new one with puffy, watery eyes. "And one to Wren, with embroidery on."

"That's right."

"Pa won't take those dresses and sell them, will he." It wasn't a question; it was another of those statements of hers, exploring a thing aloud. "He'd lose his trousers probably."

Belle hadn't thought of that; of theft and other petty crimes. She'd been thinking of his fists. His other parts. Tullia was probably right. He'd be paid out in equal measure for any injury, any hurt.

"If he stole from the Dark Castle," Belle told her, solemnly, "He'd lose his life. Let me show you something?"

She didn't doubt for a moment that there would be a bathing room similar to her own behind one of the new connecting doors. The first one she opened proved her right, candles coming alight to reveal another room panelled in walnut, this one with a stone floor. "It's a room to wash in," she said, to the girl's bemusement. "To relieve yourself." She herself had never had an entire room for the purpose before Rumple brought her to the castle, but she had at least heard of such a thing. Tullia plainly had not.

"You'd get a family in that bath," the girl said, and it was nearly a protest.

"Or one very comfortable woman," Belle said. "I think..." Yes, the hot water began to rise in the copper tub at her touch. "Yes. By magic."

Dabbing at her face with the handkerchief, Tullia gingerly lifted the lid of the commode and peered down at the porcelain pot. Thick towels seemed to perplex her as well.

"This is too much," she said, eventually. "All this for me. It's too much, my Lady."

Belle wanted to ask her why she thought so, but held her tongue.

"It's only magic," she said, instead. "I know it's all strange to you. Try everything. See what you like, and tell me about it in the morning? If you don't like any of this, that's all right. You can choose not to have it, do you see? To have it or not to."

Tullia's nod was uncertain, but her attention kept wandering back to the tub of hot water. Curiosity alone would get her to climb in, Belle thought.

"I'll need to get properly clean before I put on the dress," the girl decided, speaking slowly; almost a question.

"Good idea." New clothes on clean skin could only be a comfort, and even someone unused to making choices, to having choices, would surely choose the pleasure of warm clothing over being too cold. "I'll leave you for a while. Look around if you like." She was turning to go when she remembered something; remembered Gaston locked in his humble room beside the kitchen, terrified. "Don't be afraid if a cat walks through your door as if it isn't there. She's called Smoke. She has kittens in the room next to where you slept."

Tullia was listening to her, she was sure, but her expression was distant, as though this all felt like a dream to her, washing over her and making little sense. Nodding, she went back to staring down at the tub. Just as Belle pulled the door shut behind her, Tullia reached out to touch the water.

Belle need not have troubled herself about Smoke. Carrying a tray of tea things, Belle reached the top of the winding turret stairs and saw the cat sitting primly on one of the benches, neat among the clutter of her master's spells. Rumple himself had stripped away the heavy, concealing layers and wore only a silk shirt and waistcoat over his leather breeches, everything in shades of black touched with silver.

 _Has he done that for me?_ she wondered, taking in the effect. _The black?_

"I don't think Tullia would think anything of it if you changed your face," she said, cheerfully. Rumple still looked as he had when they wed; the lively waves in his hair softening the outline of his grey-green face. "Everything here is a wonder to her."

Rumple waved his hand dismissively, the ruffle of his sleeve fluttering around his expressive hand. He'd been reading when she entered, bent over a large volume that lay open on the workbench. Now he produced one of her ribbons from about his person and placed it as a bookmark, closing the heavy book with a dull thud.

"Ah," he said, as if he had only just then noticed that his wife was carrying most of a tea service on a huge silver tray. "You don't mean to neglect your poor husband, then?"

"No," Belle said, easing the tray onto the bench before going to his side. "I don't." Hands exploring the silk of his right sleeve, she kissed him on the cheek. Rumple did his best not to smile. "Are you feeling better now?"

As she'd feared, he looked uneasy at her mention of what she'd seen downstairs; looked as if he'd rather it went unmentioned. But he could hardly deny that it had happened.

"I needed more magic, that's all." He tapped a finger atop the iron pot. "Yesterday, I was interrupted." He didn't sound unhappy about _that_ , and Belle flushed when she saw him glance towards the empty area of the bench where they'd made love so passionately. The straps of the iron flask hung loose now, its stopper slightly askew. Empty.

"Enough for a year and a day?" She asked without much hope. Rumple hesitated only a moment before, unwillingly, almost apologetically, saying,

"No."

Belle took a deep breath and made herself busy pouring tea, fishing for sugar lumps with the silver tongs, stirring. She had to remember about yesterday; how terrified she had been for him then and how sensible it had seemed to arm him with magic. Even borrowed magic. And what would she have done in Odstone today if he had been unable to give her what she asked for? Hang Dacey Tavish by the neck lest he turn his evil on another woman, another child? This way he had the opportunity to remake himself, and that was justice every bit as much as it was protection for his family. He might learn and change. He might heed Rumple's words and turn his back on drink for fear of bringing his violence on himself. He might do some good in the world someday. He _might_.

"I know it isn't what you want," Rumple said, coming to stand behind her; arms slipping around her waist as he trapped her lightly against the table. He kissed her hair, the tight knot of it that she had woven this morning to make her look so severe and grown up. "But we did so well today. You barely had to lie and they all saw me. Your—" Another kiss, this one a brush of sweetness against her temple, "—willing slave."

Belle closed her eyes, her hand still poised over a teacup with the spoon. She thought of the genie trapped in Regina's mirror, and of his tiny figurine smashing against her bedroom wall.

"If I had three wishes," she said, careful with the words because wishes had never seemed more dangerous, "then what you did for Tullia just now would have been the first. Thank you."

"The dresses?" He sounded surprised.

"The room. The magic. The memory you gave her of something wonderful happening just for her. Thank you."

Rumple gave an appreciative murmur against her neck, his choice of reply lost in a kiss. As he squeezed her more firmly and pressed tighter against her, she could feel his arousal, his suggestive wiggle against her backside. She wrapped her arms about herself, trapping his and squeezing in return.

"Does borrowing magic excite you, Rumpelstiltskin?" she asked, as if scandalised by some juicy gossip.

"No." Another shameless wriggle, rubbing himself against her. "It was the ribbon."

"Oh, you liar!" Laughing, Belle tried to turn around, ready to put her arms around his neck and give him his way there and then. But Rumple held her where she was, kissing the curve of her neck until he met the collar of her very proper dress.

"It does," he confessed, as low and soft as if they were surrounded by eager eavesdroppers and this was the secret to end all secrets. "That's how good it feels. So good. The tingle on my skin. Like a caress, like something warm and slow flowing through me. Like wet lips on my cock. So perfect." He allowed her a moment to digest that; to shiver at what it let her imagine. To begin to balk with the first stirrings of irrational jealousy. "But it's only for you. Only ever for you. I'd choose you, Belle. Only you." And, just when his words and his embrace were stirring the embers of her own desire into a smouldering welcome, Rumple let go of her and reached for his cup of tea, grinning at her startled expression, his curls making a halo against the candlelight. "Wife."


	133. Tea and Sympathy

Rumple's mood was beyond her. Belle perched on a tall stool and watched him sip his tea, dainty as a duchess. He seemed perfectly able to ignore the pressing bulge in his breeches, but _she_ could not.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

He looked at her askance, forcing her to gesture to what she meant. Rumple wrinkled his nose at her over his teacup.

"No."

Aware that she was being teased but not quite sure about how or why, Belle shook her head and sipped her tea, dignified.

"Did your magic do that to you before?"

"Sometimes."

It would always be like this, Belle understood then; one moment sure that she knew him to his soul, the next something new and startling to her. Rumpelstiltskin was not a puzzle to be solved. He was just a puzzle, complex and absorbing, and he would never run out of revelations.

"Tell me why you needed my hair," she said, needing something smaller to think about. "For the potion you gave Tavish?"

"So that your will could be done, of course." Still pleased with himself, Rumple leaned over the bench and hooked the handle of the teapot with one black-nailed finger, inching it closer until he could pick it up and pour. "It was your spell, my Lady. I was just your—" somehow he made it sound lascivious "—instrument."

That made Belle frown, want to object, but after a moment she saw what he meant. She had chosen the punishment. Rumple had left it to her to shape it as she imagined it, well aware that it would become something entirely different in his hands, or Tullia's. Only she knew her own intentions, and intent shaped the magic.

"Then whatever becomes of him, it's my doing."

"No. You set the trap. He can choose to avoid it."

"What if I want him dead?" Belle felt the hairs on her arms and neck stand up with sudden dread. She _had_ thought it, in the depths of her anger. Even as she sat beside Tullia and witnessed her pain and grief, it had crossed her mind that the world would be a cleaner, a better, a _safer_ place with Dacey Tavish dead.

"Do you?" Rumple asked knowingly, only trying a little to provoke her.

"No," Belle sighed. "But I feel as though I should."

He smiled, eyes down over his teacup.

"That's why I used your hair. Because to you there's a difference."

"You weren't so sure at the town hall. You were afraid the curse had hold of my intentions."

That banished his smile and his playfulness alike. He nodded, ashamed of doubting her and yet, even now, troubled by what he'd seen or, by what he'd asked of her. Belle glanced down at her belt, at the red jewel in the hilt of the dagger. She would _know_ , wouldn't she, if it worked on her mind?

"What could it do to me?"

"Nothing. Nothing." For all that the concern had been his, Rumple spoke hastily to reassure her. "It can no more force you to do something than you can force Tavish to overstep. But if it sees a chance, the curse _will_ use seduction to influence you. To act in anger, in haste, in terror. In desperation."

"But to do what?"

"To destroy."

"To destroy what?" Belle was beginning to feel lost in the conversation; as though Rumple spoke of something so far beyond her knowledge and understanding that his simple words could not carry his meaning.

"Anything. Everything. Belle, it's not that I doubt you." Suddenly, he was familiar to her again; she knew that expression of sincerity, that slight frown, that troubled strain to his voice. She'd seen it so often in his regret and remorse. His cup rattled slightly against the saucer as he put it down, barely paying it any attention. "I don't know how much power the curse has in this state. I don't know how hard it can..." Frustrated with inadequate words, Rumple gave up with a breathy sound of annoyance, waving his hand in irritation.

Abandoning her own cup, Belle slid from the stool and went to stand close beside him, drawing him to face her and looping her arms about his waist when he did.

"If the curse means to fight me for you," she promised, softly, "I'll make it sorry."

"Just as long as I don't end up fighting it for _you_." Rumple kissed her, slowly and gently, his free hand rubbing her back. He lingered with his eyes shut, breath soft on her face, before he spoke again. "I shouldn't have asked this of you."

Belle made a wry face, trying to make him smile again.

"Do you mean taking the knife, or my hand in marriage?"

He did smile, pushing away his regret in favour of studying her face. Then his attention was on her hair, his left hand exploring the tight bun. Belle wondered why until he found one of the copper hairpins and pulled, grunting with satisfaction as some of her hair unwound and fell against her shoulder.

Indulgent, she reached up to help, but Rumple brushed her hand away with a playful little pout. He located another pin, drew it free and then delved for another and another. He placed each one carefully beside his teacup, barely glancing down before returning his attention to her hair.

Only when her hair was unbound did he kiss her again, longer and deeper this time but without the urgency she expected. He caressed her hair, crown to shoulders, then drew her close with his palm at the small of her back.

"Are you always going to surprise me as you did today?" he asked, his bedroom voice. Belle felt her body respond to it, to the welcome possibility of his touch, but his question gave her a different thrill. She wasn't alone in finding a mystery in the person she'd married; Rumple felt it too. It made the uncertainty of it seem far less lonely, knowing that he felt the same way about her.

She wondered what he'd expected her to do back in Odstone. She could hardly claim to have gone there with a clever plan in mind; rather she felt that she had salvaged the situation from her own rashness, in desperation. He admired her solution nonetheless, and perhaps not only because it spoke to his mischief and acknowledged his magic.

"I thought I knew what marriage would be like," she confessed, wanting to give him something more than an easy answer. His hand felt warm against her back, only his thumb moving, stroking her. "I thought it would be like any other household chore. Something I could master and then do well without having to try. Keep my husband's house. Fill his bed. Bear his children. Support him." Ashamed of how absurd it sounded to her now, Belle lowered her gaze into the shadows between their two bodies. "I didn't expect any surprises at all." Her voice became small; she could hear in it the uncertainty of their early days together, the careful probing of a daunting unknown. "Did you?"

Rumple kissed her brow and squeezed her closer, his arm tight across her back.

"After the way you handled our wedding night? I expected nothing but," he murmured, and just as Belle's lips parted on one of those helpless little gasps he could draw from her with his words, he kissed her. That was never going to stop being a surprise either, and never, she hoped and prayed, stop being a welcome one. But Rumple had another surprise for her. Just as she was losing herself in their kiss, beginning to think about where her hands wanted to wander and how good it would feel to do more than kiss, he let go of her.

"Don't neglect your guest."

Belle had to swallow and catch her breath, her body confused by the abrupt abandonment.

"But—"

Rumple waggled a finger at her. "The castle keeps its promises. Everyone in Odstone knows that. Go. Cluck over your new chick."

He was enjoying this! Belle stared at him, feeling silly as she contemplated arguing that they could do it very quickly, and that she could return to Tullia afterwards. As warmly as she might entertain the thought, she hesitated to say it out loud!

"All right," she said, sounding more dignified than she felt. If he could go about his day with that bulge in his trousers, then she could manage as well. "I will." It was all she could do not to laugh when Rumple grinned at her, following it with a lecherous flash of his tongue across the lips she'd so recently tasted.

 _Two can play at that game,_ Belle thought, on her way down the turret stairs. Then she sighed to herself. _But Rumple will win._ She had only to think of the restraint he'd shown before now so as not to hurt or alarm her, and then to compare it with her own abject _lack_ of restraint every time he touched her. But she could play his game for a little while before he managed to break her resolve!

Reluctant to disturb Tullia, Belle returned to the fireside and to Wren's papers. She'd written of tonics, oils and rubs for pain such as Rumple's, some with herbs that Belle had never heard of. The principle seemed to be to warm the affected part, just as Belle had done with the warmth of her body today. The next page listed ingredients for compresses, recommending that they be used as hot as the patient could stand. There Belle found ingredients she knew well; nutmeg, ginger and mace, linseed oil, camphor and turpentine. At the foot of the page, Wren questioned, in the shakier and fainter writing of her old age, whether these medicines had any more effect than the hot water in which they were steeped.

Belle couldn't doubt that Rumple knew all of these remedies and more. Yet she was keenly aware that it had been her concern that moved him this morning; her effortless acceptance of what had disgusted his first wife. Even if her nursing didn't help his twisted bones, there was another pain that she could ease.

She restrained her urge to go to the kitchen and search out the ingredients now. Rumple was quite right, for all that he was playing with her; she'd accepted an obligation when she brought Tullia to the castle under her protection. Care of a guest was old magic, old as marriage beds and oaths, and Tullia was hers. And while she was fulfilling that obligation, she also had to keep her husband's secrets safe.

_Oh dear._

Disheartened, hoping that Tullia was all right by herself, Belle returned her stack of papers to Wren's chest and fetched out a different bundle. These concerned midwifery, women's things, the getting and preventing of children, and Belle hoped that there might be something in it about building up a weakened girl's strength.

It didn't surprise her to read about the need for a wholesome diet, good sleep and an easy mind. At least she could make sure of the first. Belle herself could not imagine ever sleeping easy again after an unwelcome intruder in her bed, and as for an easy mind...

"My Lady?" Tullia's hesitant greeting made Belle jump. She was so unused to hearing any voice here but Rumple's; so used to the isolation and the emptiness of the castle. Framed in the doorway, Tullia barely seemed to fill up any space.

"Come in," Belle urged, tucking the stack of papers beside her in the chair. Tullia approached nervously, looking down at the plain brown dress as though startled at the weight of it against her legs. Rumple had been as clever as always. She could see that Tullia had tried to tighten the corset, giving prominence to what little bosom she had and making her look a little taller, but that it was a forgiving and sensible construction rather than the constricting kind designed to narrow the waist. It let the slight roundness of her belly show beneath the flare of her skirt. "Is it comfortable?"

"Yes," Tullia admitted, shy of the words, of herself in the dress. She looked down at herself again, hands stroking the good cloth of the skirt. Her wet hair, combed, hung in mousy rat-tails around her small face. "I should wash my other."

 _Burn it, more like,_ Belle thought, but managed not to say it. She thought of the unoccupied room upstairs where Rumple had collected finery and treats for his little boy, yet still kept the rags he'd once worn. When you had nothing, perhaps everything mattered more. Who was Belle to know?

"Tonight you should keep warm and rest," she said. "We can see to your other dress tomorrow. Why not sit here and let your hair dry by the fire?"

Tullia sat, obedient, and Belle's rage tried to consume her again. She had no sense that the girl obeyed her out of fear, nervous as she was of this place and the people in it; it was more that, removed from the drudgery and unfairness of her life at home, the poor creature didn't know what to do with herself, or even _how_ to want anything for herself.

"Wren told me that you wanted to learn to read and write," she tried, hoping to open the way for Tullia to understand her new position. "Is that right?"

"I can do it, miss. Slow. I had the learning when I was small."

But no books to read, Belle understood; no paper to write on and no time for any such indulgence.

"Then it's practice you need?" A nod. "That's good. You could rest while you try the books in the castle's library. I have paper and ink for the writing."

"Rest." A thoughtful pause, her hands still exploring the new cloth. "Wren said that."

Had Wren offered to rid her of the child, as she'd made the offer to Belle? It wasn't a thing to be spoken of, even between friends. And Tullia wasn't a friend, not yet.

"Did your mother know about the baby, Tullia?"

The girl flinched and turned her face away.

"No, miss."

That wasn't true. Yet neither was it a lie intended to deceive Belle. It was herself Tullia tried to convince, and who could blame her? Belle had only meant to ask if her mother had advised her at all, and what she had seen her mother do while expecting. It didn't matter enough, here and now, to challenge the lie or push the girl to face her pain.

"I'm so sorry that I didn't help you sooner," she said, the words unexpected and unstoppable. For a moment Belle accused herself of self-pity, of seeking forgiveness that she had no right to. But it wasn't that, she realised as the silence lengthened between them; as a log broke over the fire dogs and whispered into fragments. It was that Tullia deserved the apology, and to be told and told again that she mattered. "Wren wanted me to, I see that now."

"I said she mustn't tell."

"I know. And she didn't. I promise. She tried to open my eyes instead, so that I'd see for myself that everything was wrong here. That people were afraid to ask for help in case they made things worse."

"You locked him away."

Still unused to the way Tullia spoke, voicing a thought without embellishment, Belle sat and thought about that for a while. Tullia expected no reply; she expected nothing at all from the world, content to wait until something new happened to stir her out of her weary stillness.

"And while he was locked away," she began, cautiously, "you were afraid that he'd be back?"

"Yes."

"So you told me what else he'd done."

A nod.

"Thank you for trusting me," Belle said, grave in her sincerity. 

"But it's made trouble," Tullia cried, edging around in her chair to face Belle, her expression stricken. "In town, they didn't like it, what you did, what you told them!"

"That is _not_ your fault." Belle dropped to her knees on the soft rug, clasping Tullia's hands gently in her lap and looking up at her. " _Nothing_ here is your fault."

Although her eyes brimmed with tears, Tullia hadn't the strength left to weep again. She gripped Belle's hands so tightly that she quivered with the effort of it.

"Miss?" Belle nodded, encouraging. "I'm hungry, miss."

Belle's relief was a selfish thing; Tullia had given her something to do, some way to help.

"Would you like to see the kitchen?"

The notion seemed to cheer the girl, who carefully dabbed her eyes dry with the handkerchief Belle had given her earlier.

"Jules said that you had all the things we sent you for your wedding set up on the dresser shelves," she volunteered, half a question.

He'd noticed that? Labouring through the much-feared Dark Castle with a sooty stove, anxious not to incur their master's wrath by damaging anything, the boy had noticed her little gifts dotted around the kitchen?

"Come and see," Belle urged, rising and drawing Tullia up as well. The girl kept hold of her right hand as though she feared to let go.

They didn't hurry. Belle well remembered her own curiosity about Rumpelstiltskin's home, so she pointed the way but let Tullia lead, pausing when she paused. The light was fading outside, leaving much of the great room in shadow, but Rumple's new decorations had made the whole thing less ominous than before. Tullia stared through the door to the library, disbelieving, and was no less amazed by the big bowls and sprays of flowers set about the great room.

"It's changed a bit since your brother came," Belle confided. "Rumpelstiltskin wanted to make me feel more at home."

"Do you? Feel at home I mean?"

"Yes." The question gave Belle pause, but... "Yes. I do." If her home was where her husband was, rather than the sum of these luxuries inside a castle, it was still the truth, and one Tullia could better understand. She felt at home here.

The kitchen was in darkness, but the stove still gave its steady warmth to the big room. Belle left Tullia at the door while she lit a candle, then walked to the far side of the room touching the others alight with it.

She could see at once that the more familiar surroundings put Tullia at her ease. Cursing herself for not thinking of it earlier, Belle left her to look around while she looked over the pantry shelves. Tullia should have something hot and nourishing, even if her hosts were content with bread and cold cuts.

"I hope you like porridge," Belle said, ruefully. "We have enough here to feed an army, but I'm no cook." But a glance at Tullia caught her looking longingly at the plates left for later, identical to the one she'd had earlier. Bread and meat was nourishing enough for a start, wasn't it? "Why don't you make a start on one of those? I'll have the other. I don't think Rumple is hungry."

"Thank you." Tullia stood at the kitchen table for a long moment, torn between the two plates and the chairs nearest them. Then she drew out the closest chair and sat down, squaring the plate in front of her.

"Wren says that milk is good for when you're expecting," Belle said, thinking aloud. "The water is pure, or we've tea."

"Wren made me tea."

It wasn't a request, nor even a hint as to what Tullia liked or wanted, but it seemed to be the only direction Belle was going to get for now. She moved the warm kettle back onto the hot plate, fetching down a jar of mint leaves.

"If you're hungry when I'm not here, take what you like from the larder. I expect you can cook better than I can."

"Doesn't the cat get at the food, if it can walk through doors?"

Belle stared at her for a moment, startled.

"I never thought of that," she admitted, amazed both at herself for not noticing and at the girl for doing so. "That door must be special. Besides," she added, sitting in front of the other plate and breaking off a piece of the drying bread, "Rumpelstiltskin's cat takes her meals from golden dishes. She probably thinks stealing is beneath her."

Tullia laughed, almost silently but with her shoulders shaking and her face bright with a helpless smile.

When they'd finished eating, Belle carried a tray upstairs with the tea things and put it on the long table in the great room. With her eyes more accustomed to the gloom, Tullia stopped and stared at the spinning wheel that dominated one corner.

"It's true what they say about him," Belle told her, feeling a pang of tenderness when she recalled her own reaction to the discovery. "He spins straw into gold. I suppose I thought he did it all by magic, that he just snapped his fingers or something, but he sits and spins. He must be a master spinner."

"Sometimes he brings thread to market," Tullia said, still looking at the wheel. "For the embroiderers and the lacemakers. I've seen them come for all over, practically fight for it. They can sell their work to royalty if they use his gold thread."

_I didn't know that. What else don't I know about him, about this place?_

"There's our tea," she said, forcing good cheer past her sudden ache of uncertainty. Rumple had made thread enough to supply every market in the Enchanted Forest for years to come. Why create a shortage if his gold was wanted? To push up the price? "I'll go and find you some books to try."

She chose three slim volumes from the small shelf of books meant for children; the ones with bright, hand-painted illustrations. Tullia was barely old enough to have outgrown them in any case, and if she could find escape in a story while she learned, all the better.

"These might do," she said, bringing them to Tullia, who stood beside the tea tray with a porcelain cup clutched in both hands, afraid of dropping it. "See if you can manage, and if it's too long since your schooling we can go back to the letters and sounds." Something told Belle that this girl had forgotten nothing of her learning, even in her deepest despair. In the same way that she didn't think of throwing away her ragged old dress, surely she had held on to her letters, whispering lessons to herself in the darkness? Belle could imagine it; the unbreakable core of her, weathering everything and holding on to what little she had. To _anything_ that her father could not take away from her.

"Thank you!" Where her thanks before had been dutiful, as automatic as they were sincere, this was an outburst of excitement. "Wren said books had stories, but she had none like that. She showed me her recipe book instead."

"Did you know that she wrote her thoughts down as well?" Belle found that she was grateful to be able to speak of Wren without guarding what she said. It hurt Rumple, she was sure; he was more used to grief and loss than she would ever be, and had kept Wren at a distance, but her passing was another wound. Too raw for this, and the reminiscence too unwelcome. "The things she knew about healing, all about herbs. What she'd been taught, and where she'd found out that things she'd been told were nonsense. Things she found out by mistake, or just thought might be worth a try."

"She never said." Tullia looked sad.

"Her handwriting is difficult to make out, but once you're sure of your reading, I'll show you."

"Who'll have her cottage, miss?"

"I don't know." Belle hadn't given it a thought, assuming that it was for someone else to decide. "Do you know, I don't even know who our tenants are? Janek knows and does everything." She took a deep breath, following that thought to the end. "Do you trust him, Tullia?"

"He's kind," the girl said, without hesitation. "But afraid of the master."

"And of me?"

"I think he's glad you came. He told people not to speak ill of you, that you weren't to blame for the Rot or Wren going."

So, that was true. Belle had hoped that Tavish lied about that. About Wren at least; that it was his own poisonous thought, fermented in his cell out of his bitterness and shame. Tullia must have seen how her shoulders sank, her spirits with them. "I shouldn't have said."

"I asked," Belle pointed out. "And you asked about Wren's cottage. It can go to whoever needs it."

"Only I thought of my ma and the girls. Of him back home with them."

"If your mother wants the cottage," Belle promised, "she'll have it, or another like it."

"She'll choose him," Tullia said, inhaling the steam from her cup and closing her eyes. "Just like always."

They said no more, Belle escorting Tullia back to her new room and helping to unlace her so that she could change into a crisp new nightgown and be comfortable with the books. Rumple's good eye or Rumple's magic had created a dress that fitted the girl neatly, flattering rather than concealing her condition, but Belle could see, even as it lay across the bed, that the white nightgown was as shapeless as a sack, not so much maidenly as childish in its modesty.

The thought came, unbidden, of the gowns Rumple had chosen for her; of how the silk-satin clung to her bare flesh and slid against her like a caress. Of how he had unbuttoned the concealing gown she had brought with her to expose her breast, there beside the fire in her bedroom. She shivered, the longing he had stirred earlier returning as a throb, an ache. Only when she realised that she had stopped with Tullia half unlaced did she pull herself together.

"There." She saw the girl cup the bodice over her budding breasts, shy of a stranger. She turned her back, making a show of closing the wardrobe doors. Tullia's old dress was folded neatly on the floor beside the wardrobe, as if she hadn't thought it proper to mix her old life with the new. "When I came here, most of my dresses fastened at the back. I had a maid at home, to lace and unlace the bits I couldn't reach for myself. My husband didn't seem to understand the problem."

"You should have a maid," Tullia said, loyally. She stifled a yawn as she said it. "Both my sisters'd fit in here with me, miss."

Belle smiled to herself, hearing the flap and rustle of new cloth as the girl pulled on the nightdress. Only then did she turn around, keeping her attention elsewhere while Tullia slipped the remainder of her new clothing from under the tent of the nightgown.

"The bed looks comfortable," she observed. "And I think the fire will keep itself. The candles too. I hope you sleep well."

"And you, miss." After a moment, flustered, Tullia added, "And the master too?"

"Thank you." It wasn't a lie, or even a secret, if you ignored a question, was it? Even now, Belle wasn't completely sure of the answer, in any case. Rumple seemed to lurch between exhaustion and sleeplessness, sleeping deeply and contentedly only when she wore him out making love. "Enjoy the books."

As Belle left her for the night, Tullia hugged the small stack of bright books to her chest, bright eyed and smiling.


	134. Golden

Bent over his book by candlelight, Rumpelstiltskin didn't hear Belle's barefooted climb up the turret stairs. Just for once, she was the one to catch him unawares and see him startled from what he was doing.

"Belle." He'd been leaning over the page to read, frowning with the effort. He might look as he had before the curse broke, like the Dark One, but Belle supposed he no longer had the night vision that went with the mask. "Sweetheart?"

"It's late. I've been waiting for you." She'd made sure to change into her nightdress before coming to find him; the one of thin blue silk that left nothing to the imagination if she stood in front of a bright light. She stood with candlelight at her back now and watched her husband blink away his tired eyes, eager to see her.

"Oh yes?" Once more, Rumple carefully laid a ribbon across the page and closed his book. "And you became impatient?"

"Desperately," Belle agreed, deadpan, and held out her hand. "Husband?"

He reached nonchalantly for his cane, sliding from his stool with something of his old ease and grace.

"As you wish." Rumple paused a few paces from her, drinking in the sight of her silhouette, then came and took her hand. "To bed, madam?"

"No, I have a surprise for you." Belle drew him with her towards the stairs, trying to hide her smile. She let him go before her on the stairs, where he needed one hand against the stone wall to keep steady. The stairs were so narrow that it was difficult for him to use the cane, but once at the bottom he turned and waited for her, expression bright with interest.

"Will I like it, this surprise?"

"I hope so." Belle had chosen the gossamer nightgown for its effect on Rumple rather than for comfort, and was beginning to regret it. Her arms were covered in goose-pimples and her feet were freezing. Capturing Rumple's hand again, she towed him towards their bedroom.

"Is it something wanton and debauched?"

She laughed, and the laughter was a release after such a fraught day as this.

"It's something we can only do behind a locked door, certainly. And must never mention to anyone."

"Really?" His thumb caressed her hand as they paused at the bedroom door. "Have you been looking at your new book?"

Belle had almost forgotten about that; the pictures of the two smiling figures, contorted into every imaginable position, and a few that she could not imagine at all. She laughed again and drew him over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind them and then leaning her back against it as though to prevent him escaping.

"I like this surprise already," Rumple said, attempting to close in and kiss her. Belle dodged to her right, towards the fire, her laughter bubbling over when he theatrically closed his grasping hand on empty air and looked at it, crestfallen.

"Come here. By the fire."

She'd put the chair ready for him, facing a little away from the golden flames. She'd built up the fire and brought candles there, and spread pillows across the floor at the foot of the chair. Rumple looked at it all, at the copper basin and stack of cloths, and sniffed the air, which was fragrant with sweet spices.

"Cake? Have you been committing cookery again, my dear?"

Shaking her head, Belle grasped his belt and began to unbuckle it.

"Off with these," she ordered, giving his breeches a tug in the direction of his thighs.

"The boots." Rumple pointed downwards, pretending to be apologetic. He wore his tallest boots, the ones that laced all the way to his thighs, and Belle sighed. She hadn't thought of that, and being sidetracked in her plan made it all seem suddenly very silly. But Rumple's expression hadn't changed; curious, eager, his eyes dark with desire and warm with adoration.

Oh well. She'd taken them off him in more awkward circumstances; his dead weight when he lay injured, so immobile that it had been all she could do to slice through the laces with a knife, and again with him uncooperative on a bed. This time Belle knelt, making sure to drift her hands down his body as she sank onto the pillows at his feet. He fought not to react, but she heard the effort in his breathing as her face became level with his cock. Quite probably quelling his anticipation, she studied it for a moment, curious.

"It was hard this morning. Did you see to it by yourself?" she asked, squeezing him lightly through the leather. Weighing him in her palm, heavy and pliant and seeming no more sensitive to her touch than usual. "Or did it go away?"

"Which would you rather?"

Belle didn't know, but as she gave her attention to the top of his left boot she did think about last night, about how much he had wanted to watch her while she pleasured herself. What would it be like to watch him do it? To sit back, restraining herself so that she could see... what? He'd shown her how to stroke him, grasp him, and seemed content thereafter with her efforts to please him with her hand. He liked her mouth better, and her only regret about that was that she could not pleasure him and see his face at the same time. But Wren had said it so matter of factly, _He's got two good hands, don't he?_ , as if it was something men did all the time, or should do.

"Did you?" she asked, pulling patiently at the criss-crossed laces.

"No." He nudged a strand of hair away from her forehead. "Why, did _you_?"

"No." Belle turned her attention to the other boot, reflecting that this was far easier while he remained standing. Below the knee, she found that he had taken her advice and stiffened the leather somehow. Not some makeshift splint, this time, but some magic in the leather itself, turning it almost solid without adding undue weight. "Did this help?" She tapped the side of his boot.

"Yes."

But not with the pain, she thought, unlacing this boot right to the bottom to free him without a struggle. He wore thin stockings of silk beneath, but even through that and past his disguised flesh, she could see that the skin was not a good colour. Stiffening his boot had only helped him to keep his balance. She thought back to Odstone, when he'd handed her his cane and turned to face the assembly with his usual showmanship. Had he tested that out at home when she wasn't looking, or simply trusted to luck and magic on the spur of the moment?

"There." She reached up and grasped his breeches again, easing them down his slender legs as far as his knees. "Sit."

Rumple let her take his cane and sat, restoring their smiles by doing so with the air of a king taking his throne, in spite of the ungainly tangle of boots and breeches about his knees. He laid his palms on the wooden arms of the chair, grasping the curved ends and watching her tug off one boot with its stocking, ease off the other, then drag his breeches after them.

"I made a poultice," she said, although he must have guessed as much from what he could see of her preparations. "To ease your pain." She felt flustered saying it, no longer sure of herself, or sure that this would be welcome. "If we can keep it from tightening so badly..." She bit her lip, lifting her gaze to see his face.

"Yes." His reply was a murmur, nothing on his face but curiosity. He let Belle settle his foot on her lap, on a thickly folded towel.

Keenly aware that her hands were clumsy with the unfamiliar task, Belle fished the two bundles of muslin from the basin of steaming water. The heat of them stung her hands, just the right side of being painful, and she realised that Rumple was right; the combination of ingredients did smell like a fruit cake. Nervous, wishing that she hadn't begun this, Belle wrung out the hot water and quickly brought the steaming bundles of cloth to Rumple's foot. She pressed one to the sole of his foot, the other to the front of his ankle, and held them there while looking up to see if the heat made him flinch. Other than a slight grimace, Rumple didn't react at all. He'd closed his eyes, but when Belle began to wrap his foot up in strips of linen, she could feel him watching her. Lastly, she draped another folded towel over the whole thing to better preserve the heat.

_Stupid,_ she thought. He must already have tried this—tried every remedy rather than be crippled by the injury, less able to support his family.

"It might have healed," he said, just as Belle was on the verge of blurting out an apology. "But I walked home as best I could. Home to my boy. I cut a stout branch and just walked. Day after day. That never seemed real, later. Never seemed like a thing I'd go and do, but I did."

Staring past her shoulder and into the flames, Rumple was blank-faced, lost in his memory.

"The pain must have been unimaginable."

"Seems worse now." Rumple put his hand to his mouth, rubbed at his chin, as though he half wished he could take back those words. "Being the Dark One, it's... It isn't just the absence of pain. You can imagine that." Belle nodded, although he still stared straight past her. "It takes all the pain, takes everything you have, and turns it into power. You can't imagine the pleasure of it, how _alive_ that feels. Feels like you can fly."

"Can you?" He focused on her with a slow blink. "I mean," she stumbled, apologetic, "could you?" How easy it was to forget where they really stood when Rumple looked back at her with those peculiar eyes.

"Probably," he admitted, softening as if he'd noticed her, remembered where and when he was and that the woman at his feet cherished him. "I never tried. Thank you, Belle." His voice all but broke on her name. To say more would see him overcome, but he reached for her, a pleading hand. Leaving a stack of pillows to do the work of supporting his bound foot, Belle eased closer to him. She'd meant to snuggle against his legs, but he beckoned her further, so she climbed into his lap instead. Rumple squeezed her there, gratefully, his eyes closed.

Belle studied his face in the firelight. The disguise was flawless; he looked exactly as he had the day she met him. He'd seemed unstoppable, a force of nature, fearless because he had no need to fear anything. It fooled the eye, like the card tricks he'd spoken off, and it worked because the onlooker helped it to work. It was difficult even for Belle to remember that it wasn't real any more; that beneath the scaly skin, Rumpelstiltskin was as frail as anybody else, and with much more reason to be afraid. She supposed that the disguise must help Rumple to fool himself as well. Perhaps most of all.

Resting her forehead against his temple, Belle touched his face and tried to compare it to how he looked as an ordinary man. Couldn't hold the two images in her mind at the same time, only glimpses of his brown eyes, expressive and so much less severe than these inhuman ones.

More relaxed now, his breathing slow and shallow, Rumple began to return her close scrutiny. She'd brushed her hair to a shine before going to him and his free hand found it now, exploring how it moved across his hand and slid between his fingers.

"No ribbon?" he murmured, feigning a pout.

"Oh, I'm wearing a ribbon," Belle assured him, delighted that he'd noticed. "It's just not in my hair."

"Ah." Smirking, Rumple brushed his thumb across her lips. "Such a clever wife. Such a naughty wife."

It wasn't that much of a game, Belle had to admit. Bare beneath flimsy silk, the choice of places to tie a pretty bow was limited. But Rumple entered into the spirit of the game, hooking two fingers at the neckline of her gown and drawing the silk away from her to peer beneath.

"Not there," he observed, gaze lingering on her breasts before he let the fabric fall back. They shared a smile at the silliness of the game, the deliciousness of it being _their_ game. "We sat like this before." He cupped her breast, thumb sliding against silk to tease her nipple. "I didn't dare tell you how beautiful you were in case you remembered in whose lap you were sitting and ran away. How perfect it was to be the one to touch you, show you what could be."

Belle nodded. The memory had inspired her to bring them to the fireside tonight and to have Rumple sit in that chair. Hearing that the memory was equally alive and special for him made her glow with simple happiness.

"I felt like a fool, not knowing what to do or what I wanted. I didn't feel beautiful."

That puzzled him. His forehead wrinkled, the lines emphasised by the roughness of the skin there. He simply couldn't imagine it, Belle realised; couldn't fathom that she ever felt less than beautiful, whether bathed in sweat, contorted with lust or sobbing in his lap at the shock of her first release. To Rumple, she was always beautiful.

Wordless, they agreed on a repeat of that night's endeavour. Belle marvelled at it, at how easy it could be, as Rumple returned his hand to her breast and teased her until the nipple peaked beneath his thumb. Everything _was_ still new, but they had this understanding; every step on the road that brought them here was remembered, significant and cherished. When they acted as one, thought as one, Belle felt that she had known him forever.

"You don't need to be quite so gentle this time," she whispered, and at his lopsided smile of agreement, she remembered how restrained he had been too; all but panting with desire, he'd not even kissed her until afterwards, until he could be sure of her willingness to respond in kind. He hadn't been gentle then, and her body tightened deliciously at the memory of how he'd taken her so hastily the moment he was sure. How he must have wanted her the whole time he was patiently teasing her to a satisfaction she hadn't thought possible. "And you know now that I like it when we kiss."

"You do?" Pretending astonishment, Rumple tickled her ribs. "Hadn't noticed. About this ribbon..." Relenting just before Belle broke down in giggles at the tickling, he reached down and yanked up her nightgown instead, baring her knees. She laughed anyway, then, watching his hand slide beneath the blue silk and onward up her outer thigh. He came to her hip without making any discoveries and pulled a face of exaggerated surprise. "How deeply is it buried? You didn't stick it up y--"

Belle kissed him on the mouth before he could spoil things, and his momentary surprise became a wicked grin against her lips. Beneath her gown, Rumple moved his hand up to her belly, fingers exploring her waist in search of the prize.

"No," she said, barely breaking the kiss.

"No?" His voice made a vibration against her lips, tickling. "Let's see then." He pushed his tongue into her mouth at the same moment that he pushed his hand between her thighs, midway down but creeping upwards. Belle squirmed, delighted and torn between the two sensations; she didn't seem able to fix her mind on both at once, but didn't want to miss a moment of either.

Just as his fingernail met her curls, he felt the ribbon and slid his hand away to follow it. She'd tied it tightly at the crease of her left thigh, a pretty bow of wide silk that was now crushed between her thigh and Rumple's flank.

"Found it," he breathed, rubbing fingertips over it and tracing it back towards her centre. Between her legs, the silk was already slick and he teased it, forgetting their kiss for a few moments without drawing away. "How do I earn it?"

"It's yours," Belle protested, barely getting the words out before they were kissing again, Rumple sliding the edge of his hand against her responsive flesh. He smiled slowly at her little, involuntary gasps and twitches, pleased to find her ready. Just as on that night when he'd first pleasured her, Belle hadn't known _how_ ready she was until his hand went there and found her slippery, the touch almost more than she could bear.

"Then wear it," he urged, dragging his mouth away from hers and hitching her more tightly against him. "Wear it until we're done."

"Yes..." Gulping for air, Belle felt that she'd agree to anything he said. She hadn't meant it to happen this way, to risk undoing her work with the poultice, but he seemed so happy, her Rumple; how could she protest? Besides, he'd only moved his hands. She was the one who lacked the patience to wait.

"I thought I'd get used to it," she confessed to him, almost pitifully. Rumple had scarcely touched her and she couldn't keep still! "To how this feels. To _wanting_ you."

"You're a passionate woman. There's no shame in that." He crooned to her while one fingertip sought out the tender bud of flesh and made her shudder to her bones. "No harm done." Nuzzling her cheek, he stilled his hand and gave her the chance to uncurl her toes. "Do you think I don't love that you want me so? That I've only to touch you to see you melt like this? Let me please you, sweetheart."

Swallowing hard, trying to slow her excited breathing, Belle eased her legs apart to admit his hand. Aware that he no longer had endless reserves of strength, she curled her arm around his neck rather than lean entirely on his supporting arm. Settled like that, she could kiss his cheek, his temple, and look down at her lap to see his hand moving beneath her nightgown. Unhurried, Rumple stroked her inner thigh and toyed with the tight ribbon.

She could hardly bear it; she kept waiting for the moment when he began in earnest, driving her towards the heights of pleasure, but the moment never came. Rumple teased her with dreamy concentration, closing his eyes whenever they kissed and letting his naughty hand go still, distracted by her lips.

Belle became aware, slowly, that she was being savoured. Her every sigh and wriggle, the taste of her mouth and the growing slickness between her legs; he was lingering over everything to better appreciate it. Appreciate _her._

_Oh..._

He opened his eyes when she buried her fingers in his hair, almost overcome with a passion for him that had little to do with his teasing down below.

"Sweetheart." He barely gave voice to the word, shaping it with his lips just before she kissed him. This time, deep in their kiss, he pushed two fingers up inside her and savoured her groan against his lips. "Belle."

As her world shrank until nothing in it mattered but his busy hand, the bliss of kissing him, Belle's thoughts flew back to that other night beside this fire. He'd whispered in her ear, encouraging her to let go of her reserve and take what she needed from him, and he hadn't kissed her. She'd almost been able to feel the yearning, the nearness of his lips to her ear, but he hadn't kissed her. Then and now, side by side, while his hand moved deftly and his fingers found the magic spot inside her. She'd been sitting the other way, that first time; it had been his right hand doing its magic, strong and sure. Now he used his left, slightly awkward, and she didn't know if he denied her a satisfying rhythm on purpose or because he was doing the best he could with his less-favoured hand. Either way, he kept her at the very edge of release rather than give it to her, and Belle's whole body began to shake with need.

Just when she could bear it no more, he relented and returned his hand to her thigh; rested his had against the chair back and peered at her, eyes hooded and expression knowing.

"You _are_ doing this on purpose!" Belle gasped, her teeth wanting to chatter.

Rumple took a moment to realise her meaning; to catch up with his frantic wife's unspoken thoughts. Then he smiled, amusement without cruelty.

"Don't you like it?"

She did. The frustration that built in her alongside the pleasure was barely familiar to her, he'd been so generous; no sooner arriving than quenched. But this unsatisfied want was a pleasure all its own, the knot of heat inside her bigger than ever before. "Wait with me?" For a moment, Rumple put his hand down between them, catching hold of his cock through the silk of his shirt and adjusting himself so that she could see how hard he was, the thick shape lying easily against his belly.

As if she could deny him anything he asked of her. Belle nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of him holding himself in a handful of black silk. She stroked her trembling hand over his and felt his arm go tight across her back when she moved the tentative touch to the head of his cock, tracing the shape of him under the cloth.

In the stories, a person could die of unrequited desire, but it seemed quite unlikely to happen in reality. Belle felt unsteady, light-headed, but Rumple was as relaxed as if he'd already come, except when she touched his cock like that. She could feel that go through him like lightning; a shock of pleasure, a hiss through clenched teeth that sounded almost like pain, his whole body stiffening until she relented.

With a sudden flash of guilt, Belle looked down at his bound foot, still resting on its stack of soft pillows. She'd had such good intentions. Rumple stroked her back, earning an echo of a shiver from her overstimulated body.

"That's gone cold," he said. "Why don't we—" Belle cried out as he spun magic all about them, and even _that_ drove her senses mad. When she opened her eyes and let out her breath, disorientation took over until she understood that he had moved them both. Now he was beneath her, flat on his back, and she was astride his thighs, falling forwards for him to catch her by the shoulders. He laughed, holding her until she got her bearings and straightened up. They were still beside the fire, pillows and sheepskins and blankets beneath them. The fire burned low, no longer a scorching golden blaze but a comfortable orange glow on her right arm and thigh.

"We could just have got out of the chair," she said, exasperated with him. Her nerves felt frayed, her desire for him a throb inside her that was only just the right side of pleasant.

"We could." Rumple moved his hands to her breasts, and Belle's gaze followed. "The magic feels good." He tweaked her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, so pleased with himself. Belle bit her lip and tried not to groan aloud or squirm against his thigh.

He still wore the shirt and she the gown, but there was nothing between them; nothing to stop her slipping his cock inside her and satisfying this burning urge. As though reading her mind, Rumple nodded down at himself, hands gliding down her arms from silk-clad shoulder to bare wrist. "Go on," he urged, taking his cock in his hand and holding it ready for her. "Go on, sweetheart."

Thinking that he had relented, thought better of drawing out this game of half bliss and half torment, Belle scrambled gratefully to take him into her body. She was so ready, so wet that it needed no care at all; she let him guide it in and lowered her weight, shuddering with pleasure and looking forward to the climax that surely had to follow from such urgency. Rumple, too, tensed and pushed upward to meet her, a tremor going through his stiff limbs until he forced it away somehow and sagged back into the embrace of the sheepskins. For a second, Belle thought that he was coming, but he was anything but lost. He watched her with eager alertness as she began to rock her weight, to enjoy him inside her.

She understood then, and her body clenched greedily around his cock in answer to the realisation. He was going to stop her before either of them reached the pinnacle, and given how good he felt inside her, she was probably going to scream at him when he did.

"Are you planning to have me beg?" she asked, breathless, thrusting herself down harder and faster as if she could cheat him of his trick.

"No." The softness of his reply melted that spike of greedy resentment, that urge to thwart him and have her fill. Belle slowed, bending forward to watch him more closely. Rumple took her face in both hands and stroked her lips with his thumb in time with her faltering movements. "Remember how it feels," he urged her, deep-voiced and guileless. "How it feels to let go, helpless, your body crying out for joy. Then think how it feels if you wait a little. Deny it a little before you let it finish you." He'd become slightly breathless as he spoke, aroused by his own words, his body tightening again, and he hadn't even finished reaching for her hips when Belle went still of her own accord. She bit her lip, nodding her understanding as his tension subsided, his look of concentration smoothing back into one of such enjoyment that she couldn't possibly object. He'd asked her before to go slowly in touching him, in riding his cock. Was that why?

"I can't think when I'm close," she said. Whimpered. Shocked at the sound of it, Belle closed her eyes and tried to find the self-control that had always eluded her and which her husband, apparently, found almost as pleasurable as their shameless abandon. "I want to..."

Shameless or not, she still found the words a bad fit for the things they did together. Crude, clumsy words for when their bodies made perfect love. But Rumple liked to hear them, poured them into her ear when he was most excited, slipping newer and naughtier ones in with her pleasure so that she barely noticed their arrival.

"I want to move, feel you slide into me, feel our bodies meet."

"You want to fuck yourself on my cock." He laid down the words slowly, like a card trick; sly, knowing, unbeatable. "And I..." He began to catch up the fabric of her nightdress, to lift it. Belle raised her arms and let him pull it away from her, feeling silk peel away from her hot, damp back. "I want to look at your breasts while you do."

Not just look, either. The moment she began to move again, Rumple took hold of them both, kneading and rubbing them with equal attention, another torment as a counterpoint to the building throb in her loins. She tried _not_ to do the things that pleased her the most, not to move just so or think of how she loved him, only to realise that he wasn't asking that of her at all. He asked that she do all of it, devour all of it as she normally would, and then stop herself at the very edge.

"I can't," she moaned, meaning to voice a protest but hearing only a deep satisfaction in the words that spilled out of her. "Don't make me stop," she panted, arching her back and fighting the rising waves, trying to find how he did it. "Oh, Rumple, please..." And there she was, begging him after all, and basking in the revelation that she didn't mean a word of it. This was _ecstasy_ , and when her words brought him too close, when he grabbed her hips and urged her to be still, bucking beneath her in a fight for self-mastery, Belle lifted herself off him with a moan of loss and joined him in the struggle. This was bliss, a panting, squirming, laughing bliss together as she flopped down beside him, her back to the flames, her whole body aglow.

"H-how long?" she managed, unable to keep still and loving how it felt to move with that burning excitement in her lower belly, dominating everything. Even breathing stirred it. The sight of Rumple slowly beginning to stroke himself gave her to wonder if she could actually come without a touch of any sort, just by being so excited that she had no choice _but_ to come.

"A little longer?" It wasn't uncertainty, that question; just a cautious hope that he'd carried her along with this new game of his, this new pleasure. Belle nodded, hardly thinking about it when she touched her own breast, copying what he'd been doing to her before. Squeeze, rub, a pinch and pull at the nipple that felt like pulling on a blazing wire connected to her centre; made her bring her knees towards her chest and whimper aloud. Rumple had to shut his eyes at that, she was delighted to notice; he had to force himself not to finish it with his hand there and then.

"I've never wanted you so badly," she told him, wriggling up close and, hand in his hair, demanding kisses until they were rolling about on the sheepskins, clutching each other and frantic at one another's mouths.

Neither of them really decided that denial was over and fulfilment about to begin. A kiss that rolled her back on top of him for a moment, a long pause to savour the longing, Belle almost moaning at the expression on Rumple's face and the urgency of his nod. Then she had him inside her again, hands braced against his chest, and they couldn't have stopped for anything.

It was impossible to hold anything back, now; impossible to be gentle with one another, impossible to be silent with one another. They drove towards completion, urging one another on, faster, harder, until Belle could do nothing more than feel; nothing more than ride the waves of relief and release as her body convulsed for him, and his beneath her. Bliss consumed her, a white-hot pulse that came over and over, sweet agony, and it went on and on until she ran out of breath and slumped into Rumple's waiting arms, spent.

It felt like a long time before they could move again, Belle shifting her weight to one side and putting her head on his arm so that they could see one another.

Breathing as hard as she was, Rumple tidied her hair with an unsteady hand. Belle had a vision of herself riding atop him, hair flying wildly and sticking to skin damp with perspiration; she could only look a mess, while Rumple looked... happy. Having uncovered enough of her face to satisfy him, Rumple drifted the same hand down her arm, fingertips across her hip, and Belle shuddered head to toe at the touch, at the thought that he might try to make her come a second time. But his goal was a selfish one. His hand found the satin bow at her thigh, which had slipped down far enough to be loose. With a quiet 'mm' of approval, Rumple plucked the bow loose and dragged the ribbon slowly up her body, back along the path his fingertips had so recently traced.

Belle shuddered again at the tickle of the ribbon, as though her body wasn't entirely convinced that it was over. It had to be over. She couldn't even lift her head from Rumple's outstretched arm to smile at him and admire his prize.

"What colour?" he asked, dangling the long strip of satin in the deceptive red firelight.

"Yellow," Belle managed. Her lips were numb with kissing and her tongue was trying to go to sleep without the rest of her. "Golden."

"Ah," he sighed, relaxing beside her and closing his eyes, the ribbon clutched against his chest. He too struggled to speak, the words almost succumbing to a yawn. "My favourite colour.

**Author's Note:**

> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**
> 
>  
> 
> Please note, the story has not been abandoned. It's actually getting towards the end. I'm just really, really s l o w . . . I have a [Tumblr account](http://wibblywobblywritery.tumblr.com/) if you want to follow my progress, and a different one [just for this story's chapter announcements](http://a-bed-of-thorns-announcements.tumblr.com/) if you only want to get those.
> 
> Special thank-you to **[Luthien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien)** for giving this the once-over and catching my silly mistakes! Do go and read her OUaT fanfic - it's incredible!
> 
> ### 


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